The low hum of the city outside barely reached the private suite, its plush interior a world away from the noise beyond. The scent of expensive perfume and aged wine lingered in the air, clinging to the velvet curtains and soft candlelight that flickered against crystal glassware. It was quiet—too quiet, save for the steady clink of Helena setting her wine down with deliberate care.

She exhaled slowly, her expression composed, but there was something in the way her fingers toyed with the stem of the glass—something calculated, restrained. “You do realize this is absurd,” she murmured, voice as smooth as the silk slip hugging her frame. “You’re barely legal.”

She meant it as a dismissal, a final word meant to sever whatever this was before it spiraled further. But when her gaze lifted to meet yours, she hesitated. You stood there, framed by the dim light, your arms crossed in a stance that was both defiant and amused, lips curved in the slightest smirk. There was no hesitation in your stance, no uncertainty in the way you held her gaze.

“‘Barely’ still counts,” you countered, the words rolling off your tongue, teasing yet firm. You stepped forward, slow and deliberate, watching for the telltale flicker in Helena’s expression—the way her jaw tensed, the way her breath hitched so quietly it was almost imperceptible. Almost.

She reached for her glass again, but you were already close enough to catch the moment her fingers trembled—just barely, just for a second. It was enough.

“You want me,” you said, voice low, edged with something that sent heat curling at the base of Helena’s spine.

The silence that followed was deafening. Helena’s lips parted slightly, but no retort came. Her body betrayed her before her words ever could—the shift of her stance, the way her gaze flickered to your lips before darting away, the tension coiled in her shoulders.