The dinner table is set with meticulous care—crystal glasses catching the low golden light, silverware aligned like soldiers awaiting command, white roses arranged in a low porcelain centerpiece, their petals dewy and fragrant. The restaurant hums around us, a soft murmur of distant conversations and clinking glass, but at our table, the silence is heavier. Thicker.

I sit with my arms crossed over my chest, leaning back in the chair, my spine pressed against the velvet upholstery. My eyes are fixed on Silas.

He sits across from me like a bird caught in a gilded cage.

He doesn’t lift his gaze. His hands rest in his lap, fingers fumbling with each other—twisting, untwisting, twisting again—nervously tugging at the silk of his shirt.

My jacket drapes over his shoulders, too large for him, swallowing his frame. It covers his back completely, hiding the impossible bare skin I saw when he walked ahead of me.

The skin that made me freeze mid-step. The long line of his spine.The pale, smooth expanse of his back. Still burned into my memory.

Who wears something like this outside?

He glances up—just for a moment, just long enough for our eyes to meet—then quickly looks down again.

Like a child caught doing something he shouldn’t. Like he’s bracing for the scolding before it even comes.

His cheeks are flushed. Red. The color of embarrassment. The color of roses.

I don’t soften. My voice comes out cold, each word deliberate.

"Aren’t you going to explain yourself?"

He looks at me then. Properly. Those impossible brown eyes lift to mine, wide and uncertain, holding the light like jewels hold fire.

He nods. Barely. A small, jerky movement. Then he reaches for his notebook and pencil. His fingers tremble—just slightly, just enough for me to notice.

He writes slowly, carefully, pressing the pencil against the paper as though every word costs him something.

A moment later, he tears off the page and slides it across the table.

I take it.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.

My eyes linger on the words. Then another note slides toward me.

I asked Mr. Sum about your likes and dislikes. He suggested this outfit. He told me you liked this style.

A pause.

I wanted to impress you.

So I wore it.

Sum.

That bastard.

If he wasn’t halfway across the world on a business trip, he wouldn’t survive the night.

I drag a slow breath through my nose and force my fingers to uncurl. The paper is creased now. Crushed in my fist. I don’t care.

I lift my eyes to Silas.

His eyes are glossy—wet at the edges, like he’s trying desperately to hold everything in.

"Did you lose your mind?" My voice is quieter now, but no less sharp. "You asked that troublemaker for advice? About my likes? My dislikes?"

I let out a disbelieving laugh.

"And then you actually listened to him?"

My gaze drops briefly to the jacket draped over his shoulders.

"You wore this because Sum told you to?"

Silas’s chin trembles.

A tear slips free.

It trails slowly down his cheek, catching the restaurant’s golden light before disappearing beneath his jaw.

He doesn’t wipe it away. Doesn’t defend himself. He simply lowers his head and reaches for his notebook again. The pencil shakes slightly in his hand.

A moment later, he slides the note toward me.

I’m sorry.

Please.

I won’t do it again.

I stare at him.

He’s crying. Silent tears. No sobbing. No sound. Just falling.

He slides another note toward me, then pushes his chair back and stands.

I need to use the restroom.

Before I can say anything—before I can tell him to wait, to sit down, to stop crying—he’s already walking away.

His footsteps are soft. Quiet. Swallowed by the thick carpet and the low murmur of the restaurant.

I sit there.

The candle flickers between us. The white roses stand untouched in their vase.

Maybe I shouldn’t have scolded him like that. The fault is Sum’s. All of it.

I can’t believe he listened to that idiot. I can’t believe he trusted Sum of all people for advice.

My gaze drifts to the empty chair across from me.

Is he really that innocent?

Or does he simply refuse to use his brain?

The thought should annoy me. Instead, it only makes the knot in my chest tighten.

I reach for my water glass. The crystal is cold against my fingertips. I take a sip. The water does nothing to cool the strange heat curling behind my ribs.

My phone buzzes against the table.

I set the glass down and pick it up. Sum’s name flashes across the screen.

Sum: Hey dude. How’s your dinner going?

My brows draw together. I unlock the phone and type.

What the hell did you suggest to Silas?

The reply comes almost immediately.

Sum: Don’t you like the surprise? I can imagine how stunning he looks.

Another message follows before I can answer.

Sum: You should thank me.

My jaw tightens.

I type back: Once you get back from your business trip, I’ll thank you. Privately.

A few seconds later, another message appears.

Come on, Ellis...

I turn off the screen and shove the phone back into my pocket.

Annoying.

So fucking annoying.

My gaze drifts to the empty chair across from me. The untouched plate. The folded napkin. The notebook and pencil he left behind.

Why isn’t he back yet?

I wait.

The candle flickers. The restaurant hums around me.

I wait.

A minute passes. Then another.

Without deciding to, without really thinking about it, I stand. The chair scrapes softly against the floor.

I walk. The hallway is quieter than the dining room.

Golden lights spill across polished marble, casting long shadows along the walls. My footsteps echo softly, sharp and deliberate in the silence.

Then I see him.

Silas.

Standing outside the restroom door. And a man standing in front of him. Too close. Talking.

I can’t make out the words at first.

Only the shape of the conversation. The way the man leans toward him. The easy familiarity in his posture. The way his hand moves while he talks, as though he’s already entitled to Silas’s attention.

My steps quicken.

The sound of my shoes against the marble fades into the background.

Or maybe I’ve simply stopped hearing anything else. As I get closer, the man’s voice comes into focus.

"...why aren’t you answering? I’m not a bad person, I swear. I just want to talk to you."

He smiles. "You’re really beautiful." His gaze travels over Silas before returning to his face.

"If you’re here alone, why don’t we have dinner together? My table is right—"

Silas doesn’t react. He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t shake his head. Doesn’t step closer.

He just stands there, silent and patient, waiting for the conversation to end the same way he waits for everything else.

Quietly.

The man keeps talking.

Silas turns, trying to walk away.

The man’s hand shoots out. His fingers close around Silas’s wrist. "Wait. At least tell me your name."

My voice cuts through the hallway. Cold. Quiet. "So here you are."

The man turns. Looks at me. His eyes widen—just slightly. His hand falls away from Silas’s wrist.

Silas looks at me too. His eyes are wide. His cheeks are still damp from tears.

I step closer.

My hand finds the curve of his waist. Slides around it. Pulls him toward me—slowly, deliberately.

"I was waiting for you."

My voice is low. Steady.

Silas blinks. His lips part slightly in surprise.

I shift my gaze to the man. Slow. Deliberate. Let him feel the weight of it.

The man takes a step back. "I’m sorry," he says quickly. "I thought he was alone."

He turns and leaves. His footsteps echo down the corridor before disappearing into the noise of the restaurant.

I look down at Silas.

He hasn’t moved. His body is still pressed against mine, frozen, as though he’s afraid any movement might shatter whatever is happening between us.

My hand stays on his waist.

I lean closer.

My lips brush the shell of his ear.

"Now do you see?"

My voice drops to a whisper—low, rough, meant only for him.

"How easily you attract trouble wearing something like that?"