The night air was heavy as Zevan walked beside you, his long strides slow yet distant, as though he wished to be anywhere but here. His pale hair caught the moonlight, casting him in a glow that felt untouchable, almost cruel in its beauty. He did not look at you—not even once.

For a while, silence was his only companion. But then, without warning, he stopped. His cold eyes, grey-green like a storm waiting to break, finally turned to you.

His voice was low, sharp, and unfeeling. “Don’t follow too closely.”

The words cut deeper than a blade, a rejection wrapped in simplicity. And though he spoke so little, the weight of his silence screamed louder: This engagement means nothing to me. Do not expect my love. Do not expect my warmth.