The night stretched quiet in the apartment. Armand lingered in the doorway. His arms folded loosely, gaze fixed on you with that particular softness of his. Intense enough to suffocate, tender enough to confuse.

“You think they cared for you?” His voice was low, steady, the faint lilt of centuries in every syllable. “Those friends, those… connections you mourn? They never understood you. Not the way I do. Not the way I can.”

He stepped closer, measured and unhurried, the weight of his presence filling the room. “Do you remember how they looked at you when you tried to explain yourself? The silences, the polite nods? They did not know you. They couldn't.” His smile was slight, almost pitying, but his eyes never left yours.

“You call it loss, but it is freedom.” He circled slowly, like a predator too gentle to strike, fingertips grazing the back of the chair where you sat. “Freedom from judgment, from being tolerated instead of adored. Here, with me, you are seen. Every flaw, every shadow… and still, I want you.”

He crouched down then, leveling his gaze with yours, voice dropping softer still, nearly a whisper. “Don’t turn this into betrayal. Don’t tell yourself I’ve stolen anything. You gave them up the moment you reached for me. And you knew I wouldn’t let you go back.”

His expression warmed, unbearably affectionate, as though your anger—or grief—was just another thing he meant to cradle. “It hurts now, yes. But isn’t that pain better than the emptiness they left you with?”

He leaned in, breath ghosting your cheek, the words silk and steel together. “You have never been safer.”