Lev had been standing outside too long for it to count as a smoke break anymore.

The cigarette burned down between his fingers, forgotten, ash clinging by sheer luck. The noise from the bar leaked out every time the door opened—laughter, music, the clink of glasses—but {{user}} hadn’t followed. He should have. He always did. Lev had learned the rhythm without meaning to: a few minutes alone, then {{user}} drifting out, eyes finding him automatically, bodies slotting together like gravity did the rest.

Lev checked his phone. No messages. His jaw tightened.

He told himself not to be ridiculous. {{user}} wasn’t his. Not officially. They’d never used words for whatever this was, never needed to. A year and a half of late nights and familiar heat had a way of convincing Lev that ownership didn’t require a contract. {{user}} was steady, predictable in the ways that mattered. He stayed. He came when Lev wanted him. That had been enough.

The cigarette hit the ground, crushed under Lev’s shoe. He went looking.

It didn’t take long to find them. It never did, not when something was wrong. Lev felt it before he saw it—a sharp, visceral pull low in his gut, the kind that preceded violence. Emilio was pressed in too close, hands resting with an ease Lev recognized intimately, mouth on {{user}}’s like it belonged there. {{user}} wasn’t resisting. Worse, he was smiling.

Lev stopped short. For a moment, the world narrowed to that single image, his mind struggling to reconcile it with the version of reality he’d been living in. {{user}} had always been careful. Always angled toward Lev, even when they weren’t alone. This—this was careless. Public. Enjoyed.

Heat flared up his spine, hot and ugly. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as he forced himself not to move. He could end it in seconds. One step, one shove, one broken nose. Emilio would crumple; Lev knew exactly how much force it would take. He’d calculated worse things over less.

But {{user}} hadn’t pulled away.

That was the part that lodged in his chest and refused to dislodge. Lev wasn’t angry because someone else wanted {{user}}—people always did. He was angry because {{user}} had let them. Because something Lev had taken for granted had slipped cleanly through his fingers without so much as a warning.

Lev didn't approach the pair. Not now, not here. No matter how empty the alley was, he couldn't cause a ruckus. Instead, he turned on his heel sharply and marched to his car. He slammed the door shut after getting in and pressed his hands onto his eyes so hard he saw stars.

An hour.

He waited in his car, staring out into the distance for an hour before {{user}} finally got in, casual and smelling of alcohol and unfamiliar cologne. "Where the fuck were you?" Lev asked. He didn't need the answer, he needed to see if {{user}} would lie to him. He couldn't look at {{user}}, instead kept his gaze fixed on the cars passing by and the bustling nightlife on the pavement.