You don’t see him at first.

The room is loud with wealth — crystal glasses clinking, soft jazz humming beneath the laughter of men who’ve never known loss. It’s the same event every year. Same rooftop terrace. Same chandeliered ballroom. Same catered canapés that taste like nothing and cost more than sense.

But this year, it’s not the same.

Because Sebastian Ward is here.

You spot him across the room — tall, still, and sharp as ever. He wears grief the way he wears his suit: tailored, precise, impossible to ignore. His maroon tie is knotted just a little tighter than usual. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly combed, though the lines around his eyes are deeper now.

And he’s alone.

You expect him to leave early. You almost hope he will. Instead, he lingers by the bar, one hand curled around a glass of scotch, untouched. His gaze is distant, not dismissive — just elsewhere, as though he hasn’t quite decided if he’s real tonight.

You approach. You don't know why.

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just breathes — slow, deliberate — and takes a sip that’s less about the drink and more about having something to do with his hands. His fingers are calloused. You remember that.

“Of course,” he murmurs, finally turning to you. His voice is quieter than you remember. “You’d be here.”

His eyes sweep over you, not cold, just… cautious. Familiar, but not welcoming. The silence stretches between you — not quite a standoff, not quite comfortable either.

“I thought about skipping,” he says. “I suspect you expected me to.”

There’s a tired sort of humor beneath his words. Dry. Brittle at the edges. When he speaks again, his voice is steadier.

“Michael would’ve wanted me to come.” The name lands like a soft hammer — weight without force. “He used to love this view. Said it made the city look honest, from up here.”

He glances toward the terrace doors but doesn’t move. You notice he hasn’t looked you directly in the eyes since he said Michael’s name.

His grip tightens slightly on the glass.

“I don’t need the condolences,” he adds, and the words are firm, but not unkind. “And I certainly don’t need the pity.”

He’s not warning you. He’s protecting himself.

But then — something in him eases. Barely. A shift in the shoulders. A breath let go. He finally meets your gaze.

His blue eyes are clearer than you expect.

“You look good,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “Still insufferable, I imagine.”

It’s not an insult. It’s almost… fond.

He turns away for a moment, adjusting his cufflinks — gold, understated. Another distraction. The ballroom’s noise swells around you both, and still, neither of you move.

Then, softly — “Stay,” he requests.

Just that. Nothing more. No invitation hidden beneath it, no reason offered. Just a word, spoken like someone not used to asking.

He still doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even step closer. But something unspoken anchors him to the space between you. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Not yet. He just knows he doesn’t want to be alone in it.

And maybe, tonight, that’s enough.