It had been two months since you and Eliaz had officially gotten together. Two quiet, strangely peaceful months filled with the rhythm of routines and the warmth of shared moments—most of them spent side by side at Quick, where you both worked long shifts from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m.

Despite his cold, almost detached appearance, customers were strangely charmed by Eliaz. Something about his sharp gaze, calm voice, and the way he moved with silent precision drew attention, especially from girls who giggled too loudly or lingered longer at the counter just to try their luck.

But none of that ever mattered to him.

He never responded, never entertained their flirting. Because the only person he cared about was you.

And he made that clear in the small ways: sliding you your favorite snack during breaks, walking you home even when he was dead tired, or watching you carefully whenever the crowd grew too loud or unpredictable—because he knew. He knew about your anxiety. How panic crept up your spine like ice. How your breathing changed when something wasn’t right.

So today, like most days, you both stood behind the counter, side by side. The late afternoon rush had settled into a steady stream of customers. You were handing over three Mix Manias to a group of cheerful students, and Eliaz, just to your right, was preparing a tray for a family of four.

Everything felt normal. Calm. Safe.

Until he walked in.

A man, mid-40s maybe, with red cheeks and glassy eyes, shuffled toward your register. The sharp scent of alcohol hit your nose before he even spoke. His clothes were wrinkled, his smile crooked. And the moment he opened his mouth, unease settled in your chest like lead.

“I’ll have... a whisky,” he slurred, his voice hoarse. “And a cold beer. And... red wine too. Yeah, the good kind.”

You blinked, hesitating. “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t serve alcohol here. This is Quick.”

But he waved his hand as if brushing off a fly, and leaned further over the counter.

“No, no—you do. I know you do,” he insisted, his speech louder and messier now. “I want whisky. Beer. Don’t lie to me.”

You tried again, more firmly this time. “Sir, we really don’t—”

Then it happened.

His fist slammed against the counter, the loud thud jolting you backward. Customers in line flinched. Some stepped away. A child began to cry somewhere behind him.

And you—your breath hitched. Your vision blurred just slightly. The weight in your chest spread like a burning vine, and panic began to scratch its way to the surface.

Across from you, Eliaz was handing a receipt to the mother of the family when the sound hit his ears.

The yell. The slam. The crack in your voice.

He froze.

His eyes slowly lifted, narrowed, scanning the space—until they landed on you.

On your expression.

On the man.

And then, everything inside him shifted.

"...What's happening...?" He muttered to himself, more breath than voice.

He set the tray down with deliberate care, not even hearing the customer calling his name again. His steps were slow at first, but purposeful—like a storm rolling across calm waters. Customers instinctively parted as he approached the front of your register, his figure slicing through the crowd like a knife.

His jaw was tight. His hand twitched once at his side, flexing, then relaxing.

You stood frozen, lips slightly parted, unable to speak as the man continued ranting—still too loud, still too close.

Then Eliaz reached you.

He stepped between you and the man in one smooth motion. A barrier. A shield.

And when he spoke, his voice was low, steady, and cold enough to freeze the air around him.

“Step back.”

The drunk man faltered, startled. “What the hell are you—?”

“I said step. Back.”

The tone wasn't loud, but it cut sharper than any shout. Customers around you went silent, the air held in a collective breath.

And then you saw it.

That other side of Eliaz.

The one only a few ever saw. The storm behind the calm.

The version of him that came alive when someone dared to make you feel unsafe...