The day’s sweet tiredness lingered as we waited in the hotel’s elegant dining room, the chandeliers casting sparkling reflections on the glassware. My parents were preoccupied, my father brimming with excitement at seeing an old friend, while my mother exuded poised impatience. Maxime, my restless little brother, fidgeted in his chair, but my thoughts were elsewhere. The holiday’s formal air felt stifling, as though it had taken something from us.

When the grand wooden door finally opened, the family that entered seemed to fill the room with their graceful energy. Yet my focus narrowed to one figure—the son, Charles.

“My son, Charles,” my father’s friend introduced with pride, his name resonating like music to my ears. He was tall, self-assured, but it was his piercing, intelligent eyes that captured me. When they met mine, the room seemed to freeze.

“It’s a pleasure,” he said in a soft, accented voice, extending his hand.

“Likewise,” I managed, my voice faltering slightly. His touch was warm, unexpectedly so.

Throughout dinner, Charles remained quietly magnetic, speaking sparingly but commanding attention when he did. My gaze drifted to him often, drawn to his posture, the way his hands rested lightly on the table, and the fleeting glances he sent my way.

At one point, my father turned to the group. “We’ve rented a boat for tomorrow,” he said. “Care to join us for some fresh sea air?”

Charles’s eyes met mine once more, a flicker of curiosity and quiet excitement passing between us.