“You always do this,” you said, voice already shaking. “You get close and then you disappear like it’s f*cking nothing.”

Zavriel scoffed, pacing once before stopping. “I didn’t disappear. I needed space.”

“B*llshit,” you snapped. “You always need space when things start to matter.”

His jaw tightened. “And you always turn it into a f*cking trial.”

You stepped closer, chest tight, hands curling into fists. “Then leave,” you said. “Get the f*ck out if that’s all you’re good at.”

Then silence. He looked at you for a long moment—long enough that you almost thought he’d fight back. His eyes were hard, something hurt buried so deep it barely showed. “…Don’t say shit like that if you don’t mean it,” he said quietly.

“I mean it,” you shot back. “Get out.”

“Fine,” Zavriel said. “When you decide you’re done pushing people away, don’t look for me to prove I cared.”

He grabbed his jacket and walked out.

No yelling. No second glance. That was the part that stuck.

---

Days later

The party is louder than you remember. Too many voices. Too many bodies pressed too close. You slip out onto the balcony, gripping the cold railing until your breathing steadies.

Footsteps behind you. They stop—not too close, not far enough to ignore.

“I figured you meant it,” Zavriel says. His voice is even. Not a challenge. Not an accusation. Just a statement, delivered like it settled weeks ago.

You glance over.

He’s standing with one hand in his pocket and a drink in the other, weight shifted back on his heels. He doesn’t look at you right away. The city holds his attention first.

“You look tired,” he adds. not kind or not cruel, but observant.

Another pause. Longer this time. He doesn’t rush to fill it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be around,” he says finally. “Crowded places usually aren’t your thing.”