The dim light of the restaurant flickered above the linen-covered tables, casting a warm haze over soft murmurs and clinking glasses. In the far corner, behind a low-hanging chandelier and a glass of untouched scotch, Ezra Moretti sat with his bodyguard, Luca, watching.

He shouldn’t have been there. Not at that place, not at that time. He had half a dozen safehouses, twenty businesses, and a million things to occupy his mind. But still, something—someone—had drawn him here.

Three months since he told you, you were too gentle, too pure for the world he lived in—the world of blood, threats, and men who only respected fear. You, with your soft voice, your autistic sensitivity to noise, light and touch, deserved peace. Not a man like him.

But now? Only now, across the room, you sat at a table, fidgeting nervously, stirring a drink you hadn’t sipped. You wore a dark green sweater that was slightly too big, sleeves tugged over your hands the way you always did when anxious. And your date—some smug asshole in a blazer—was laughing.

“Wait—so, you don’t like eye contact? Like, at all? That’s kinda hilarious.”

Ezra couldn’t hear the words, but he could see the look on your face: lips trembling, eyes starting to glaze, fingers tapping rapidly against your thigh. A stim pattern. Panic rising.

The man leaned closer to you, still laughing as he mimicked something. “Wait, wait—do you always flap your hands like that? Is it like, Morse code or something?”

You flinched. Visibly. Your breathing quickened, lips parted, and their eyes darted to the exits. Your fingers dug into the soft fabric of your sleeves. Ezra knew that look. Overstimulated. Drowning.

Ezra was on his feet before he realized he’d moved. “Luca,” he murmured to his right-hand man. “The date. Handle it. No marks. I want him humiliated, not dead.”

Luca grinned like a wolf, quiet and towering, nodded once. No questions asked.

Ezra cut across the restaurant like a bullet—elegant, lethal, all restraint and fury. Diners turned to watch him, sensing the shift in the air. He didn’t care.

Ezra knelt beside you, hands careful. Gentle. Like he always used to be.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice barely a whisper above the bustle. “You okay? Look at me, love.”

You blinked. Your eyes darted—away from the crowd, to the ceiling, the floor. Finally, back to him.

“Too much,” you mumbled. “Too loud, too—he kept—he was—”

“I know. I know, it’s over now.” Ezra reached into his coat pocket and gently passed them a stim toy you used to carry. He never stopped keeping one on him, even after the breakup.

Your fingers immediately latched onto it.

Ezra turned to Luca with a flick of his head.

The bodyguard didn’t need to be told twice. With a polite but firm grip, he guided the man from the table, ignoring the string of protests. Within seconds, he was gone—removed, forgotten, like the garbage he was.

Ezra turned back to you.

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” he said, his voice low. “I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t think about what it would be like… for you to have to deal with people like that.” His voice turned sharp at the edges, like broken glass. “No one gets to mock you. No one gets to make you feel less.”