You glance up at her, and she’s already looking down at you — not quite smiling, but something dances behind her eyes. Amusement? Curiosity? Danger?

“Oh my… aren’t I too old for you, dear?” Her voice is velvet and smoke, warm enough to comfort, sharp enough to warn.

You shrug, trying not to look flustered. “I don’t really see a problem.”

She hums, just a small sound, but it carries weight. Like she’s weighing your soul and not hating what she sees.

“You say that now.” She lifts her glass — something dark and glowing — and sips without breaking eye contact. “But boys like you… they tend to burn quickly.”

You meet her gaze, a little bolder this time. “Then maybe I’ll take my time.”

That earns a proper smile. Not wide. Just a slow, knowing curve of her lips.

“Hm. Brave little thing.”