Elias didn't tell me right away.
I noticed the change before I knew the cause the way his focus drifted during conversations, how his jaw tightened when his phone lit up, how he lingered at the window longer than usual as if listening for something that wasn't there.
He had always been observant.
Now, he was guarded.
It bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
We were in the kitchen when I finally said something. Morning light spilled across the counter, turning dust into something almost beautiful. Elias stood by the sink, sleeves rolled, hands steady as he rinsed a mug that was already clean.
"You're elsewhere," I said.
He didn't look up. "Am I?"
"Yes."
He set the mug down carefully. Too carefully.
I leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms. "You don't disappear quietly. You retreat with intention."
That earned me a glance. A sharp one.
"You always notice," he said.
"That's because you matter," I replied.
The words hung between us, unguarded.
He exhaled slowly, then turned to face me fully. "Someone from my past reached out."
My body went still.
"Who?"
"Someone I didn't expect to hear from again."
"That's not an answer."
He gave a faint smile. "It's the only one I have right now."
I studied him, his posture, the way he held himself like he was bracing for impact. Elias didn't scare easily. Whatever this was, it wasn't trivial.
"Does it put you at risk?" I asked.
"Yes."
The answer came without hesitation.
"And does it involve Marcus?"
His silence was enough.
I stepped closer. "You should've told me."
"I wanted to," he said quietly. "I just didn't want it to become another thing you had to fight."
I reached out, fingers brushing his wrist, grounding. "You don't get to decide that alone."
"I know," he replied. "That's why I'm telling you now."
We sat later, side by side on the couch, the city dim beyond the glass. Elias spoke slowly, carefully, like he was navigating something fragile.
"Before you," he said, "I built my life on distance. I learned early that proximity was leverage. That the people who knew you best could hurt you the most."
I didn't interrupt.
"There was someone," he continued, "who taught me that lesson too well."
"An ex?" I asked gently.
He shook his head. "A mentor. A protector. And then something else."
The ambiguity settled heavy.
"He resurfaced," Elias said. "Not openly. Through intermediaries. Questions. Pressure."
"What does he want?"
"Access," he replied. "To me. To you."
My jaw tightened. "Then he won't get it."
Elias looked at me, eyes steady. "He thinks I owe him."
"And do you?"
"No," Elias said. "But he believes debts don't expire."
I leaned back, processing. The shape of the threat was familiar subtle, insidious, patient.
"Marcus wouldn't act alone," I said. "If there's overlap"
"There is," Elias confirmed. "They don't trust each other. But they want the same thing."
"Control," I said.
"And leverage," he added.
Silence followed.
I reached for Elias's hand, lacing our fingers together. "They won't take you from me."
He turned to face me. "That's not what I'm afraid of."
"Then what?"
"That they'll try to make me choose," he said quietly. "Between protecting you and protecting myself."
I tightened my grip. "You won't have to."
He searched my face. "Promise?"
"I don't promise outcomes," I said. "I promise alignment."
That seemed to steady him.
The meeting request came the next day.
Private. Off-record. Neutral location.
Marcus's signature all over it.
"I'll handle it," I said when I read it.
"No," Elias replied immediately. "This one is mine."
I studied him. "You don't have to face this alone."
"I know," he said. "But I need to face it standing."
We compromised, the way people who trust each other do. I would be close. Watching. Ready.
The café was discreet quiet enough to disappear in, public enough to avoid spectacle. Elias arrived first. I took a seat across the room, reflection of him visible in the window's darkened glass.
The man who joined him looked unremarkable at first glance. Well-dressed. Calm. The kind of presence that didn't demand attention.
That's how I knew he was dangerous.
They spoke softly. Too softly to hear.
But I didn't need words to read the dynamic.
The man leaned in. Elias leaned back.
Pressure.
The man smiled. Elias didn't.
I watched Elias's shoulders square, his spine straightened. Whatever was being said, he wasn't folding.
Good.
The meeting ended without drama. No raised voices. No visible threats.
That was worse.
Elias stood, walked out, and met my eyes immediately.
We left together.
In the car, he stared out the window, jaw set.
"What did he say?" I asked.
"That I'm living on borrowed time," Elias replied. "That aligning with you paints a target."
"And what did you say?"
"That target works both ways."
I smiled faintly. "That's my influence."
He looked at me then really looked. "You're not angry?"
"No," I said. "I'm alert."
He nodded. "Good."
That night, the tension didn't dissipate.
It lingered.
We stood on the balcony, the city stretched out below us like a living thing. Elias rested his forearms on the railing, shoulders tense.
"They'll escalate," he said.
"Yes."
"And when they do"
"I'll be ready," I replied.
He turned to me. "You can't fight everything head-on."
I stepped closer, resting my hands on his hips, steady and intentional. "I don't plan to."
He exhaled slowly, leaning into the contact. The closeness wasn't about desire it was reassurance. Claim. Anchor.
"I don't want to be your weakness," he said.
"You're not," I replied. "You're my line."
His fingers curled into my jacket. "That's dangerous."
"So am I."
He smiled, brief and genuine.
We stood there a long time, the city watching, the future pressing in from all sides.
This wasn't peace.
It was alignment under threat.
And as Elias rested his forehead against my chest, I understood something with startling clarity:
Love hadn't softened me.
It had sharpened me.
And anyone who mistook that for vulnerability was about to learn the cost of underestimation.