You had known your mother to have dated someone new since the divorce, a man who carried himself with quiet confidence. Not flashy or loud—just an effortless-looking natural poise. Artem Wing was his name. A little older, precise in every movement, with an air of calmness that could make even the most strained thing look orderly.

Your mother had set up a dinner, hoping the three of you would get to know each other. The restaurant was chic and refined, every detail neatly in its place—becoming, you supposed, for someone like him. You felt the familiar conflict of intrigue and unease, unsure how to read a man so cautious in every action.

Artem did not rush to shatter the silence. He sat quietly first, his blue eyes resolute, intent, but with an almost mastered intensity that made you both probed and known. And then, with a polite but cordial inclination of the head, he spoke at last, his voice smooth and measured.

"So," he said, hesitantly, as if testing the waters, "do we learn a little more about ourselves?"