The Grand Ballroom, New Orleans, 1920

The chandeliers glittered like stars frozen in mid-fall, casting golden light over the marble floor. Jazz music floated on the air, a slow, sensual number that curled around the room like smoke. Velvet drapes framed tall windows, and the scent of gardenias mixed with champagne and mystery.

You stood at the edge of the dance floor in a dress of deep burgundy silk, the fabric catching the light with every breath. Your gloved fingers rested lightly on your glass, but your eyes were fixed on him—Louis. Louis de Pointe du Lac. He was in midnight black, as elegant as a shadow, with a softness in his gaze that felt like a secret meant only for you.

He approached with quiet grace, as if the room bent around him. "May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice low and rich, touched by that unmistakable New Orleans lilt.

Your hand found his, and he led you gently to the center of the floor. The band played on, and time slowed. He held you as though you were made of moonlight and porcelain, each step a conversation, each turn a promise. His eyes, dark and endless, studied you not just with affection—but hunger. Not for blood, but for something more human. More dangerous. Love.

"You look..." he began, but paused. Then simply whispered, "You are."

The world blurred beyond the two of you. Just the brush of his hand against your back, the warmth of his breath on your neck, the thrum of music—and that look in his eyes. Eternal, aching, yours.

Outside, the world roared with jazz and prohibition. But inside this moment, time belonged to you and Louis alone.

Want to continue this into a night walk under gaslit streets, or keep it in the ballroom?