"This is Kruk," I hear myself say, and my voice comes out surprisingly steady considering my internal panic has reached apocalyptic levels. I force my lips into what I desperately hope resembles a loving smile rather than a grimace of terror. "My fiancé."
The word hangs in the air between us like a guillotine blade.
Derek blinks. Once. Twice. His perfect face cycles through several expressions in rapid succession, surprise, confusion, something that might be jealousy or might just be indigestion from the overpriced canapés.
Madison's smile freezes on her face, transforming from warm and welcoming into something that looks like it's been lacquered onto her features and left to harden. Her eyes go wide, flicking between me and Kruk with a visible alarm.
Kruk, to his credit, doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Just stands there like a mountain that has decided to wear a tuxedo t-shirt.
"Your... fiancé," Derek repeats slowly, his voice careful and measured, like he's testing out each syllable to make sure he'sheard correctly. His eyes haven't left Kruk's face, and I can practically see the gears grinding in his head as he tries to reconcile the image before him with whatever Monica told him about my fictional medical professional boyfriend.
"Yes," I say, the word coming out perhaps a bit too forcefully. I'm gripping Kruk's arm so tightly now that my knuckles have gone white, though I doubt he can even feel it through all that muscle.
"The neurosurgeon," Derek says, and there's a question embedded in those three words even though he's phrased it as a statement.
Oh god. Of course Monica told him. Monica tells everyone everything, it's practically her defining characteristic, and I'd specifically mentioned the neurosurgeon detail because it sounded impressive and professional and exactly the man I would totally be engaged to if my life wasn't actually a continuous string of catastrophically poor decisions.
"That's right," I confirm, forcing brightness into my voice like I'm trying to sell him a timeshare in Florida. My smile feels like it might crack my face in half.
Derek's gaze travels up Kruk's body, taking in the tattoos crawling up his neck and onto his face, the gold-capped tusks, the shaved head with its single thick braid. His eyes linger on the tuxedo t-shirt with visible confusion.
"You're a neurosurgeon."
"Affirmative." Kruk's voice is a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the floor. "I specialize in removing heads."
The silence that follows is not just quiet, it's the oppressive, suffocating absence of sound that usually precedes either an explosion or a funeral. Maybe both. The air itself seems to have frozen, crystallized into something sharp and uncomfortable that catches in my throat.
Complete, absolute, devastating silence.
Every muscle in my body locks up. My nervous system has apparently decided that the best response to this particular crisis is total shutdown. I can't breathe. I can't think. I can definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent cannot look at Derek's face right now.
Madison's hand flies to her mouth, her eyes going wide, the wide that suggests she's witnessed something truly horrifying, like a car accident or a public proposal gone catastrophically wrong. Her fingers press against her lips as if she's physically trying to prevent words from escaping, or maybe she's just trying to keep her jaw from hitting the floor.
Derek goes pale.
Not just regular pale, either. He goes the specific shade of white that people turn when they're confronting information their brain cannot possibly process through normal channels. The color drains from his face like someone pulled a plug, leaving him looking vaguely greenish under the hotel's flattering lighting. His expression cycles through confusion, concern, and what might be dawning horror in the space of about three seconds.
"He means tumors," I say quickly, desperately. "Brain tumors. That's a, um, medical term. Very technical. Removing the... head... of the tumor. From the brain. Which is where they grow. Tumors. Sometimes."
I am making this so much worse.
Kruk glances down at me, and I see the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Not confusion. Calculation. He's adapting to the situation, I understand. Adjusting his approach based on new intelligence.
"I work with small blades," he adds, which does not help at all.
"Scalpels," I translate, my voice climbing. "He means scalpels. Which are small. And blade-like. For surgery."
Derek looks like he's trying to decide whether to laugh or call security.
Madison tugs on his arm. "We should, um, we should go check in. It was really nice meeting you both!"
They retreat.
Fast.
I watch them go, Derek glancing back over his shoulder twice like he's trying to memorize Kruk's face for a police report he's planning to file later.
The moment they're out of earshot, I drop my forehead against Kruk's arm, which is still exactly where it was, unmoved by my existential crisis.
