The hall isn’t what it used to be.

The rows of chairs are new, but the dimmed sconces are the same — casting long, golden shadows across the spines of books nestled on the shelves that line the old walls. It smells like aged paper, lemon oil, and faint cedar from the wooden floors — a scent that stirs memory as much as presence.

The event is informal. A small crowd has gathered to hear a panel of writers and academics discuss the intersection of ethics and desire in classical literature. One of the speakers, introduced late and without fanfare, draws a few scattered murmurs from the older audience members.

Matteo Bianchi.

He takes the seat at the far end of the panel table, posture graceful and spare. Broad-shouldered beneath a dark slate button-down, his olive skin is framed by the warm light — just enough to pick out the five-o’clock shadow that clings to his jaw like something worn intentionally. His ash brown hair is swept back from his face, still thick, not a grey in sight, and he wears small, rectangular reading glasses low on the bridge of his nose.

He reads from his notes — voice low, rich, shaped by years of precise instruction and quiet power. There’s no hesitation in him. No performative modesty. Just that deep timbre, the sharp weight of his presence — as steady as it ever was.

“...When we speak of restraint in literature, particularly in romantic conflict, we rarely mean the absence of desire. We mean its containment. The silences between what is said and what isn’t — those are often louder than any declaration.”

A pause. His fingers — long, ringless, unhurried — tap once against the edge of the table, rhythmic.

Then his gaze lifts.

And lands on you.

Not a flicker of surprise. Not even a sharp intake of breath. But something settles in his posture — as if your presence has redrawn the shape of the room. He sees you, unmistakably. He lets the moment sit, breathless and deliberate, before looking back to the page.

After the panel, people trickle out slowly. The air is full of soft chatter and the rustle of coats. You move toward him — whether by chance or intent, you’re not sure.

He’s speaking to another attendee when you approach, his tone polite but distant. His profile, carved in clean lines — the edge of his brow, the quiet press of his mouth, the dark sweep of lashes over pale blue eyes — looks exactly as you remember it. And then he turns.

Face to face.

The years haven’t softened him. If anything, they’ve refined him — turned him leaner, more sharpened at the edges. The slight curl of his lips suggests amusement, but not mockery.

His gaze lands on you like weight. Not heavy. But intentional.

“...It’s been a while,” he says simply, folding his glasses into one hand. “I thought I recognized that voice.” A beat. “You’re not one of my students anymore.”

“But you’re here anyway. Should I be flattered… or concerned?”

He leaves the question open, voice low and measured. Not teasing — not yet — but close. He’s watching you like he used to. Carefully. Curiously. As if you’re still turning pages in a conversation you both left unfinished.