Outside the café, the air rippled with noise.
The crowd had already gathered, phones raised, whispers flitting like restless birds. The sun caught in Tristan's red hair, throwing a soft sheen over his sharp profile — and that was all it took. Someone gasped. Then another.
"Is that—?"
"Tristan Ashford?"
A low rush of excitement rolled through the street. Cameras clicked.
Isidore froze mid-step, his breath catching as he glanced up. Of course. The world couldn't let them leave quietly. He turned sharply toward Tristan, irritation flickering like a live wire beneath his composed exterior
"What" he hissed under his breath. "The hell are you standing for—"
Before he could finish, the crowd swelled, pressing forward.
Leon, who had been leaning against the sleek car across the street, dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his heel. His voice cut through the chaos, calm yet commanding.
"Stay back, everyone."
But no one listened. Cameras flashed. Voices surged.
And amid the noise, Tristan smiled — damn him, he smiled — as if the chaos were his stage and the world his audience. His tone, smooth as honey, slid between the rising murmurs.
"Seems like the perfect time for a getaway, doesn't it?"
Isidore snapped his gaze to him, fury crackling. "Are you serious? Here? Now?"
Julian, still nestled in Tristan's arms, giggled and clapped, utterly delighted by the flashing lights. "Mama! Look! Everyone's watching!"
Tristan's grin deepened. "See? Even he enjoys the attention."
"In a place like this," Isidore shot back, voice sharp, "you still find time to show off."
He turned, about to pull Julian away, when Jesper's voice rang out from near the car.
"Mr. Ashford! Over here, now!"
Tristan barely pay attention to him. He slid a hand behind Isidore, firm but gentle, guiding him toward the car.
"Come on, dear," he murmured, close enough that his breath brushed Isidore's ear. "I can't let anyone out here dare to lay their gaze on you."
Isidore stiffened — a flicker of heat rising unbidden to his face — and turned away quickly, jaw clenched. "Don't—"
But Jesper was already at the car, door open, patience hanging by a thread.
"Inside," he said curtly.
Tristan obeyed easily, sliding in with Julian still perched against him. Isidore followed, his movements taut, deliberate. The car door shut with a heavy click, cutting off the world's chaos.
Jesper gave a sharp nod to the driver. "Take us to The private suite."
"Yes, sir." The engine roared to life, smooth as silk.
In the backseat, silence lingered — a silence thick enough to feel.
Julian, however, broke it first. He giggled, leaning forward to tap Tristan's cheek. "Hero!" he sang, eyes bright.
Tristan chuckled softly. "Finally," he said, voice loosening with relief. "A quiet ride."
He turned his gaze toward Isidore — his beautiful, infuriating omega — and smiled faintly. "So, Isidore…" His tone dipped low, teasing. "Why did you call your husband today?"
Before he could finish the sentence, Isidore's glare cut through him like a blade.
One look. That was all it took.
Tristan stopped. He knew that look too well — the unspoken warning, the silent threat. The child was watching.
"I—uh…" he faltered, lifting one hand in surrender. "Alright. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."
He tilted his head slightly, trying again with a softer smile. "At least tell me how you remembered me."
Isidore turned his head sharply toward the window, refusing to meet his eyes. "If not for my son," he said coolly, "I wouldn't have wanted to see your face at all."
Tristan's lips quirked, undeterred. "Oh, whatever you say, dear. You can hate me all you want — but I'm not stopping."
Isidore's jaw flexed. "Say one more word," he said, low and venomous, "and I swear I'll break your jaw myself."
Tristan blinked, leaning back instantly, both hands raised again. "Alright, alright! Point taken."
Julian, sensing the shift but not the tension, giggled again. He tugged at Tristan's collar. "Hero! Save my mama and me again!"
Tristan laughed softly, tousling the boy's hair. "It's nothing, little one," he said warmly. He nearly added Daddy's here — but he caught the flare of Isidore's eyes and wisely bit back the word.
Instead, he smiled down at Julian. "Of course. It's obvious, isn't it? If heroes don't save beautiful mothers and their brave little ones, then who will?"
Julian laughed, delighted.
Isidore turned slightly, the faintest flush coloring his pale cheeks. "Julian," he said gently, "sit properly, love."
But Tristan couldn't help himself. "See? Even he agrees with me," he murmured, amusement flickering in his tone.
Isidore gave him a look sharp enough to slice marble. Tristan chuckled under his breath and looked away.
For a few precious minutes, the car was filled only with Julian's laughter and the soft hum of the engine. Then a small growl broke the calm.
Julian frowned, clutching Tristan's expensive shirt. "Hero," he said solemnly, "I'm hungry."
Tristan glanced down, expression instantly softening. "Hungry, are we?"
Julian nodded firmly, eyes wide. "Very."
Tristan grinned. "Well, we'll reach the perfect restaurant soon. All the dishes will be yours, my brave little knight."
Julian's laughter filled the car again — bright and bubbling.
Isidore exhaled quietly beside them, resting his head back against the seat. He didn't look at Tristan, not once, though he could feel the weight of the man's gaze on him — that quiet, unrelenting pull that hadn't faded even after everything between them had shattered.
Outside, the city blurred by — gold light spilling over glass and steel, painting fleeting shapes across their faces.
Inside, Isidore's fingers brushed against his child's sleeve, and for a heartbeat, the noise of the world dimmed.
Tristan glanced at him again, his voice low and strangely tender. "You still won't forgive me, will you?"
For a heartbeat, silence pressed heavy between them. The city outside rolled by in gold and blur, the car cocooned in tense quiet.
Isidore's fingers twitched first. Then his hand curled into a fist, knuckles whitening against his thigh. He turned his head sharply, the movement clean and decisive. His voice, when it came, was low and laced with fire.
