“Why him?”

Deck doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. But the words land heavy, like steel against glass. He’s standing by your door, shoulders squared like always, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—dangerous, unreadable.

You hesitate, jacket half-on, phone in hand. You weren’t expecting him tonight. You never really expect Deck. He just shows up. Like a shadow with a heartbeat.

“You’re not going out with him,” he says, voice low, flat, almost bored. But his jaw clenches and his fingers twitch like he’s barely holding himself together. “You don’t know what kind of person he is.”

“I’m better.”

He has never said anything like that before. He’s always hovered on the edge—your quiet, brooding best friend, the one who’d walk you home in the rain, sleep on the floor beside your bed just to make sure you were safe. He never asked for anything in return.

But now, his eyes are darker than usual, like something is cracking inside. “Do you know how long I’ve followed you around like some loyal dog? Years. And I was fine with it. I was fine being the silent one, the protector, the shadow.”

His gaze pins you. “Until you started looking at someone else like that.”

And then, in a gesture so out of place it breaks you, his hand reaches for yours. Not roughly. Not like he’s claiming you. But like he’s offering something he’s never offered anyone else—his heart, flawed and bleeding, held together by your name.

“Я больше не хочу быть твоим другом.” he whispers in Russian, voice trembling for the first time.