The exact moment Leon pushed himself from the sofa, the bros knew they were screwed.
"Oh God," Gabe muttered, sinking a little lower in his seat.
"There it is," Kevin whispered, shaking his head.
Luke already had his phone up, camera rolling with resigned precision.
It was like watching a train crash in slow motion — inevitable, unstoppable, and with devastating beauty.
Leon, as if some unseen director had whispered the next lines of the scene straight into his ear, rose with a sudden emphatic grace. The slight unsteadiness in his step only added to the raw, tragic effect.
"Beth," he called, voice low and shaking, catching up to her just as her hand touched the door.
Beth froze, her heart hammering wildly, her breath caught in her throat.
"Please, don't go."
And there it was — the full force of Leon Troy the Performance, washing over her like a wave.
"I cannot live without you. I love you. I want you. I need you. I will die if I lose you."
His eyes shimmered, lips trembling, tears pooling and falling in perfect, cinematic arcs. The entire bar seemed to hush — nearby conversations paused, heads turned. People watched, breathless, as if the scene unfolding belonged on a silver screen.
"I lost Linda. I lost Eister. I cannot lose you too." His voice cracked then — so perfectly that even Gabe, who had seen this act a dozen times, winced at how convincing it was.
"Please, I know you don't believe me, I know that you don't trust what I say. But please—" And there it was — a single, perfect tear tracking down his cheek, the others quickly following.
Beth's body went rigid.
Her mind screamed, Don't believe him. Don't.
But her heart — oh God — her heart ached in that old, familiar way, the part of her that still remembered the boy from Reine, the boy who had kissed her under fireworks, whispered promises by the fjord.
She wished it were true.
She wished with every trembling breath that it were true.
But she dared not believe it.
She couldn't.
Because deep down, beneath the beauty, beneath the words, beneath the tears — Beth knew.
This was not love.
This was Leon's own exhaustion, his performance reflex, his aching, empty need to be adored in the moments when he felt weakest.
And if she believed it now — if she stepped back into that web — she would lose herself all over again.
But God, how she wished it wasn't so.
Her throat tightened, her vision blurred — but she took a slow, shaking breath, forcing herself to stand firm, forcing herself to remember everything she had rebuilt since the last time she'd let those words take root in her heart.
"Leon," she whispered, voice soft but steady. "Please... don't do this."
And in that instant, she knew:
This was no longer her story.
And Leon Troy — beautiful, tragic, impossible Leon — was no longer her prince.
And this time, she had to walk away.
Beth's breath caught again — this time not from longing, but from something sharper.
Leon's voice, shaking but insistent, pressed on:
"You said that you will fight for me, you said that you will fight for us."
He took a step closer, tears still slipping down his face — beautiful, aching, perfectly tragic.
"I suppose you only say that when you know that I am going to turn you down."
Beth felt the words hit like a slap.
For a moment her chest hollowed out — the raw unfairness of it staggering.
No. No, no, no.
She swallowed hard, blinking back the heat rising in her throat.
This isn't him, she reminded herself. This is the sickness. This is the act. This is Leon who doesn't even remember what he's saying, not really. The Leon who is too exhausted and broken to know when he's wielding words like knives.
But still — it hurt.
Because once upon a time, she had meant every word she'd said. She had been ready to fight for him. She had stood in that hospital room, defying everyone, even herself, for the hope that the boy she loved would let her in.
And now here he was — hurling her love back at her like a weapon.
Beth's eyes burned, but her voice, when it came, was steady.
Not cold — just sad.
Bone-deep tired.
"I said it because I meant it," she whispered. "Not because I wanted to win, or to trap you, or to be turned down. I meant it. And I would have fought for you."
She took a breath, her hands trembling slightly now at her sides.
"But Leon, I can't fight against your whole life. And I can't fight you, when you won't fight for yourself."
Her gaze locked with his — not soft anymore, but steady. Grounded.
"I'm walking away because I have to. Not because I didn't love you. Because I did. And because if I stay now… I'll lose myself."
The bar was silent. Even Leon's entourage seemed to hold their breath.
And Beth — for the first time in this entire night — felt something loosen in her chest.
It still hurt.
God, it hurt.
But it was the truth.
It happened so fast.
Beth barely had time to think, to brace herself against the words that poured from Leon's lips with the same haunting beauty as always:
"You love me," he said, voice low and aching. "You loved me once. You love me still. And I love you."
His eyes shimmered with tears, his hands trembling faintly.
"I know I screwed it up once, because I was scared what it would mean for us, but I promise you—" his voice cracked "—I wouldn't screw it up again. Just give me a chance. I will be anything that you want me to be."
Beth stood frozen, heart thundering in her chest.
"You know you love me," Leon whispered, voice so soft it felt like it belonged to the world they had once shared — not this bar, not this wreckage of a moment.
And then — he kissed her.
Pressed his lips to hers with that desperate, aching tenderness he had always known how to wield — not for cameras this time, not for an audience, but as though for her alone.
And Beth — oh, Beth — her body betrayed her heart.
For all her resolve, for all her pain, for all her hard-won clarity—
she let him kiss her.
And as her lips parted beneath his, her tears spilled free. The taste of salt and smoke and old longing filled her senses.
And like a fool, her heart broke all over again.
"I love you," she whispered, breathless, the words slipping out before her mind could stop them.
Because it was true.
It had always been true.
And that was the worst part of all.
