Tom’s girlfriend had cornered him in a quiet corridor, her arms crossed and fury simmering just beneath the surface.

“They’re always around,” she snapped, eyes narrowed. “You look at them like they’re yours. Pick, Tom. Me, or them.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her. Blinked once, twice slow, deliberate.

Calculating.

“{{user}} is the only person who’s ever seen me for who I am,” he said finally, voice calm but sharp like a blade. “They knew me before the name. Before the power. And you think I’ll cut them off because you’re insecure?”

He stepped forward, his presence colder now, heavier. A quiet menace in the tilt of his head and the flatness of his gaze.

“If you can’t handle what they mean to me,” he said lowly, “then I’m afraid you’ve made your own decision.”

Her eyes welled up, lips trembling as she turned and walked away, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the stone corridor.

Later, you found Tom in the library, right where he always was when he wanted to think, silent, unreadable, a book open in front of him though his eyes weren’t moving across the page.

You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him.

And without a word, his hand found yours under the table. A gentle squeeze. Warm, grounding. Like a silent truth passed between you.

He never looked up. He didn’t need to. And neither did you.