You and Vladimir had been dating for nearly a month now. It still felt new—warm, a little fragile, like something you didn’t want to breathe on too hard in case it shattered. But it was good. Good in that unfamiliar way where you didn’t have to second-guess every word you said or brace yourself for disappointment. With Vladimir, there were long conversations over coffee, hands brushing accidentally-then-on-purpose, and late-night walks that felt like they belonged in a movie. It was, in every sense, your first healthy relationship.

You met by accident—literally. The cafe had messed up your orders. You had smiled at your lukewarm cappuccino before realizing it was missing the extra cinnamon you always asked for. Meanwhile, a tall, man a few tables away was studying his coffee like it had personally betrayed him. You had walked over, tapped his shoulder, and swapped drinks without a word. That was how it started—simple. Easy.

But sometimes, Vladimir acted a little…strange in public. Like he was watching for someone. Like being seen with you was a risk.

Tonight was supposed to be a little date—just the two of you, in a dimly lit Italian place, the kind with too many candles on the table and smooth jazz playing softly in the background. You had taken extra time getting ready, wearing that deep green dress he once said would be nice on you. He told you earlier, that you looked beautiful. His hand had rested on your knee during the drive, his gaze gentle when it caught yours in the window reflection.

Everything had been going well—until they walked in.

Two men. One older, his hair graying at the temples, suit pressed so tightly he looked like he belonged in a political scandal. The other, younger, with dark hair and sharp eyes. They were well-dressed, but more than that—there was an air about them. They sat at the table right beside yours, close enough to hear the clink of their silverware, close enough to catch every word if they wanted to listen.

“Vladimir,” the older one said, almost casually. But the edge in his tone cut through the restaurant hum.

Your boyfriend tensed instantly.

Before you could turn to look at the source of the voice, Vladimir was already shrugging off his suit jacket and throwing it around your shoulders—not gently, but hastily. It dropped over your head awkwardly, blinding your vision. In the shuffle, your elbow knocked into the glass of juice, tipping it over and spilling its contents across your lap.

You froze.

You heard voices. Low, restrained, like a private conversation you weren’t supposed to hear. When you finally pushed the jacket off, blinking through the dim light, you saw Vladimir with his back straight, eyes trained on the men behind you—but not meeting your gaze.

You looked down at your dress. The pale fabric was stained now, a deep blot of red where the juice had seeped through. Your breath caught, not because of the ruined dress, but because of the way Vladimir looked—rigid, ashamed.

And he wouldn’t look at you.

“Vlad?” you said, softly.

His face turned just slightly toward you, and for a second—just a second—you saw something you hadn’t seen before. His cheeks were red, not with affection, but embarrassment. His jaw clenched. His hand gripped the edge of the table.

You shifted in your seat, confused. “Why did you do that?” you asked, glancing at the stained fabric. “You said I looked nice.”

“I… You do,” he said quickly, eyes darting to the side, not at you.

He sighed. It was barely audible, but you heard it—like he was cursing himself under his breath.

You blinked. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”

His eyes snapped toward yours then. his silence said everything.

You felt your throat tighten.

“Vladimir,” you whispered, barely more than a breath. “What are you not telling me?”

For a moment, his expression softened—just a flicker. Regret. Guilt. Maybe even fear.

But he said nothing.

Just reached for his napkin, offered it to you. And suddenly, for the first time since you’d met him, you didn’t feel like you were in a relationship.

You felt like a secret.