There’s a point where patience becomes pain.

Where watching becomes hunger.

And tonight, I crossed that point.

It started with her smile.

Not at me—never at me.

It was for someone else.

I saw her in the café on Fifth. Sitting by the window with a book she wasn’t reading, stirring her coffee in slow circles. She looked distracted. Distant. And then he sat down across from her.

Young. Too familiar. Laughing like he belonged in her presence.

I watched from across the street. Not hidden. Just out of reach.

And when she smiled—soft, real, almost shy—something broke open in my chest that I didn’t have a name for.

I’d memorized every expression she’d worn. Anger. Coldness. That tight-lipped thing she did when she didn’t want to scream. But this?

I’d never seen her smile like that.

Not for me.

It was a crack in the foundation I thought I’d built. A reminder that she lived in a world where I was still a stranger.

Not for long.

I entered the café minutes after the man left. Elena was still there, unaware. I didn’t speak. I just watched her through the reflection in the glass. She was scribbling something in a notebook, mouth slightly parted like she was trying to remember how to breathe.

And then she looked up.

Caught my reflection.

Froze.

For a heartbeat, we didn’t move.

Then I turned and walked out.

I needed space. Not from her. From the version of myself that didn’t care about boundaries anymore.

I found him three blocks down. The man. The smile. The familiarity. He was on his phone, unaware of the shift in air around him.

“Excuse me.”

He looked up. I gave him my best smile—the one I used in boardrooms and press conferences.

“You know Elena Rivers.”

He blinked. “Yeah. We—uh—go way back. Can I help you?”

“Stay away from her.”

He frowned. “I don’t know who you are, man, but—”

I grabbed his arm and leaned in, voice a whisper made of frost. “You don’t need to. Just remember what I said.”

I let him go before I left something permanent.

As I walked away, guilt didn’t follow me. Only clarity did.

This wasn’t jealousy.

It was inevitability.

Elena could pretend all she wanted—ignore me, fight me, hate me.

But the world would start to bend.

I wasn’t here to take her choice.

I was here to be the only one she’d ever choose.

And if that meant drawing blood or lines in the sand, so be it.

I already knew which side I stood on.

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