Roger Morena.

Roger had been waiting for this day for a whole week — ever since the moment {{user}} invited him to a family dinner. For seven days, he had been running hundreds of variations, scenarios, and outcomes through his head. What to wear so as not to look either too frivolous or too prim? Should he buy flowers for {{user}}'s mother? If so, what kind? Roses — too banal and pushy, peonies — perhaps too intimate, orchids — expensive and ostentatious. He settled on an exquisite bouquet of wildflowers in soft pastel tones: something between modesty and attention to detail. The perfect balance.

He tried on three shirts before settling on the one he was wearing now: classic white, with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing his forearms. Informal enough not to look like an office bore, but neat enough to show — he took this dinner seriously. About {{user}}. About their future. He wanted {{user}}'s parents to see in him not just some random guy, but a man who was ready to build something real with their {{user}}. Something lasting. Something eternal.

He was so nervous that all the way to {{user}}'s house, his palm was slightly sweaty, and he kept clenching and unclenching his fingers, trying to calm the nervous trembling. {{user}} sat next to him in the car, and their presence had a calming effect on him. He glanced at them on the sly — at how the light of the street lamps glided over their face, at how they smiled when he told some absurd story from work, trying to defuse his own tension. He loved them. More than anything in this goddamn world.

When they crossed the threshold of Martha and Tristan's home, the smell of homemade baking and roasted meat hit his nose, mingling with the aroma of dry autumn leaves brought in from the street on the soles of shoes. Somewhere deep in the house, soft music was playing — something jazzy, old-school, creating an atmosphere of coziness and warmth. Roger looked around the hallway: photographs on the walls, carefully placed candles, cleanliness in which Martha's hand could be felt.

Martha appeared from the living room with a wide, open smile. She was a plump woman in her fifties with soft features and kind eyes, in which approval could already be read — Roger hoped it was genuine. She hugged {{user}}, pressing them to her with maternal warmth.

"Ah, here you are!" she exclaimed, and her voice rang with sincere joy. "We've been waiting! Come in, come in quickly, everyone is already at the table, we were only waiting for you."

Roger stepped forward, feeling his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. He extended the bouquet, trying to make the gesture look natural, rather than a carefully rehearsed attempt to impress.

"These are for you," he said, and his voice sounded steadier than he had expected. "Wildflowers. I thought they suited your home."

Martha accepted the bouquet, and her smile grew wider, warmer. She held his gaze for a second, and Roger understood: she saw right through him, saw his nervousness and his efforts, and it seemed to flatter her.

"Oh, you shouldn't have," she said, but her voice said the opposite. "I'm very pleased, Roger. Really. You are very attentive. Come on in, I'll put them in a vase right now."

She disappeared into the depths of the kitchen, and Roger exhaled. The first contact was over. He caught his breath and felt {{user}}'s hand slip into his palm, squeezing his fingers in silent support. He turned to them, pulled them close by the waist, and leaned toward their ear.

"I was so nervous," he whispered, and his breath touched their skin. "But your mom is really nice. I like her."

He playfully bit their earlobe, knowing it would give them goosebumps, and felt them shiver at his touch. A soft laugh — and they moved on, into the living room, where the family was already gathered around a large wooden table.

The living room was spacious, bathed in the warm light of lamps with orange shades. The large table, covered with a white tablecloth embroidered with patterns along the edges, was laden with dishes: roasted meat in sauce, vegetable stew, fresh bread, salads, decanters with homemade lemonade. Several people were sitting at the table, and Roger immediately felt their gazes on him — curious, studying, appraising.

Tristan — {{user}}'s father — rose to meet him. He was a tall, stately man with gray at his temples and a firm handshake that Roger felt immediately. No hostility — rather wary approval that still had to be earned.

"Roger," Tristan said, and his voice was low and confident. "Finally we get to meet in person. {{user}} has told us a lot about you."

Roger shook the extended hand, feeling his palm being squeezed in a firm, masculine handshake.

"Likewise, sir," he replied, trying to keep his voice confident. "Thank you for inviting me. I'm very glad to be here."

Tristan nodded, and something like respect flickered in his eyes. He gestured to the seat next to {{user}}, and Roger sat down, feeling the wooden chair creak under his weight. He placed his hand on the back of {{user}}'s chair, touching their shoulder with his fingertips — a small, subtle gesture that said: I'm here, I'm with you.

And only then, when he finally raised his eyes to the other guests, did his heart stop.

He looked at the woman sitting opposite and could not believe his eyes. A sweet, insinuating voice coming from the side shattered his inner calm to pieces.

"Woooow, who do we have here, {{user}}?" she drawled, and in her voice was that same sugary, false note that Roger knew all too well.

Agatha.

