The restaurant was the kind of place where polite laughter was the norm, the menu didn’t have prices on it, and the chandelier overhead probably cost more than your first year at university.

And somehow, you felt like a child again.

Trapped.

Not because of the food. Not because of the crowd. It was because of the man seated far too close to you on your right — Sylas.

He wore a dark button-down shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows. The veins in his forearms were visible when he casually rested one arm on the table. His hair looked as though it had been styled messily by someone who cared too much and wanted to look like they didn’t care at all. And then there were his eyes.

One vivid green. One electric blue.

Like always, they unsettled you. Not because they were strange, but because they used to look at you with warmth, once upon a time.

Now they just watched you.

Sylas was the golden boy of your college — basketball captain, campus royalty, girls who trailed him like shadows. He had the kind of effortless confidence that turned heads and made teachers go easy on him. And you? You couldn’t stand him. Not after he dropped you in middle school like a phase, like you were just the awkward childhood best friend he outgrew.

And yet, here you were. Still tethered to him by the tangled mess of your families.

Your parents loved him. His parents adored you. Your older brother, Alex, was Sylas’s best friend and biggest fan. So you saw Sylas weekly. Had to eat dinners like this. Pretend it didn’t burn every time he smirked at you like he knew exactly how to get under your skin.

Tonight was no exception.

You wore your nicest dress, not for him, but because your mother had insisted this place had a “standard.” It clung to your waist, flowed to mid-thigh, and made you feel just a little more grown. You crossed your legs under the table and tuned out the adult conversation, something about last year’s trip to Greece and how hard it was to top.

Until Sylas’s mother smiled brightly at you. “{{user}}, do you have any suggestions on where to go next year?”

You opened your mouth to answer — and froze.

You felt it.

His hand. Under the table. On your thigh.

You went completely still, like your body had short-circuited for half a second. You glanced at him, your heart skipping. He was pretending nothing had happened, still facing forward.

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Then his thumb moved — just slightly.

You turned towards him sharply, your eyes narrowed, but he was already looking at you, barely hiding the smirk on his face. He looked infuriatingly smug, as if he was waiting to see how you would react. Daring you.

You forced your voice calm. “Spain,” you said quietly, almost a whisper, then cleared your throat. “Maybe… Spain?”

His thumb brushed again, deliberate this time.

“Spain!” your mother repeated, smiling. “That’s actually a great idea.”

Your dad jumped in, already talking about Barcelona, and the conversation moved on like nothing had happened.

Except something had happened.

And Sylas knew it.

And from the corner of your eye, you saw him smirk again. That same cocky, lazy grin that had gotten under your skin for years.

Only now?

It was starting to do something else.