Old Scars at the Dinner Table

Percival adjusted his tie in the hotel lobby mirror, his fingers trembling just enough to betray the knot of nerves in his chest. The reunion dinner was already in full swing beyond the double doors, voices and laughter spilling out like a wave he wasn't ready to meet. Fiorella stood beside him, smoothing the front of her sundress, her auburn hair catching the light as she smiled up at him with that familiar warmth.

"You look handsome," she said, squeezing his arm. "We don't have to stay long if it gets weird, okay?"

He nodded, grateful for her steady presence. At twenty-eight, Percival had built a quiet life as an accountant, far from the skinny kid who used to hide in the library during lunch. But the thought of seeing those old faces again made his stomach twist. Especially one face in particular.

They pushed through the doors together. The banquet hall was crowded with round tables draped in white linens, name tags scattered across a welcome table. Percival scanned the room, his eyes landing on clusters of people he half-recognized. Then the air shifted.

Ivan stood at the center of the largest group, towering at six-two with that same muscular build, his dark hair styled back, expensive shirt open at the collar. He commanded the space without effort, one hand gesturing as he spoke, the others leaning in like planets orbiting a sun. His laugh boomed across the room, and suddenly every head turned toward him.

"Holy shit, is that Percival?" Ivan's voice cut through the noise, sharp and amused. He broke away from the group and strode straight over, his gaze flicking past Percival to settle on Fiorella. "And who is this gorgeous woman?"

Fiorella blushed, extending her hand. "Fiorella. Percival's wife."

Ivan took her hand and held it a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing her knuckles. "Wife. Damn, you traded up, little man. Didn't think you'd land someone like her." His eyes lingered on her curves, the way the sundress hugged her hips, before he released her and clapped Percival on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway.

The group reformed around them, and Ivan slid into the conversation like he owned it. "Everyone, listen up. This is Percival, my old punching bag from senior year. Remember that time I locked him in the janitor's closet for two hours? Kid was crying by the time the janitor found him."

Laughter rippled through the circle. Percival felt heat crawl up his neck, the old humiliation flooding back in an instant. He forced a smile, but his mind raced. Why was Ivan bringing that up now, in front of Fiorella, in front of everyone?

Fiorella's hand found his under the table as they sat, her fingers warm and reassuring. But Ivan wasn't done. He pulled out the chair beside her, ignoring the empty seat next to Percival, and settled in close. "Fiorella, you have to hear this one. I used to make him do my homework. Told him if he didn't, I'd stuff him in a locker again. He always did it, too. Quiet little guy, never fought back."

His hand rested on Fiorella's arm as he spoke, fingers tracing idle circles on her skin. She didn't pull away. Instead, she laughed softly, the sound light and a little breathless. "That sounds awful. Percival never told me about any of that."

"He wouldn't," Ivan said, leaning in. His voice dropped, smooth and teasing. "Too embarrassed. But look at him now, all buttoned up with a beautiful wife. Bet he still gets that same look when he's nervous, though."

Percival watched, frozen. The touch on Fiorella's arm lingered, and he saw the way her green eyes sparkled under the attention. Old memories crashed over him: the taunts in the hallway, the stolen lunches, the way Ivan had made him feel small every single day. Shame twisted in his gut, familiar and bitter. But beneath it, something else stirred, an unexpected heat that made his pulse quicken. He hated how it felt, yet he couldn't look away.

Ivan dominated the table, steering every topic back to himself. He flirted openly, complimenting Fiorella's hair, asking about her job with a grin that said he already knew the answers didn't matter. "You must keep this guy on his toes. He always needed someone to tell him what to do."

The group egged him on, sharing their own stories of Ivan's antics, but Percival barely heard them. His focus narrowed to the way Ivan's fingers brushed Fiorella's wrist again, the casual possession in the gesture. Fiorella giggled at something Ivan whispered, her cheeks flushed, and Percival's breath caught. The arousal hit him like a secret he hadn't meant to uncover, mixing with the humiliation until he couldn't separate the two.

"Remember when I made you run laps in the rain?" Ivan continued, turning back to Percival with a predatory smile. "Told the coach you volunteered. You didn't even complain. Good little worker bee."

Percival opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Fiorella glanced at him, concern flickering in her eyes, yet she stayed turned toward Ivan, drawn in by the charisma that filled the space between them. The dinner plates arrived, but the conversation never paused. Ivan's presence swallowed the table, and Percival sat there, watching the old power dynamics snap back into place like they had never left.

Inside, the conflict burned. He wanted to pull Fiorella away, to remind her who she belonged to. But another part of him, the part he had buried for years, leaned into the sting, curious about where this night might lead if he didn't stop it. Ivan's hand stayed on Fiorella's arm, and Percival felt the first real tremor of something dangerous and undeniable.