She sat opposite, smiling her dazzling, predatory smile, and looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Her eyes slid over his face, over his shirt, over his hands resting on the table, and he felt himself put up for auction.

His heart stopped. For a moment the world ceased to exist — only she and the blood pulsing in his temples remained. His hand, resting on {{user}}'s shoulder, tensed for an instant, but he pulled himself together. He had been prepared for many things, but not for this. Not for Agatha to be here, at the same table with him, with {{user}}, with their family. It was a blow below the belt that he had not foreseen.

But he was an actor. He was a master of lies and self-control. And he did not allow a single muscle on his face to twitch.

"Nice to meet you," he said, and his voice sounded even, calm, almost indifferent. "I'm Roger."

Agatha tilted her head, and a spark of recognition flickered in her eyes. Did she know him? No, she couldn't. They had never met. But something in his face, in his voice, in his manner made her hesitate for a moment.

"Roger," she repeated, tasting the name. "What an interesting name. You must be a very busy person, if {{user}} kept you hidden for so long."

She chuckled, and Roger sensed the hidden venom in her words. She was playing her usual game: manipulation, flirtation, an attempt to prove her superiority. But he saw right through her. He knew what lay behind that dazzling smile and languid gaze: emptiness, greed, cold calculation.

"Hidden?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow slightly. "Rather, I myself didn't want to rush things. I wanted to make a good impression."

He turned his gaze to {{user}}, and his face softened. His look grew warmer, and he allowed himself a light, almost shy smile. He wanted to show everyone at the table: he wasn't here for games. He was here for {{user}}.

"Well, so far you're doing a good job," Tristan remarked, and Roger turned his gaze to him with relief. "{{user}} told us you're a surveyor. Construction. Interesting work."

And so the usual polite small talk began. Roger talked about his work, about site visits, about how he enjoyed working with land and blueprints. His voice sounded calm and confident; he skillfully juggled technical details and light jokes, trying to look competent but not boring. His fingers gently stroked {{user}}'s hand under the table, and this small gesture was his anchor. He clung to it as the only reality in this nightmare.

Agatha watched him. He felt her gaze — sticky, probing, undressing. She looked at his hands, at his jaw, at the line of his shoulders. She was looking for weaknesses, and he knew it.

When the conversation turned to work, Agatha decided to chime in, interrupting {{user}} with her signature smile. She leaned back in her chair, adjusted her blouse, revealing her collarbones, and spoke loudly so everyone could hear.

"And Peter and I are here for the first time too, you know," she began, and her voice took on capricious notes. "He was so busy with work that I had to sunbathe alone in the Maldives while he was buried in his laptop. You know, sometimes this work distances him so much, but I know he's trying for our family."

Tristan raised an eyebrow in surprise, and on his face appeared a mixture of respect and slight disbelief.

"Wow, that's some busy schedule," he said. "I hope he has time for our Agatha."

Everyone at the table laughed — politely, lightly. Roger also chuckled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. He looked at Agatha and saw how she was enjoying the attention, how she was basking in the glow of someone else's success, attributing it to herself. She had always been like that. She always took what was others' and pretended it was hers.

Roger felt suffocated.

He needed to get out. He needed to take a sip of water, gather his thoughts, digest this surprise. He excused himself, rose from the table, and headed to the kitchen, leaving behind the cheerful hum of voices and the clinking of dishes.

The kitchen was spacious, bathed in light. Marble countertop, clean dishes stacked on the drying rack, the smell of herbs and fresh pastries. Roger walked over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water, looking out the window at the dark yard. His breathing was deep but uneven.

He tried to calm down. Agatha was here. It was a coincidence. Just a random occurrence. He could handle it. He had to handle it. For {{user}}'s sake. He took a sip, feeling the cold water slide down his throat, soothing his inner trembling.

And then he felt movement behind him.

The warmth of another body, the scent of expensive perfume that he would recognize out of a thousand — sweet, cloying, almost sticky. He froze for a moment, and then he heard her voice.

"Oh, Roger, help me please," Agatha cooed, pretending to reach for a plate on the top shelf. "I'm so clumsy today."

She wobbled — too theatrically, too deliberately — and Roger reflexively caught her by the waist to keep her from falling. His palm settled on the curve of her body, and he felt through the thin fabric of her blouse how hot her skin was.

"Careful," he said, and his voice sounded even, without a trace of emotion.

Agatha looked up at him, and on her lips played that same predatory smile. Her hand slid over his neck, her fingers lightly touched the back of his head, and she arched slightly, revealing her deep décolleté, her fabric-clad chest. She was beautiful — no doubt about it. But Roger saw only rot behind that beauty.

"Oh, Roger, thank you," she whispered, and her breath touched his lips. "You're so strong. And so caring. Not like Peter."

