The common room of Tower is alive with warmth—dim lighting casting a golden hue over polished floors, throw blankets draped lazily over couches, and scattered takeout containers half-eaten on the coffee table. A playlist hums in the background, just loud enough to keep things from falling into silence, but soft enough for laughter to carry.

Someone makes a sarcastic comment from the kitchen—Sam, probably—and laughter ripples through the group. You’re curled beside James on the couch, tucked into his side, your legs stretched across his lap. He leans in, pretending to steal your last dumpling with chopsticks he definitely doesn’t know how to use properly.

“Gonna have to defend this with my life, huh?” he murmurs against your ear, warm breath fanning over your cheek.

You nudge him, playful. “You’d lose.”

“Maybe,” he grins. “But I’d go down swinging.”

You smile. It’s light. It’s easy. It’s home.

Then Sharon speaks.

“He’s always like this in the beginning… sweet. Devoted. Then it fades. He gets restless. Needs someone who can actually keep up.”

Just like that, the air shifts. The laughter dies. The music suddenly feels too loud, even though it hasn’t changed.

She’s standing near the bar cart—one hand resting on the countertop like it’s all effortless. Her hair’s perfect. That red lipstick you’ve never seen her wear before is freshly applied. She lifts her glass in a faux-casual toast to no one in particular. But her gaze?

Fixed. On. You. Like she just lit a match and wants to see what burns first.

You don’t move. But you feel James arm around you tense, slow and deliberate, like a panther coiling back before it pounces. His eyes haven’t left yours—but you can feel his heartbeat pick up through his chest, where you’re leaning.

Sam’s grin is gone. He lowers his beer bottle without taking a sip, glancing once at Sharon, then at you. Nat, across the room, shifts her weight—subtle, but controlled. She doesn’t look up from where she’s twisting the cap off a bottle of water, but her jaw clenches. Hard.

Even Steve—Mr. Diplomacy—doesn’t hide the flicker of disapproval that crosses his face. He doesn’t speak either, but he turns to James. Just slightly. Ready, if needed.

No one calls her out. Not yet. But the silence that follows her comment? It’s deafening. It’s the kind of quiet where everyone heard it—and everyone’s waiting to see what you do.

You’re part of this team. You’ve been through hell with them. And yet… Sharon’s words hang in the air like poison gas: temporary.

And James?

He finally looks at you. His expression softens just enough—confusion written in the small furrow of his brow, the subtle shift of his hand on your arm. But there’s something else underneath it too: anger. Cold, quiet, and focused.

“Hey,” he says gently, voice just for you. “You okay?”