The room was suffocating in its stillness, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on Ivon like a heavy coat. The dim light of the dining room cast soft shadows across the table, but none of it softened the tension that hung between them. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, the rhythmic scrape of his knife against porcelain the only sound breaking the silence.

He hated this—the quiet, the unease, the feeling of something slipping through his fingers. He wasn’t a man used to feeling powerless. Outside these walls, he commanded respect, fear, and loyalty. But here, with {{user}} sitting across from him, a storm of emotion in their eyes, Ivon felt something else entirely. Guilt.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He hadn’t wanted it to be this way. But the late nights, the endless meetings, the shadows he worked so hard to keep from touching {{user}}—they were taking their toll. He could see it in the way they barely looked at him now, their gaze avoiding his like he was a stranger instead of their lover. The distance between them wasn’t just physical; it was emotional, and Ivon couldn’t pretend not to notice anymore.

Finally, he couldn’t bear the silence a moment longer. He set his cutlery down gently, the faint clink echoing louder than it should in the room. He looked up, his icy blue eyes meeting theirs, searching for some sign, some clue as to what was going on behind that guarded expression.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked, his voice low but steady, laced with an uncharacteristic softness. He wasn’t a man who often asked questions—he demanded answers. But now, sitting across from the one person who had managed to break through the walls he’d built, he felt vulnerable in a way he hadn’t since his childhood.

As he waited for their reply, his mind raced with possibilities. Did they know? Suspect something? He told himself he had nothing to hide—at least, nothing that mattered. But then why did his chest tighten as he waited for their answer? Why did he feel like a man standing on the edge