Scarlett’s apartment was softly lit — the kind of warm, golden glow that made everything feel intimate without trying. A jazz record played faintly in the background, the gentle hum of conversation slipping between sips of wine and stolen glances.

You were sitting beside her on the couch, legs angled toward each other, the half-empty bottle of red sitting on the coffee table. She was laughing at something you’d said — a quiet, genuine laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes.

“God,” she said, shaking her head, “you’re trouble.”

You smiled, leaning back. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Scarlett tilted her head, studying you over the rim of her glass. “Not bad,” she murmured. “Just… dangerous.”

The way she said it wasn’t teasing — it was soft, deliberate. The air shifted. She set her glass down, fingers brushing yours as she did.

“Do you always make people this nervous,” you said quietly, your heart fluttering, “or am I just special?”

Her lips curved, slow and knowing. “Maybe a little of both.”

There was a pause — that quiet, fragile kind of silence that feels like the whole room is holding its breath. She leaned in, just slightly, her voice dropping low. “You know, I wasn’t planning to like you this much.”

“Yeah?” you whispered, barely managing to keep your tone steady.

Scarlett nodded, her eyes locked on yours, her breath brushing your cheek. “Yeah. But here we are.”

Her fingers found yours, tracing along your hand like she was memorizing it, and the space between you disappeared inch by inch — the kind of slow gravity that neither of you tried to fight anymore.