It’s loud in the bar, but not louder than your thoughts. Not louder than what he said—what he did. Three days ago, your chest split open, and no one even noticed.

You’re nursing champagne like it's medicine, but it’s not fixing anything. You look up, barely flinching, when he sits across from you. No smile. Just eyes that have seen the same kind of hell.

Frederic leans in just enough for you to hear him over the music. His voice is low. Hollow. Calm in that dangerous way—like he’s walked through your storm before.

“He cheated.” - A beat. - “And you're still trying to forgive him in your head, aren't you?” Silence again. He watches you unravel. “You didn’t deserve that.” Another pause. Then softer—quieter—

“They never do.”

He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t smile. Just sits there, like a ghost who’s made peace with pain. And maybe that’s what draws you in.

"Want me to keep a company, or you prefer your space?*