[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/qzjFVFN.png[/img]
[hr][i][color=LightSteelBlue]Time: Evening[/color] 
[color=LightSteelBlue]Location: Damien Estate / Banquet Hall[/color] 
[color=LightSteelBlue]Mentions / Interactions:[/color] [@princess] Lottie, [@PapaOso] Milo[/i][/center]
[hr]

[color=lightgray]

He shouldn’t have looked at her. He knew better, from the moment he sat down. But of course, he just wasn’t able to stop himself. And when her eyes finally found him, soft and tentative, not unlike the way they were the night before, for a heartbeat of a second all was right in the world.

[color=D0B4EC]“Good evening, Cassius,”[/color] she had said—just for him. No one else heard it, but he felt it in his damn bones. The sound of it was quiet, almost apologetic. Like it knew something he didn’t.

And then he saw it—that flicker of recognition behind her eyes. The truth settling there like dust on silk. Her posture straightened, but her cheeks gave her away. The soft breath that slipped between her lips, the tension in her shoulders—that was the look of someone preparing to let something beautiful die.

It was the same look he’d seen in soldiers who knew the retreat had already begun.

The moment hit him like a gut punch. And for once, Cassius didn’t know what to do with himself.

He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He just watched as she turned away, slow and composed, holding a ribbon-wrapped box like it could anchor her to the floor. And still, the moment felt like it was slipping through his fingers. A page turning in the middle of the story. No explanation. No warning.

And still—[i]still[/i]—his mind tried to make excuses for her. For him. For all of it.

Everything in him went quiet.

Cassius stared down at his hands, flexing them once, slow. As if remembering they were capable of holding something. As if remembering what he wanted to hold.

Then...he stood.

Not out of decision, but out of instinct. His body moved without asking for permission. One foot in front of the other, carried by something heavier than pride, stronger than caution. There was no plan. No clever smirk. Just desperation, plain and unspoken, radiating from his eyes like a heat that refused to be cooled.

He had to say something. Anything. He had to talk to her. He had to—

“[color=bisque]Forgive me,[/color]” came a voice. Smooth. Curious. Unwelcome.

Cassius blinked—and someone was standing in front of him.

Tall. Blonde. Perfectly dressed and smelling faintly of decadence. There was an artistry to the man that didn’t belong in this world. He looked out of place by design.

“[color=bisque]You walk,[/color]” the stranger said, tilting his head, “[color=bisque]like a man who’s about to chase something that can’t be caught.[/color]”

Cassius didn’t respond.

He shifted to move around him—but the man shifted with him. Effortless. Like he was part of the current, not just blocking it.

“[color=bisque]Don’t let me stop you,[/color]” the stranger said with a warm smile. “[color=bisque]I just had to say… you are fascinating.[/color]”

[color=lightsteelblue]“Not the time.”[/color]

“[color=bisque]I know.[/color]” The stranger’s eyes swept across his face. Studying him. “[color=bisque]It’s just that I see… scars. Not just on your face, but deeper. Older. Scars of survival. Of guilt. The kind of weight that reshapes a man whether he likes it or not.[/color]”

Cassius froze for a beat. Then, with a tone full of tension, he said,
[color=lightsteelblue]“You always psychoanalyze strangers, or am I just a special boy for this fuckin’ sweet talk?”[/color]

“[color=bisque]Oh, you’re special, alright,[/color]” the man said, almost dreamily. “[color=bisque]The silver streaks. The stare. The way you wear your pain like it belongs on you. Not everybody can see it… But I can.[/color]”

Cassius’s jaw clenched silently for a moment. He wanted to walk past. Gods, he needed to. But this man wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t shut up. His eyes moved back to Charlotte with need.

And then—just as Cassius started to shift again—

“[color=bisque]It turns out,[/color]” the man added casually, “[color=bisque]being the [b]Scourge of Eisenholm[/b] leaves its mark on a man. Does it not?[/color]”

Everything stopped.

Cassius’s heart stalled. His breath left him in a single, cold exhale.

The words hit like a blade to the ribs. Quiet. Clean. Deep.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t think.

He stepped forward in one smooth motion, grabbed the man by the collar, and slammed his back against a nearby pillar—hard enough to make a point, soft enough not to start a scene.

[color=lightsteelblue]“You don’t know what you just said,”[/color] Cassius snarled, eyes burning,
[color=lightsteelblue]“but you’ve got three seconds to fix it. One chance.”[/color]

The man met his gaze, utterly unfazed. He looked at Cassius like he was reading a familiar passage in a well-loved book.

“[color=bisque]Oh, I'm Milo St. Claire. I always know exactly what I say. And I know exactly who you are, Cassius.[/color]”

Milo didn’t flinch.

Instead, he smiled.

Which to Cassius, in that state, in that moment…was just the [b]wrong fucking move[/b]. [/color]