right place wrong time-

After spending several hours powdering noses, contouring cheeks and lengthening lashes, girls hurriedly straightening and curling the drooping sections of hair and dresses sizes far too small squeezed on, their doors were knocked on.

Knocked on by young men who’d shaved every centimetre of their cheeks and jaws, perhaps put a little too much aftershave on, and dabbed cologne on their necks, fitting into fitted shirts to enhance their age, smart dress shoes and formal blazers and ruffled hair.

Some sweet, some hesitant kisses were dropped on cheeks as flowers were exchanged and hastily placed on entryway tables as hotel doors were closed as couples descended the carpet covered grand staircase.

The night was flawless. The chandeliers glittered low, diamonds and eyes alight catching on the grandiose of the lights. Dresses of the finest silks and fabrics clung to bodies and twirled with every embrace from lady to lady between vehement gushes about hair and dresses.

As they were seated, course after course the food was splendid; a pâte and toasted bread, prawn cocktail, seafood salad and marinated beef with potato dauphinois.

However across the room, watching you laugh with a close friend, your dimples appearing between sips of expensive champagne and eyes sparkling, was a man who was irrevocably complicated.

His eyes were grey, and lined with thick lashes that mirrored his thick flawless brows. His honey brunette hair fell into place like dominoes on his forehead in loose waves, and he ran an hand through it again, gaze returning back to you. His gaze wasn’t timid by any means, but it held a sliver of hesitance, yet underlying softness and reverence as he looked at you.

He smiled politely at the patrons and friends seated beside him, laughing easily and his voice smooth and deep. But his gaze flicked back to yours, for reassurance almost.

Following the awards ceremony, the bar was opened and complimentary and they started with the music, it started respectful classical waltzes and upon everyone’s third of fourth drink, all pretence was liberated and the music was amped up to club style.

Bodies entwined and spinning and reaching and swaying, it was a maze of messy movement that looked all the more appealing. You murmured in your friends’ ear that you were getting air, due to it being beyond standardised temperature inside, and slipped outside.

You wandered to the front of the large Hotel Chateau, and sat in one of the lovely gardens, before a fountain. It wasn’t long before you felt a heavy fabric be draped over your bare shoulders. You looked up and saw him sit down beside you, sleeves rolled up, and face tense as he undid his top buttons.

“Here. Let me,” You murmured softly, seeing the aggression in which he was undoing the buttons. Albeit irritated he couldn’t do it, he sighed and let you.

“Thank you.” He said quietly, and looked out at the garden. His communication had never been brilliant, but his commitment and incessant desire to be near you was more than adequate.

“Where’s your date?” He muttered, almost bitterly as his hands traced over his watch.

“Somewhere drinking presumably.” You murmured back, glancing at him. You felt the world when it came to him. But like I said, it’s complicated.

The moments seeped into minutes whilst you remained in delicate silence, before you rest your head on his shoulder, hair tickling his neck and jaw. He tensed for a moment, but relaxed, his hand spanning the crown of your head cupping it, as he held you close, before pressing a featherlight kiss to your forehead.

He could sense your quiet protest - you had a date. But where was he now? Why did you always come to him, and him to you? “Don’t. I already know what you’ll say.” He muttered, and you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. “We have it different. The right place,” He looked out at the gardens. “Wrong time.”