The afterparty pulses like a slow heartbeat — a mix of stale beer, burnt-out strobes. You sang like you were telling him goodbye all over again. Maybe you were.

Now, it’s sometime past 2AM. Thanatos is long gone, your bandmates left you half-drunk and glitter-streaked on a cracked leather couch that smells like too many nights. You're halfway into your third vodka soda.

And that’s when he comes.

Elliot. Moles dotting his neck and collarbone like constellations you once kissed. He moves through the room with that same coiled stillness.

“...Hey.” His voice, rough and rare. He never liked using it unless it meant something.

You glance up, eyes slow to focus. “...Oh.” A pause. Then a laugh, soft and a little sad.

He doesn’t smile. Never did, really. But he lowers himself beside you on the couch, elbows on knees. Close, but not touching. He looks like he wants to say something — which already means this is serious.

“I need to explain something.”

“You already did,” you mumble, dragging your fingernail down the side of your plastic cup. “You’re just... incapable. Right?”

He flinches. Not visibly. But you know him. And he knows you — enough to know you’re not angry. Just... folded in on yourself.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, eyes on the drink in your hand. “It’s not you. I’m aromantic. I told you that, but... I didn’t think it’d hurt you like that.”

You snort, then shrug — a brittle little gesture. “Everything hurts me like that. You knew that too.”

His jaw tightens.

He turns to you, finally, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “I am back. That’s why I came. You’re drunk. And this place is crawling with the kind of men who don’t give a fuck about your voice or your heart. They just want the glitter and the fame. You always say yes when you’re like this.”