Around them, the bar seemed to blur. The watching eyes faded. There was only the boy she had loved, and the girl who still — despite everything — could not quite let go.
And somewhere, deep inside, Beth knew:
This would break her all over again.
But in that moment—
she could not stop herself.
"You belong with me," Leon repeated, his voice hoarse, trembling — whether from exhaustion, alcohol, or something deeper even he couldn't name anymore.
His hands framed her face now, cool and unsteady.
"You can come to New York. Tonight, if you wish."
The words hung there between them, thick with longing and desperation and all the things Beth had once begged to hear, back when she had thought they could rewrite the story.
Now they cut her in a different way.
Her breath hitched. Tears blurred her vision again, but this time they weren't only from longing — they were from the deep, sick ache of knowing that this wasn't right. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.
"Leon," she whispered, her voice breaking even as her lips still tingled with the taste of his kiss.
"You don't mean that. Not really. Not now. Not like this."
But he was still looking at her with those unbearable eyes, beautiful and wild and full of a hope that terrified her more than any rejection ever could.
Because if she said yes — if she followed him to New York tonight — she knew exactly how it would end.
Another cycle. Another promise. Another heartbreak. Another version of this moment, a year or two or five from now, with her even more hollowed out than before.
Her heart screamed yes — but her soul, the battered part that had clawed its way back to life, whispered no.
She swallowed, her whole body trembling now. "You need to rest, Leon. You need help. Not me. I can't save you. And you can't save me from this."
She forced herself to pull back slightly, her hands gently but firmly lowering his.
"I love you," she said, her voice raw, barely audible over the rush of blood in her ears. "But I can't go with you tonight. I can't follow you anymore."
It was the hardest thing she had ever said.
And it shattered something inside her to say it.
But this time — this time — Beth meant it. And for her own soul, she had to stand by it.
"No one is going to nominate you for an Oscar, bro," Gabe imagined himself saying — not aloud, not yet, because right now Leon was still deep in the scene.
And Gabe, along with Rene, Kevin, and Luke, had seen this movie before.
Too many times.
They exchanged glances across the table like soldiers watching a comrade walk straight into enemy fire, hearts sinking, patience worn paper-thin. They loved Leon, they truly did — they would have bled for him — but my God, when he got like this, when the performance took over and his exhaustion blurred into raw, misfired sincerity, there was no stopping him.
And tonight, they all knew, he was about to give the bar the most iconic moment of the night.
He already had the setup:
The tragic look.
The desperate tear-streaked confession.
The impulsive kiss.
The "come to New York" line, which was straight out of a screenplay if there had ever been one.
Now, Gabe could feel it coming — the crescendo.
Leon always had one more line, one more grand gesture, one more impossible promise that would leave half the onlookers swooning and the other half recording it on shaky phones for future gossip.
Gabe sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a sprint.
"If he drops to his knees, I'm dragging him out," Gabe muttered to Kevin.
"Deal," Kevin replied grimly.
"Odds on him quoting poetry next?" Rene asked, deadpan, phone half-lowered now out of morbid respect for the moment.
"Even money," Luke said, already bracing himself.
Meanwhile, Leon stood there, vibrating with that terrible mix of beauty and collapse, eyes locked on Beth, voice about to pour forth again.
Gabe's fingers twitched on the edge of the table.
"Get ready," he whispered.
"He's about to break everyone's heart in the room — including his own."
And the bros?
They could only watch.
Because nothing — not love, not loyalty, not sheer brute force — could stop Leon Troy mid-performance.
Not until he burned himself out completely.
And the ashes landed on everyone who cared.
Leon took a trembling step back, the exhaustion and alcohol catching up to him all at once. His face was pale beneath the soft light of the bar, the tears still fresh on his cheeks, but now his voice — his voice had changed.
No longer the grand, tragic actor in the center of the room.
Now it dropped into something smaller. Quieter. Pleading.
"Then if I call you tomorrow — sober — will you go to New York with me?"
Beth's heart twisted painfully.
Because this voice — this one — sounded almost real.
It wasn't the voice that played to the cameras. It wasn't the Leon who could melt a room with two sentences.
It was the voice of the boy beneath the myth.
The boy who had once written her a note on a summer hillside in Reine.
And that — that was almost harder to resist than the grand performance.
Beth's breath caught. Her entire body was trembling now, torn between the part of her that had fought so hard to stand on her own, and the part that still, somewhere deep down, wanted to believe in the version of Leon that was asking her now.
But she couldn't.
She knew too much. She had seen too much. And this time, her heart couldn't afford another fall.
Beth looked at him — really looked — at the trembling hands, the pale skin, the too-slim frame, the eyes full of hope that wasn't safe.
"If you call me tomorrow—" she said slowly, voice breaking but determined, "—I will answer. Because I still care. I always will."
She swallowed hard, forcing the next words out through the ache in her throat.
"But I won't go to New York with you, Leon. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not until you can stand without needing someone else to hold you up. Not until you're doing it for yourself, not for me."
The words nearly shattered her to say. But they were the truth.
Her eyes filled with tears — but not ones she would let him see as weakness.
"I love you," she whispered again. "But I can't save you."
The silence that followed felt endless.
And the bros — sitting at the table, watching with dread and tired love — exhaled as one.
Because that was the line they had all been waiting to hear.
The line that meant, this time, maybe — just maybe — Beth would walk away.
And Leon?
No one could predict what he would do next.
Not even himself.