Ethan leaned closer, his presence a dark cloud of cheap cologne and aggression. His voice was a low growl that vibrated through the table. "Answer me. Who the hell is this clown?"
Hazel moved instinctively, placing her body between us, act as a human shield. Her voice trembled, a thin veil over her fear. "Ethan, stop it. We're done, okay? You don't get to just show up and do this—"
His hand shot out, closing around her wrist. It wasn't a bone crushing grip, but enough to make her flinch. A small, pained gasp escaping her lips and that was the trigger.
I stood up. The motion felt slow, deliberate, as if I were watching myself from outside my body. "Let her go."
My voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It cut through the noise of the bar like a blade and the soft jazz playing.
Ethan turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing into venomous slits. "What did you just say to me?"
I didn't back down. I held his gaze, the strange calm from earlier solidifying into a cold pillar inside me. "You heard me."
For a heartbeat, the entire bar seemed to hold its breath. The air itself tensed, charged with the violent potential of two worlds colliding.
Then, the tension snapped. Ethan's fist was a blur, a flash of knuckles and rage. It connected with my cheekbone with a sickening, wet crack. White hot pain blossomed across the side of my face, blinding me for a second as I stumbled backward, my hip crashing into the edge of the table. Glasses rattled, a cocktail tipped over, and amber liquid spread across the wood like a stain. The bartender shouted something lost in the noise, and a distant voice yelled, "Hey, break it up!"
Hazel wrenched her hand free, her face now burning not with fear, but with a furious, embarrassed heat. "Enough! Both of you!" Her voice cracked through the space, louder than the impact had been.
She was furious at Ethan, her body trembling with it, but when her eyes flickered to me, I saw something else, a gut-wrenching mix of guilt, confusion, and shame. This was her past, and it had just bled all over our present.
She snatched her bag from the chair, her movements sharp, "I'm sorry, Luke," she whispered, the words so soft they were almost stolen by the returning chatter. She couldn't look at me. Then she turned and stormed out, a whirlwind of distress leaving silence in her wake.
Ethan glared at me, a final, wordless promise of unfinished business, then spat on the floor near my feet and stalked out after her.
Just like that, it was over. The bar's conversation swelled back to life, the music resumed, and the world moved on as if nothing had happened.
I was left standing there, alone in the wreckage of the evening, my cheek throbbing in a rhythm of pure humiliation. The cold pillar inside me remained, but now it was encased in the burning heat of shame.
I sat in that chair long after the spilled drink had been wiped away, long after everyone else had forgotten the scene. In my head, a single, pathetic thought played on an endless loop: "Why does this always happen to me?"
I wanted to be angry, to summon the fury that should rightfully be aimed at Ethan, but all I could feel was a deep, hollow ache. It wasn't just the physical pain in my jaw; it was the familiar wound of being the victim, the punchline, the guy who got left behind in the mess.
I had tried, for once, to stand my ground. I had tried to be the man I felt myself becoming in the mirror. And yet, I still ended up beaten, alone, and pitied.
But under that heavy blanket of despair, something new began to stir. It wasn't the hot flash of anger or the cold drain of grief. It was a spark, faint but steady. A quiet, terrifying resolve.
The power hadn't protected me from a fist, but it had given me the courage to stand up. The outcome was a failure, but the action itself was a victory.
"I'm not that weak anymore," I whispered to the empty chair opposite me. The words were shaky at first, a fragile declaration. Then I said them again. "Not anymore."
When I finally dragged myself home, my cheek had blossomed into a deep, angry purple-red. I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, tracing the swollen, tender skin with my fingertips. "Great," I muttered to the bruised stranger in the glass. "Exactly what I needed."
Then my phone buzzed on the counter, lighting up with a text.
Hazel: I'm so sorry for tonight. I shouldn't have let that happen. I got you hurt. Please don't hate me.
I stared at the screen for a long time, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. A part of me wanted to reassure her, to tell her it was okay, to fall back into the role of the understanding nice guy. But the colder, newer part of me held back.
The bruise on my face was a testament to the chaos that came with her. I threw the phone onto my bed, unanswered, and lay back, staring at the cracked ceiling until exhausted sleep finally dragged me under.
---
The alarm clock was a hammer against my skull. My head felt stuffed with cotton, and my jaw screamed a persistent ache with every movement. Still, I dragged myself up and into a suit.
Skipping work wasn't an option; I couldn't afford the whispered questions my absence would generate, nor could I stand the suffocating silence of staying alone with my thoughts in that apartment.
The moment I stepped into the office, it began. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Heads turned subtly, then not so subtly. I could feel the weight of every stare pressing against the swollen mark on my cheek, a banner announcing my failure. I mumbled a generic "morning" to the floor and beelined for my desk, pretending to be fascinated by the blank screen of my monitor.
Mark didn't even try to be subtle. He rolled his chair over with a chilling smoothness, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "Well, damn, man," he whispered, his eyes glued to the injury. "You get in a fight with gravity or what?"
"Something like that," I muttered, refusing to give him more. His grin faded, replaced by a mask of feigned concern that didn't reach his eyes. "You serious? What happened?"
Before I could make an answer, the elevator dinged softly. The doors slid open, and Hazel stepped out.
And for a brief, strange moment, the entire energy of the room shifted toward her. She looked radiant, even in her simple office wear, her confidence cutting through the usual gray air of the place.
But then her gaze swept the room and found me. Her step hitched almost unnoticeably, and the professional smile she'd entered with faltered and died.
She walked with purpose toward her desk, but her path took her directly past mine. She paused, her fingers brushing the edge of the cubicle wall. "Hey," she said, her voice quiet, meant only for me. "How's your face?"
I could feel the laser focus of everyone nearby, their ears practically twitching. I turned and gave her a faint smirk that pulled unpleasantly at the bruised skin. "Still attached."
Her lips twitched, a small, guilty smile. "Good. I was worried." She lingered for a second too long, a silent conversation passing between us that the entire office was now trying to decode, before finally moving away.
The moment she was gone, the low buzz of chatter resumed, but this time it was different. It was laced with undertones, peppered with whispers and glances thrown my way.
Mark leaned in so close I could smell his expensive coffee breath. "Okay, seriously," he hissed, his voice a mixture of intrigue and frustration. "What is going on with you two?"
I didn't answer him. I didn't even look at him. My eyes were fixed on the black screen of my monitor. In its faint, distorted surface, I saw my own face, the bruise a shadowy smear.
But past the pain, past the humiliation, I saw something new looking back at me: the calm, unreadable stare of someone who was just beginning to learn what it truly means to hold power, and what it costs to use it.