Elias “Shark” Kowalski

The room smells like roses, cleaner, and the faint metallic edge of nerves he can’t shake.

Elias notices everything that’s wrong the second he steps inside.

The lighting is too bright—clinical, almost—so he dims it. Immediately regrets it. Now it’s too dark, the corners swallowing detail. He nudges it back up halfway and tells himself to stop touching things before he makes it worse. He rolls his sleeves up anyway, habit kicking in like he’s about to do something physical, something that makes sense.

The table runner is crooked.

He fixes it. Steps back. It’s still crooked—just differently wrong. He adjusts it by a fraction of an inch, then another. He stares at it long enough that the line between off and acceptable blurs.

Good enough, he decides, even though it doesn’t feel like it.

The roses are next. He spreads them out carefully, not clumped, not sparse. Intentional. He wants this to look like thought, not panic. He places the last one, then moves it again because the spacing feels uneven. His hands are steady. His chest is not.

The heart-shaped chocolate box sits unopened on the sideboard. He picks it up, sets it down closer to the center, then pulls it back slightly. Too staged. He angles it just enough that it looks casual, like it ended up there naturally.

It didn’t.

The balloon is still a problem.

He ties the ribbon to the chair back, steps away, and watches it drift forward like it’s curious. He shortens the ribbon. Now it dips awkwardly, hovering at shoulder height. He lengthens it again, then knots it twice so it won’t slip.

It bobs, slow and red and unapologetic.

He exhales through his nose. “Behave,” he mutters, then catches himself and shakes his head.

Get it together.

His phone vibrates on the table.

He looks at it immediately.

Mom: Your dad’s asking when he can leave. The doctor says tomorrow if he stops arguing.

Elias closes his eyes.

He fell down a flight of stairs and still thinks he’s indestructible.

He types back, thumbs precise.

Elias: Tell him he’s not going anywhere without clearance. I’ll be there in the morning.

He sets the phone down and presses his palm flat against the table, grounding himself in the solidness of it. The knowledge of the hospital—white walls, stubborn silence, unfinished conversations—sits heavy in his chest. He’s known about it for days now. Enough time for the initial shock to wear off and leave something worse behind: helplessness.

He straightens, checks the candles again. Too many flickering points of light make it feel busy. He removes two. The table looks bare. He puts one back.

His phone buzzes again.

Kasia: He texted me. Again.

Elias’ jaw tightens.

Of course he did.

He doesn’t need to ask who he is.

Elias: You don’t have to answer. You’re allowed to block him.

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Kasia: I know. I just wish he’d stop.

His chest aches at that. Quiet, persistent.

I wish I could make him, he thinks. I wish I could make everything stop for you.

Elias: He doesn’t get to decide your life. I’ve got you.

He sets the phone down face-up this time, like he’s bracing for the next hit. His reflection catches in the darkened window—broad shoulders, controlled posture, the look he wears when he’s holding too much and refusing to show it.

Captain. Fixer. Oldest son.

He hates how easily those roles slide into place.

The waiter knocks softly, asks about timing. Elias answers without thinking, voice calm, measured. He waits until the door shuts before letting his shoulders drop a fraction.

He sits. Stands again almost immediately. Sitting makes the thoughts louder.

He adjusts the runner one last time. Smooths the back of the chair opposite him—an unnecessary gesture, tender in a way that surprises him. He imagines them sitting there, relaxed, maybe amused, maybe softening when they realize he actually tried.

Mateo’s laugh flashes through his mind, uninvited. Loud. Easy. Always present. Elias has lost count of how many moments slipped away because there was never space—never quiet, never just the two of them. This room was supposed to fix that. Private. Contained. Safe.

Just dinner, he tells himself. Just honesty.

His phone lights up again.

This time it’s them.

Relief hits first, sharp and immediate, like air rushing back into his lungs. He reads the message once, then again, parsing it for tone even though he knows better.

They’re still coming.

That’s what matters.

Elias: No problem at all. Take your time.

The lie settles heavy and gentle in his chest. His knee bounces anyway.

He checks his watch. Adjusts his sleeves. Fixes a candle that hasn’t moved. The balloon wobbles slightly, then steadies.

Please, he thinks, not to God or fate or anything he believes in. Just let this one thing be mine.

Another buzz—his mother again, something about paperwork, about resting, about not worrying. He doesn’t answer right away. He locks the phone and slips it into his pocket instead, like that will keep the world out for a few more minutes.

When the door finally opens, he’s already facing it.

For a heartbeat, everything else—the hospital, the messages waiting, the problems he can’t solve—falls quiet. There’s just this moment. This room. The person he invited into it.

His chest tightens. His plan wobbles. The evening is already imperfect, already off-script. God...they look perfect. He straightens anyway.

This is me showing up, he thinks. Even when everything else is on fire.

His voice comes out softer than he intended when he greets them, warmth slipping through despite his nerves.

And as hope flickers—small, stubborn, refusing to go out—he lets himself hold onto it, just for tonight.

"Hey..I'm so glad you made it. uh...s-sit down?"