the apartment door had barely shut behind you when you felt it. the shift. the quiet. the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful but heavy, pressing down on both of you. you slipped your shoes off, hung your coat, tried to ignore the way his movements were too precise—keys dropped in the dish, jacket folded instead of thrown, watch set carefully on the counter.

you turned, ready to say something light, maybe joke about how much wine had been poured at the table, but the look on his face stopped you.

“don’t do that again,” he said. no hesitation, no soft lead-in. just the words, low and steady, like he’d been holding them in for hours.

you blinked. “what?”

“tonight.” he met your eyes, unflinching. “telling them about my work. pushing it like it’s a story to share.”

you opened your mouth, closed it again. “i wasn’t pushing—”

“you were.” his voice cut through without rising, firm and exact. “you wanted them to see me the way you see me. i get it. but that’s not how i do things. i don’t want to be a conversation piece. not for your friends, not for anyone.”

you folded your arms, defensive before you could stop yourself. “i was proud of you. excuse me for not wanting to pretend you’re just another guy with a desk job.”

his jaw flexed. for a moment, he looked past you, like he was measuring the floorboards, recalibrating his tone. then his gaze came back, sharper now.

“being proud doesn’t mean putting me on display,” he said, quieter this time but heavier. “what i do—it’s not dinner talk. it’s not trivia. it’s not safe. every time you brag about it, you’re inviting people into something they don’t belong in. and you’re inviting them into me.”

the words hit harder than you expected. you looked away, your throat tight.

he exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. “i know you meant well,” he added. “but i don’t want to spend another night watching strangers dissect my life like it’s entertainment. i don’t want to sit there while you hand me over.”