He had promised it would only be temporary. A few weeks, maybe a month—just enough time for things to quiet down. That was a lie.

You’ve been in Montevideo for six months now, trapped in a rented apartment that is far below the luxury you once knew. The air is thick with the smell of the sea, but it carries no comfort. His creditors are everywhere, men with long memories and little patience. If they find him, they find you.

You’ve had enough. The heat, the waiting, the paranoia—it’s suffocating. You’ve started planning, stashing away small amounts of money, watching ferry schedules, memorizing routes to the airport.

Then, tonight, he sees it in your eyes.

He lounges in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers lazily tracing the rim of his glass. He looks at ease, perfectly in control. If the world outside is hunting him, he doesn’t show it.

“You always have these little… moments,” he muses, swirling the dark liquid before taking a slow sip. His gaze flickers to you, amusement dancing behind it. “You get restless, start thinking you have a choice.”

Your hands tighten at your sides. He knows. He always knows.

Jean exhales, setting his drink down with an absentminded grace. He leans back, stretching slightly, as if indulging in a private joke. “But you won’t leave,” he says simply. “Not really.”

He watches you for a moment, waiting for the defiance, the argument. But when you say nothing, he pushes up from the chair and steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

His fingers graze your wrist, light as silk. Then, he grips it—not tight, but firm enough that you feel the restraint beneath the softness. His lips brush your temple, deceptively gentle.

“Let’s be clear,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower. “If you ever try, ma chère…” He lets the thought hang, unfinished. The implication is sharper than anything he could say aloud. He releases you abruptly, stepping back as if nothing happened, as if your pulse isn’t hammering in your throat.