He isn’t surprised. He’s angry. His jaw sets, his attention narrowing until it feels like a line drawn straight through the space between us.
Jealousy.
The audacity of it almost makes me laugh.
As if he has any right.
I don’t look away immediately. I let myself understand it.
This isn’t about me.
It’s about the fact that I’m here.
With someone else.
Without him.
He drew the line himself.
Let me cross it.
Then pushed me back onto my side.
And now he’s standing there, looking at me like I’ve done something wrong by existing outside of him.
I turn slightly toward Evan when he says something to me, nodding, smiling faintly. I don’t lean into him. I don’t pull away either. I don’t perform anything.
I just continue.
When I glance back, Derek is still watching. His attention is fractured now, no longer fully with the people around him. He looks like a man recalculating something he thought he had already controlled.
The irony settles cold and clean in my chest.
You don’t get to be angry, I think. You already chose distance.
We move on.
Another conversation. Another pause. Another exchange that requires just enough attention to feel real. The rhythm of the room starts to smooth me out again.
I almost forget he’s here.
Almost.
Then laughter cuts through the air nearby—too loud, too loose.
“Pierce! Jesus, man.”
My stomach drops—not sharply, not dramatically. Just all at once.
“That you I saw at The Vault on Sunday?” the man says. “Thought so. Hell of a night to be out, huh?”
I turn my head.
Chuck. Red-faced. Tuxedo like a costume. A drink in his hand and no awareness in his voice.
“And who was that hot chick hanging all over you?” he continues. “She was into it. You disappeared early—figured you took her home.”
The words feel obscene in their carelessness.
