Because I saw it in her eyes.
That night at the club—God, I can’t unsee it. That look haunts me, tightens around my throat when I least expect it. Whatever happened to her…
It wasn’t just time. Or distance.
It was something that broke her.
And I need to know what it was—no matter what it takes.
* * *
Later that evening, after changing into jeans and a black knit sweater, sleeves pushed up, I find myself standing on the familiar stone steps of David’s house.
It’s tucked away on a quiet street just outside the city—sun-warmed stone, climbing ivy, and soft golden light glowing through wide windows. The house has a Mediterranean soul, shaped by David’s own hands—tiles he laid himself, wood he chose, stone he polished. It feels lived-in, solid. A place built with care, not for show. Rooted. Timeless. Like it existed forever—steady, untouched by the rush of the world outside.
David opens the door before I can even knock, like he’s been expecting me all along.
He’s in a worn T-shirt and jeans, sleeves casually rolled, still carrying the faint scent of sawdust and earth—calm, steady, exactly as always.
“Figured you’d show up,” he says, pulling me into a quick, firm hug, followed by a solid pat on the back—typical of him.
Inside, the house smells like roasted chicken, rosemary, and fresh bread—thick, comforting warmth that settles deep in the bones.
Flor is in the kitchen, her hair tied up, sleeves rolled, humming softly as she stirs something on the stove.
She glances over, eyes crinkling with that familiar spark.
“Hey, Dorian,” she calls out, flashing a teasing smile. “Don’t get me wrong—you look great. But tonight?”
She lets out a soft whistle.
“You look like hell.”
I let out a dry breath, lips twitching faintly.
“Well, I feel like hell.”
Flor turns off the stove, wipes her hands on a towel before walking over. She pulls me into a warm hug, and holds me there for a few quite seconds.
“Come on, you need something stronger than roasted chicken to start with,” she says, her voice playful but kind. “Let’s head to the library.”
As we head toward the back room—the so-calledlibrary—Flor glances back at me, studying me for a moment, then smirks.
“Still feels strange seeing you dressed down,” she teases, her voice light, but with that undercurrent of familiarity that only comes with years of shared history.
David’s lips twitch as he holds the door open.
“Yeah,” he adds dryly, “almost didn’t recognize you without the armor.”
Flor grins, tossing a playful look at her husband. “Admit it, you’re just jealous he makes black look good.”
David chuckles as he gestures toward my outfit. “All black? So overrated. Give me ragged jeans and a soft t-shirt any day. Real luxury.”
Their banter is easy, familiar—like they’ve been doing this for years. I almost envy it.
Flor smiles as she sets a dish on the table. “It’s rare we actually sit down and have dinner together.”
I raise an eyebrow. “We’ve had dinners before.”
