Sharon's longing drew her closer, up on her toes, whispering desires into his ear.

Yet he gently set boundaries with a nudge.

His voice was a chilled breeze. "Find your own way home."

The evening's shadows did not beckon him back to the party. Coat in hand, he was set to depart when Sharon's voice quivered through the air. "Am I invisible to you? What does she have that I don't?"

He paused but stood resolute, not glancing back.

His reply was a soft consolation. "There's no contest.”

Sharon's heart ached with a truth unspoken. Olivia was beyond reach.

Descending into the night, Raphael was greeted by a breeze that played through the leaves of a lone tree. Its silhouette held his gaze, lost in thought.

He slid into the car, and the driver inquired, "Where to?" His voice broke the silence.

The address fell from Raphael's lips, leaving the driver wide-eyed.

That address belonged to no property of Raphael's.

It dawned on Raphael then, with a distant clarity, he had uttered the location of Dylan's place.

Time trickled by before he pressed against the seat, forehead in hand, whispering, “Let's head there. I'll take a walk."

The driver caught the sorrow in his eyes and, choosing silence, pressed on the accelerator.

Upon arrival, Raphael stepped out, a polite nod sending the driver away. His coat around him, he struck a match, the flame kissing the tip of his cigarette. There against the familiar tree, he watched the lights of Dylan's home flicker alive, then die, a ritual as haunting as it was habitual.

He knew Olivia found solace there, in the very space that gutted him.

And still, he watched. The lights a balm and a blade, the night a witness to his vigil, he wondered if madness had become his companion.

High above the city, in an apartment on the 22nd floor, Olivia lounged on the sofa.

Cartoons danced on the screen, her attention captured, the light from the television casting a glow on her light pink pajamas.

Dylan emerged from his study, eyeing the remnants of a secret snack.

"Indulged in treats again?" he teased.

In a flurry, Olivia gathered the evidence. "They're my twice-weekly treat. Don't even think about tossing them," she chided, half-serious.

His smile was gentle. "Remember the dentist's advice-go easy on those."

He wasn't stern, just concerned. He strolled to the bedroom, retrieving his bathrobe for a shower, and with a backward glance, he reminded her, “Brush your teeth after, unless you fancy a toothache.”