Night out 2

Night out 2
The man’s smile glowed in the dim neon light, too bright, too practiced, as if polished by some invisible hand. It flickered and warped, never quite reaching his eyes.

Rome felt the weight of that smile settle on his shoulders like a living thing.

He didn’t smile back.

“Long time,” Tristan Vale said, his voice a low rumble that barely rose above the music. “You look good.”

Rome’s stomach dropped. He swallowed past the sudden dryness in his throat. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

“That makes two of us.” Tristan’s grin widened, smooth and practiced. He touched his jaw absentmindedly, still the same sculpted lines, though closer inspection revealed faint dark circles under his eyes.

He hadn’t changed much. Still dressed as if he owned every room he walked into, pricey leather jacket over a crisp white tee, designer jeans sitting low on his hips. The kind of outfit that said, I’m important.

But it was his eyes that unsettled Rome most of all. They looked tired, very hollowed. As if the charm was running on fumes and the man in front of Rome was barely holding himself together.

Sade stepped closer, her seamless presence a shield between Rome and anyone else. “Friend of yours?” she asked quietly. Her tone was casual, but her eyes were protective.

Rome didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch, felt his pulse thrum in his temples.

“An old memory,” he finally said, his voice rigid with frustration. “One that should’ve stayed in the past.”

Tristan chuckled, a sound that once might’ve disarmed Rome, but now felt like a taunt. “You always did have a flair for dramatic exits.”

“And you always had a thing for lies,” Rome muttered, lips pressed tight. He remembered every false promise, every time Tristan’s lips had curled into that exact smirk before he returned back to the successful actor who talks bad about homosexualily.

Tristan’s smile disappeared for a heartbeat, a flicker of real emotion before he recovered. “I didn’t lie,” he said, voice softer now, almost vulnerable. “Not about the way I felt.”

Rome let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “No,” he shot back. “Not about that. You just lied about everything else.” He turned away, letting his fingers trail over the edge of the bar as if it could ground him.

Sade’s voice was soft but firm. “You want me to… ?”

“No,” Rome said quickly, dread pulling his chest tight. He didn’t want Sade involved, not with Tristan here. He forced himself to look back at Tristan. “I’m not doing this.”

Tristan raised his hands in mock surrender, the move almost theatrical. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night,” he said. “Just... saw you and thought I’d say hi.”

Rome offered no response. He turned his head and caught the bartender’s eye, signaling for a refill, anything to delay the moment.

Tristan stayed for a second, then melted back into the crowd like a shadow at dusk. When he disappeared, Rome didn’t breathe until his gaze was free of him.

Sade studied him with those wide, empathetic eyes. “You okay?”

Rome nodded, though his mouth felt suddenly dry. “Yeah. Just ghosts.”

“Round’s on me,” Sade said, lifting her glass. “No one messes with my boy on his first night out.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He didn’t turn back toward the dance floor. He didn’t want Tristan’s presence to reach him again.

\---

Somewhere in the haze of strobes and laughter, Rome had forgotten about Zayn, forgotten the cold apartment, the contract, his arrogance and everything else related to Zayn.

With Sade’s infectious energy filling his veins, he’d let himself relax, just a little, like the music had shaken loose memories that had stifled him.

He drank sparingly, never more than a few sips, but tonight, the low hum of bass made every nerve in his body hum with escape.

He surrendered to the beat, lost himself in the dim swirl of bodies and colored lights, until Sade drifted into conversation with a photographer, leaving him to find a quiet spot along the bar.

He sat, his shoulders hunched forward, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass.

And then he felt it, a pressure at the nape of his neck. When he turned, his breath hitched.

He saw Tristan Vale, standing near him, his eyes filled with that lustrous look that Rome hated.

Rome’s heart thundered in his chest. The world lurched, as though he’d stepped into a current too swift to resist.

“Still pretty,” Tristan said, voice low, a sinister undertone threading through his words. He leaned forward, his elbows on the bar, as though he'd never left.

