Artan is solid beside him. Steady. Grounded. The kind of presence that makes you feel safe just by existing in the same room. His broad shoulders and weathered face, the quiet strength that radiates from him like heat from a fire. His eyesfind mine immediately, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
Erion is pure energy. Movement and heat and barely restrained chaos. He grins when he sees me, that sharp, dangerous smile that makes my pulse race for entirely different reasons. He holds up a package wrapped in butcher paper, the brown stained dark in places.
"I come bearing gifts," he announces, his voice carrying easily across the space. "The best dry-aged ribeye from my butcher shop. Thought maybe you could make us lunch. We could all enjoy it together."
I stare at him, momentarily derailed from my spiral by the sheer randomness of the statement. "You own a butcher shop?"
He smirks, clearly enjoying my surprise. "Just one of my many businesses,dashuri."
The Albanian endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, warm and deliberate.
Artan steps forward, his presence filling the space between us. "We can all help."
And somehow, without quite understanding how it happened, I end up directing all three of them around the kitchen like some sort of culinary general commanding troops.
Luan opens a bottle of wine by feel, his hands moving with surprising confidence despite his limited vision. The cork comes free with a soft pop. He pours four glasses with careful precision.
Artan seasons the meat, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he massages salt and pepper and garlic into the flesh. The scent fills the kitchen, rich and savory.
Erion sets the table, moving with the kind of easy grace that comes from confidence rather than practice. He folds napkins. Arranges silverware. Places wine glasses just so.
We talk about nothing important. Safe topics that don't require vulnerability or honesty. Random stories that don't mean anything, that fill the air without demanding response.
It's almost normal. Almost domestic. Like we're four people who do this all the time, who've fallen into comfortable rhythms built over years instead of weeks.
The illusion is fragile. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Lunch is ready. We sit. The ribeye is perfect, seared on the outside with a caramelized crust and pink in the middle, juices running clear when I cut into it. The sides are simple. Roasted vegetables. A salad with lemon vinaigrette. Bread still warm from the oven.
The food is excellent. Everyone agrees. Compliments flow easily.
But tension builds with every passing minute, coiling tighter and tighter until I can feel it pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe.
I can't take it anymore.
"I don't know what's happening here," I say. The words tumble out before I can stop them, before I can think better of it. "I don't understand what this is or what you all want or how this is supposed to work or—"
Luan interrupts, his voice calm and steady. "It can be whatever you want it to be. It's your choice."
The simplicity of the statement stuns me.
Artan adds, his voice gentler, "Your choice if you don't want any of us. No pressure. No obligation. You're free to walk away."
Erion leans back in his chair, that dangerous smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Your choice if you want all of us. At the same time."
Heat floods my face. Instant. Overwhelming. I open my mouth to respond, to say something, anything, but no words come out. My brain has short-circuited completely.
All of them. At the same time.
The image that conjures is vivid and immediate and so overwhelming I can't process it.
"You don't need to answer now," Erion says, and his voice has lost the teasing edge, become something quieter and more serious. "Just think about it. Take your time. We're not going anywhere."
We eat in silence after that. The weight of the conversation presses down on all of us, heavy and inescapable. The clink of silverware against plates. The soft sound of breathing. Wine being poured.
No one speaks.
The silence stretches, taut as a wire.