"You don't deserve my forgiveness."
Tristan stilled.
The words hit harder than a slap — quiet, but final, like the sound of a door closing.
For a moment, something flickered behind his eyes. Regret. Maybe even pain. But before either could show, he exhaled softly through his nose and looked away — then, unexpectedly, his lips curved.
A slow, impossible smile unfurled across his face. Not mockery. Not defiance. Something deeper — a quiet, stubborn vow.
His gaze lowered, the corner of his mouth tilting as he spoke silently to himself, words forming only in the depths of his mind:
Do whatever you want, dear.
Be cold. Be cruel. Ignore me all you wish.
But I won't stop.
I'll chase you — again and again — until the day you finally look at me the way I wished you could.
His fingers brushed unconsciously over the child blonde hair. Until you look at me like I'm your husband... and you're my wife.
Isidore stared straight ahead, unaware of the quiet storm building beside him — a promise, unspoken yet relentless, echoing only in Tristan Ashford's heart.
Tristan watched the soft profile of Isidore turned stubbornly away from him, the pale light tracing his jawline. His heart twisted—again, painfully, quietly. No matter how many times Isidore rejected him, he refused to yield.
He'd already sworn it—he would chase, and chase, until the world itself gave up before he did.
Jesper cleared his throat with theatrical exhaustion. "Mr. Ashford, you couldn't do anything right if your life depended on it. You just make trouble wherever you go."
Tristan burst into laughter, deep and unbothered. "Ah, Jesper, don't be so cruel."
Isidore didn't even glance his way. His gaze remained distant, his expression unreadable. Somehow, that hurt more than anger.
Jesper groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You literally left your entire schedule—again—just to make a scene. Outside. In public."
Tristan grinned, utterly shameless. "I had important matters attend to."
Jesper exhaled sharply. "You're insufferable."
Tristan leaned back with a teasing smile. "Take it easy, Jesper. I'm sure you'll find someone as attractive as me one day."
Jesper's cheeks colored instantly. "Shut up, Mr. Ashford! I don't need anyone in my life—just a quiet nap!"
Tristan's laugh rang out again, rich and careless, filling the room with a kind of reluctant warmth.
Julian, perched on his seat, began bouncing with irrepressible energy. "Hero, look!"
"Julian," Isidore said in a calm, tired tone, "don't stand on the seat, you might fall."
But the child only giggled and jumped harder. Isidore sighed—half defeated, half fond—while Tristan chuckled helplessly beside him.
Jesper just stared at the little whirlwind of energy and muttered, "How can a few-year-old have that kind of stamina?"
Isidore pressed his fingers to his temples. "I've been asking myself the same question for three years."
Tristan looked between the two—his laughing son and the man he still loved with an ache that refused to die—and for a fleeting moment, the noise, the warmth, the chaos… felt like home.
The car rolled to a smooth halt before the grand façade of the restaurant.
"Yeah, Mommy! Now we'll eat lots and lots of food!" Julian squealed, his small voice bursting with excitement.
Tristan stepped out first—impeccable, as always. His red hair caught the sunlight in a soft tousle, and his crystalline blue eyes glimmered like frost-lit diamonds. Every line of him was composure wrapped in charm, yet his gaze—unyielding, unguarded—remained fixed on one person alone.
Isidore.
He emerged with quiet grace, beige eyes glinting beneath his round spectacles as he adjusted them. The faint breeze teased the hem of his coat, and Tristan thought, absurdly, that even the wind conspired to touch him.
Julian wriggled in Tristan's arms, giggling. "I want to go inside now?" he chirped. His golden curls bounced with every word, eyes bright and unmistakably his father's.
Isidore sighed—soft, restrained. He said nothing.
They entered the restaurant, the air inside cool and perfumed with quiet luxury. The marble gleamed; the silver caught the light like frozen fire. Their table was already prepared, secluded in a corner where no prying eyes would intrude.
Tristan set Julian into his seat with a playful grin. "No one can disturb us here, all right, little one?"
Julian giggled in response, wriggling in excitement.
Isidore sat down slowly, his posture elegant, his expression carefully detached. He didn't look at Tristan—not once.
Tristan followed, his movements practiced yet faintly tense, as though every gesture was a test of restraint.
A sharp clink broke the silence.
Julian had grabbed a silver fork and flung it with glee, watching it spin and clatter across the marble floor.
"Julian," Isidore murmured warningly, but the child only laughed harder.
Tristan chuckled and bent down to retrieve the fallen utensil. And then—he froze.
From beneath the table, his gaze caught the clean line of Isidore's legs—long, slender, elegant beneath fabric that seemed a touch too fitted. The faintest shimmer of movement as Isidore shifted only made it worse.
Tristan's throat went dry. He swallowed hard, the image burning behind his eyes like a forbidden fever.
He straightened abruptly, setting the silverware back on the table, his expression composed but his pulse betraying him.
"Here we go," he murmured, voice roughened despite his best effort.
He dared not look again—because if he did, the fantasy waiting at the edge of his mind might not stay caged much longer.
Tristan straightened too quickly. His pulse was erratic—betraying him in the quiet.
A faint flush spread over his cheeks, the warmth crawling up to his ears. He coughed once, low, and forced a careless smile. "The food will… arrive soon," he said, voice a shade too tight, too rushed.
It was a flimsy excuse—his only weapon to cage the trembling that had already betrayed him.
Isidore frowned, catching that shift. The faint change in tone, the sudden stillness in Tristan's shoulders—it all pricked at him like a half-remembered ache.
He turned his head sharply, muttering to himself, I don't care.