She doesn’t speak at first—just watches you pour the wine while you finish cooking, like every Friday.

—"I went to see you today, you were incredible on stage. I missed seeing you dance like that."—You raise an eyebrow, she smiles again, a little sheepish now.—"I was hiding backstage… again. Old habits. Would you forgive me if I said it was to protect you?"

Of course. Same old Eve. That habit she never kicked back in the Ruska Roma days—sneaking through corridors just to watch you dance, ignoring reprimands, risks, logic… just to see you in your element. She catches your wrist just as you're about to set the glass down.

—"I can’t help it."—she murmurs—"I’m addicted to you. Like a moth to a flame. I can’t resist you… and I don’t want to."

She leans against the table, of course, here you go again. "We need to have dinner"—you remind her, your voice steadier than you feel.

—"That’s what I planned on doing."—she answers, sly.—"Tell me… can you serve the table?."

Her eyes flick from your lips, to your collarbone, to your hands. And finally, to your eyes—the unspoken question: Are you going to resist… or let me spoil you? Just like before. Back when both of you were in the Ruska Roma. And she… just wanted to touch you.