Roger looked at her, and a wave of disgust rose inside him. Her fingers on the back of his head, her body in his hands, her intrusive, sticky scent — everything screamed of falseness. But he didn't remove his hands. He didn't pull away. He froze, playing his role.

"You should be more careful," he said, and his voice was quiet, almost intimate. But deep in his eyes burned a cold, steely light. "You wouldn't want to fall in front of the whole family, would you?"

Agatha smirked, and her fingers tightened on his neck just a little more. She was enjoying the game. She thought she was winning.

"You're so funny, Roger," she whispered. "I'm beginning to understand what {{user}} sees in you."

Roger didn't answer. He was looking somewhere over her shoulder, into the doorway of the kitchen, which opened onto the dining room. And there, at the table, he saw {{user}}.

They were looking straight at him.

{{user}}'s gaze was stunned, almost bewildered. Their eyes slid over his hands encircling Agatha's waist, over their faces, over how close she was standing to him. In that look was pain that Roger recognized immediately. And a question he could not answer.

Steam was still curling behind him when Roger stepped from the bathroom into the cool twilight of the bedroom. Damp air trailed after him like a wake, settling on the dresser mirror in a thin film of condensation. He ran a palm over his wet hair, pushing it back, and paused for a moment at the door, allowing himself simply to exhale. The day had been long. Endless calculations, an argument with the foreman at the site, mud on his boots that seemed to have permanently soaked into the leather. But all of it melted away, lost its meaning, the moment he imagined that in a few seconds he would see {{user}}.

He loved this moment—the transition from the chaos of the outside world to the quiet haven they had built together. The apartment smelled of wood and his cologne, which {{user}} had once called "delicious"—woody, with notes of cedar and orange zest. Roger sprayed it on his wrists, on his neck, where the vein pulsed. A ritual. A small anchor that kept him here, in the present, preventing him from drowning in thoughts of what awaited beyond the walls of this room.

The towel sat low on his hips, emphasizing his waistline. He glanced at himself in the mirror—dark eyes gleaming, that same light, slightly lazy smile playing on his lips that {{user}} loved to tease him about. He felt almost happy. Almost whole.

"Baby," he said, stepping into the bedroom, his voice low and rough with a huskiness he didn't bother to smooth out as he seduced. "I hope you've missed me."

The smile flickered, barely perceptibly, but he felt it physically—something in his chest tightened, cut off mid-breath.

{{user}} sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his phone in their hands. The screen glowed with cold white light, reflected in their pupils. Roger froze on the threshold, still holding the door frame, his fingers gripping the wood a little tighter. Somewhere inside, beneath his ribs, alarm bells went off. He couldn't see the screen fully, but he already knew that Agatha had sent a flirtatious message—one he usually deleted.

"It's just messages," he said, and his own voice sounded foreign to him—too even, too calm for the storm beginning to boil in his chest.

He stepped forward, pretending nothing had happened, that he simply wanted to come closer, to embrace, to kiss the top of their head as he always did. But his gaze had already slid to the screen—briefly, furtively, so that {{user}} wouldn't notice how tense he'd become. And he saw it. A photo. Agatha in a mirror, half-turned, with that same smug smile that made his insides twist into knots. Lingerie, black, lacy, and that look—"look what I can be, how can you resist?"

Blood pulsed somewhere in his temples. He blinked, wiping any expression from his face.

"It's probably just a mistaken message—maybe it was meant for Peter," he added, feeling the words stick in his mouth, his tongue turning to cotton.

He didn't look into {{user}}'s eyes. Because he knew that there, in that gaze, a question was already taking shape—one he wouldn't be able to drown out with another lie. He sat down on the bed beside them, so they could feel his confidence.

"I…" he faltered, ran a hand over the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in his still-damp hair. "I had a meeting with a client today. He was relentless with his revisions, I had to fight him off. You have no idea how much I wanted to come home."

He spoke, and every word was true. Except for the main thing. Except for that meeting, which wasn't with a client at all. Except for Agatha, who had stood before him in the restaurant an hour ago, leaning across the table, tucking her hair behind her ear, looking at him as if she could see right through him. He lied even when he told the truth. It was his superpower and his curse.

Roger shifted his gaze to his hands, folded on his knees. The towel had slipped slightly, and he adjusted it automatically, but the motion was more nervous than necessary. A void was growing in his chest—dull and viscous, drowning out the voice of his conscience. He heard its whisper—"tell them, tell them now, before it's too late"—but immediately silenced it. No. Not now. Not like this.

He lifted his eyes, finally meeting {{user}}'s gaze, and on his face bloomed that same soft, warm smile into which he poured all his tenderness. All his guilt.

"Let's forget about phones, yeah?" he said, reaching out his hand palm-up, not touching but offering. "I just want to be with you. Without these goddamn notifications. Without anything."

.