One quick game before you go? his sister had asked him earlier that afternoon, already pulling his bag of tiles open and dropping into a seat at the table. Ezra didn't know how she'd even gotten it; he usually kept it on him, but he must have set it down somewhere and she'd spotted an opportunity to swoop in and save the day once again. Ezra didn't think he needed saving — not anymore, anyway — but he couldn't fail to appreciate the effort. And today was a big day for him, in a way. It wasn't the first event that he'd been coaxed out to since Rosalie had left him, but it was close — he was still shaking off the dust when it came to socializing with anyone outside of his house or his office at work. And this was the first Valentine's Day since he had become a single man again; bound to stir up painful memories, even if the party was otherwise perfectly pleasant.

Sure, a quick game, he'd agreed. It was a quick game, too, because he didn't let her win this time. It was a tricky balance, with his game — he had to try hard enough to be really thinking about it, or it didn't drive the shadows back. But he had learned relatively early on that if he didn't let people win often enough, they stopped playing with him. So it was always a bit of a dance — effort, pull back, effort, pull back, right up until the end. This time he just gave it his all and smoked his sibling handily. He could do that, with family; they wouldn't begrudge him the win.

He'd started off the evening neatly enough. He'd made polite conversation — he did not feel up to anything more than polite conversation, yet, even on his best days — and clung to the edge of the crowd, not partaking in any of the silly party games they'd staged for the event. Then he'd seen her, and his chest had grown tight. It didn't drive the shadows closer or anything — nothing so melodramatic — but it did make the party significantly less pleasant for him. Particularly when he noticed her talking to some bloke for a good portion of the night. Moving on already? he thought cynically, though deep down he didn't believe it.

Ezra had made a good enough showing for the evening, he decided, and he had just resolved to finish off his drink and go home when Miss Hunniford herself approached him. For a moment he merely gaped at her, startled by the audacity. They hadn't spoken since she'd left — not so much as a letter. All of the necessary arrangements for the dissolution of the engagement had been handled by his mother, on his side — he neither knew nor cared who had been the correspondent on hers. I can go, she said, perhaps in response to the look of bewilderment on his face.

"No," he said, too quick. It probably would have been better for both of them if she had, but — something had surged at her offer to leave, and the word had erupted from him before he'd had a chance to think it through. He coughed to try and cover whatever emotion was probably showing on his face, shifted his weight from foot to foot, wished he had more to drink left in his glass. "I don't mean to chase you off, I mean."

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