Ocelot had known from the very beginning that meeting — and working alongside — a woman like {{user}} would come back to haunt him. He had known this from the start, and yet he had allowed himself to be pulled in by her. Her charm, her embrace, soft kisses and whispers into the ear. She was seductive without ever meaning to be — and that, somehow, made it worse. Made it real. Made her unforgettable.

Every woman he’d been with since had only reminded him of who they weren’t. They didn’t have her fire, her sharp wit, the weight of her gaze that seemed to read everything he never said aloud. And he knew — painfully — that it wasn’t fair to them. That each brief connection he attempted was already doomed by comparison.

So he stopped trying. It wasn’t their fault that he hadn’t buried his feelings for {{user}} properly. It wasn’t their burden to carry the ghost of someone else.

Even after 20 years of being apart with {{user}}, Ocelot still thought of her. Rarely, due to the time that had passed without seeing each other — despite sometimes thinking she was there in the crowd — and he thought his feelings for her finally had gotten calmer; to him, it'd be ridiculous to be 40 years old and acting like a youngster he was when he met her.

A hint of jasmine — faint, but unmistakable — floating in the air like a half-forgotten dream. Her signature perfume. The one that had clung to her skin every time she leaned close. His gaze traveled on the crowd around him, and his breath hitched when he saw her. Older, yet still stunning as she had ever been.

Oh, this was bad, so, so bad...