Selene's cheeks flushed crimson, her voice trembling, her whole face burning as if set aflame.
"M-my name…" she stammered, eyes darting shyly before lowering to the floor, "…My name is Selene Nivara. Thank you… for helping me."
Milan Everhart—so cold, so unyielding, as immovable as stone—was caught off guard. He had been ready to strike, his muscles coiled like a predator prepared for the kill. But her voice—delicate, melodic, as if spun from the threads of a goddess' hymn—slipped past his defenses. The atmosphere, once heavy with silence, softened instantly into something warm, fragile, almost sacred.
For a heartbeat, the unshakable Milan melted.
"…Milan Everhart," he replied, voice composed, deep and commanding yet soothing in a way that settled straight into her chest. His gaze never wavered, hidden behind mask and glasses. "No problem."
This was the second time Selene had heard his voice. The first had been in chaos—desperate, fleeting, when her fear drowned out every detail. But now… now she noticed. His tone carried authority so absolute that if he gave an order, anyone would obey without hesitation. It was power disguised as calm.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Milan stepped out, keys in hand, unlocking the door to his apartment. Without a word, he pushed it open, then turned slightly, making a subtle gesture with his hand: after you. A quiet, old-fashioned courtesy—like a knight guiding a guest.
But Selene froze. This was the first time she'd ever stepped into a man's home—alone, far from her family, far from anything familiar. Her nerves twisted her thoughts into knots. Without realizing, she reached out and grabbed his hand.
Milan stiffened instantly. A sharp flinch. He pulled his hand back in a controlled motion, though a dangerous glare flickered from behind his glasses. For a breath, both of them stood on edge, suspicious of one another, as if a single wrong move could spark something they weren't ready for.
"Please. Go inside," Milan said calmly, his tone even.
Selene blinked, realizing what she'd just done. Embarrassment surged, staining her cheeks deeper red. Her head tilted down, trembling voice barely holding together.
"So-sorry…"
She rushed forward, almost fleeing, darting into the apartment without another thought. Shoes half-removed, half-forgotten, she found herself standing awkwardly in the middle of his living room—completely at a loss.
Behind his mask, Milan grinned faintly. Her nervousness, her flushed clumsiness—it was strangely adorable.
But Selene wasn't feeling adorable. Inside her, panic churned. She had willingly entered a stranger's home—his home. A man cloaked in mystery, power, and cold composure. Her thoughts spiraled: What am I doing here? Why did I follow him? What will happen to me?
She stood there frozen, caught in a storm of self-consciousness, her intelligence warning her of danger even as her heart betrayed her.
The sound of the lock clicking shut made her flinch. Milan stepped in, shutting the world outside away.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said evenly, gesturing toward the sofa. "Sit there."
Without resistance, she obeyed, curling into the sofa, folding her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Fear seeped in with every second, colliding with the heat in her cheeks until her eyes glistened with tears.
Milan entered from the kitchen, holding a glass of water. He glanced at her small, trembling form—then suddenly burst out laughing.
"Buaahahaha!" His body bent forward, one hand braced on his knee, the other holding the glass as he struggled to contain himself. "Ha…ah…hahaha—I'm sorry, truly—I swear I just remembered something funny."
He was lying. He didn't know why—but seeing her sitting there, fragile and overwhelmed, stirred something in him he couldn't name.
Selene's breaking point came crashing down.
"Sniff… uhahag…" she whimpered, burying her face against her folded knees. "Hym… hym… huuuaau…" She tried to stifle the sobs, but they poured out helplessly, the flood of emotions she had been bottling all this time.
For the first time, Milan's composure cracked. Regret flashed across his face, a sorrow deep and sharp. His chest tightened as he realized—his attempt to defuse the moment had only broken her more.
Even Milan Everhart, who never bent, who never faltered—felt the weight of guilt.