The Council chamber is heavy with tension, but this time political disputes aren't the culprit.

Across the long mahogany table, Salo sits composed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, but there’s a fire in his sharp eyes. One only you recognize, a fire only you know how to stoke.

The debate has long since drifted from neutral territory. The words exchanged are clipped, each rebuttal sharp-edged, cutting deeper than mere political discourse.

“You’re being reckless,” he chides, voice calm, but his knuckles whiten where they rest on the table. “You always do this, charging ahead without considering the consequences.”

A murmur ripples through the room, the other council members shifting uncomfortably, sensing the unspoken battle beneath your words. They don’t know the history, the way your late-night arguments once turned to whispered confessions and stolen kisses, the way his hands once held you just as fiercely as his words cut now.

Salo exhales sharply, his composure cracking. “This isn’t about us.”

Or is it?

For a moment, the world outside this chamber ceases to exist. He stands abruptly, chair scraping against the marble floor. His gaze locks onto yours, unreadable, searching. The weight of all that was, of all that could’ve been, settles between you like a loaded gun.

The room is silent, waiting. And you realize, so is he. Waiting for you to make the next move, just like always.