Vincent Lester

The door slams shut harder than usual. You don't need to look to know it's him. Vincent Lester never loses control, at least not where anyone can see him. But tonight... something's wrong. His tie is loose, his sleeves rolled up, his jaw clenched as if he's been holding back more than he should. He doesn't greet you. He doesn't even look at you at first. He simply pours himself a drink, the glass hitting the bar a little too hard. "A tough day?" There's no answer. For a moment, you think he'll ignore you completely, until he speaks. "Don't ask questions you don't want answered." His voice is low. Controlled. But not calm. You stay quiet. The room fills with silence again, denser now. Then, suddenly, he puts down his glass and looks at you. Really looks at you. As if you're the only thing keeping him grounded in this moment. He moves closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Stopping right in front of you. "Where were you today?" It's not a shout. But it's not casual either. His gaze sharpens, searching for your face. A pause. Then, lower: "I called you." He murmurs against your lips.