Rome’s hand trembled as he tried to rise. “Tristan…”

But before he could take a single step, Tristan’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. He yanked Rome back down, seating him forcefully on his lap as though Rome were a prop in a play he’d rehearsed.

Because Rome was a little tipsy, he felt weak and couldn't lift his limbs.

“What the hell, let me go!” Rome snapped, panic and rage coiling together. He twisted, elbowed, tried to shove Tristan away.

Tristan’s chest rose and fell with a calculated calm, even as he held Rome fast. “I wanted to apologize,” he whispered close enough that the words tickled Rome’s ear. “For not being rougher when I had the chance.”

Rome’s stomach roiled. His heart pounded so loudly that he could hear it in his ears. “Get off me!” he screamed, his voice filled with abger.

He slammed an elbow into Tristan’s gut, but the man barely blinked.

“Stop it,” Rome snarled, but the noise around them swallowed his words. The crowd was lost in the music, bodies swaying, neon lights flickering. No one noticed that Rome was struggling, being held hostage by a man who once threatened to destroy him.

Tristan laughed, a chilling sound that cut through Rome’s panic. “Still feisty,” he whispered, gratitude and contempt woven in every syllable. “That’s what I liked about you.”

Rome jerked his head away, trying not to breathe in the stench of expensive cologne mixed with whiskey that clung to Tristan’s clothes. He shoved, twisted, felt Tristan’s grip tighten until his fingertips went numb.

He tried again, violent and desperate, but then, something changed in the air and it didn't go unnoticed.

In one blurred moment, so fast Rome felt each second stretch out, a figure appeared.

A loose white shirt, the top two buttons undone, dark slacks slung low. He moved like a shadow weaving through light. His phone slid into his pocket without a sound.

His eyes were drawn to Rome like a magnet.

Rome’s throat closed.

What was Zayn doing here? He was supposed to be at home, asleep after that drama he'd pull after the dinner. Now he was here, on this dirty floor.

Rome didn’t dare breathe.

Tristan’s grip loosened, though for what reason Rome couldn’t tell. Maybe the proximity of someone far more dangerous made him pause.

Zayn’s gaze slid from Rome to Tristan and back again. The tension in Zayn’s shoulders was a taut wire ready to snap. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing with purpose.

Rome felt a lurch in his chest. Something in Zayn’s expression chilled him more than Tristan’s violation ever could.

Because it wasn’t just anger.

It was possession.

A trembling possessiveness that made Rome shiver from head to toe.

Zayn lifted his hand, no words needed. The threat in his stance, the absolute certainty that he would protect Rome at any cost, filled the space between them.

Tristan’s eyes flicked to Zayn, and suddenly, he saw fear, that sickening realization that he was outmatched was exposed.

Rome, still pinned, stared at Zayn. His mouth went dry. His limbs felt like empty vessels. When their eyes met, he thought he might collapse.

Tristan shoved him away, almost violently, and stumbled backward into an empty barstool. Zayn was there before he could figure out what happened, stepping into the small clearing with a predator’s grace.

Rome didn’t move. He could barely make sense of the adrenaline flooding his veins, the ache that settled in his chest.

Tristan lurched forward, hands raised in a half-hearted attempt at defense. “What the…” he started, but Zayn slammed a fist into his jaw with precision.

One punch that landed so hard Tristan found himself slumping to the floor, mouth bleeding, his eyes wide with shock.

Rome’s breath came in shallow gasps. He rose unsteadily, stepping forward as though drawn by invisible strings. The bar’s neon glow flickered against his skin, painting his face in streaks of blue and red.

Zayn didn’t look at Rome first. He looked at Tristan, who was sprawled out, groaning. Then, and only then, he turned his gaze to Rome.

His collar was rumpled, shirt stained with a smudge of blood. His knuckles were red-rimmed, like he’d deliberately hurt himself for this moment.

And he still looked undeniable, like he belonged to a different world, one Rome had never truly understood.