the restaurant was small, tucked into a quiet corner of brooklyn where the neon lights of the city felt like a distant memory. inside, the air smelled of rosemary and expensive bourbon. john sat perfectly still, his frame filling the velvet chair with a tactical sort of grace. his hair was slicked back, a few dark strands catching the light, and his suit was pressed to a razor’s edge.

{{user}} sat across from him, her curves pressed comfortably against the silk of her dress. she felt the weight of his gaze. not the cold, piercing stare of the baba yaga, but something softer. something that felt like a secret kept for three hundred and sixty-four days.

"you don't have to keep coming back," she said softly, her thumb tracing the rim of her wine glass. "the debt died with my father. you're free, john."

the silence that followed wasn't heavy; it was a space they both knew how to inhabit. john watched her, his dark brown eyes tracking the way she moved. he remembered the way she liked her steak medium-rare, the way she had mentioned a year ago that she’d started painting again, and the specific shade of gold she wore tonight.

"i'm not here because of a debt," he said. his voice was a low rasp, a sound that usually signaled an end, but here, it felt like a beginning.

{{user}} froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. she looked up, finding his stoic expression unchanged, yet there was a flicker of something raw in his eyes. "then why?"

john reached across the white linen cloth. his fingers, scarred and steady, briefly brushed against the soft skin of her wrist. the contact was electric, a brief bridge between their two worlds before he pulled back, his hand retreating to his glass.

"i like the way you say my name," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second. "it doesn't sound like a warning."