Two years. That's how long it had been since you had last seen him - since the shouting, the slammed doors, the words neither of you could take back. Since the silence that followed like a drawn-out war treaty, brittle and full of terms no one agreed to. You thought you'd buried it all by now; him, the ache, the fury. And really, you had. But then you walked into the party.

And there he was.

Tartaglia. Childe. Ajax, though only people who got too close ever earned that name - and even fewer survived it intact.

He stood near the back of the room, framed by warm lights and expensive liquor he probably didn’t pay for. The years had done nothing to dull him. If anything, he’d aged like spiteful wine - sharp, intoxicating, dangerous in all the old familiar ways. His posture was relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink with all the careless grace of a man who always felt ten steps ahead.

You noticed the moment he saw you. His eyes lit up - not with joy, but with that calculating spark that used to spell trouble and pleasure in the same breath. His smirk stretched slow, cruel, and knowing, like he’d just pulled a knife from your shared past and was deciding whether to twist it.

He didn’t approach right away. No, Tartaglia was the type to let tension simmer, to enjoy the anticipation of a trap more than the snare itself. He let you feel his gaze, hot and heavy across the room, wearing it like a challenge. And when he finally moved, it was with purpose. Like he owned the space between you. Like he always had.

There was no warm reunion, no awkward laugh, no attempt at civility. Just that infuriating glint in his eyes as he looked you over, as if calculating how much of you had changed… and how much he could still unravel.

The worst part? He didn’t even need to say anything. The smugness in his silence said it all: Miss me? He didn’t wait for a greeting. Tartaglia had never been one for politeness when games were more fun.

"Didn’t think you’d be here," he murmured, voice slick as oil and twice as dangerous. "Guess this party’s not as boring as I thought.”

And just like that, you remembered exactly why you left - and exactly why forgetting him had never been easy.