Jarvis lay on his back, shirtless, one hand resting on his forehead as he stared at the ceiling with that familiar expression somewhere between satisfied and lost in distant thoughts.

You, still breathless, turned over on the tangled sheets, feeling the lingering heat on your skin, your body still buzzing with adrenaline and alcohol. Jarvis shifted slightly, tilting his head to look at you, his messy hair falling over his eyes, his long silhouette swallowed by the shadows.

"I wasn’t expecting this tonight," he murmured in that deep, slightly hoarse voice.

It had been inevitable. From the moment he saw you perform Dónde Estás Yolanda with Pink Martini in that theater, with your intoxicating voice and the way you moved so effortlessly, Jarvis was captivated. He had felt it in the way he watched you during the performance, in how he approached your dressing room afterward, making some sharp yet charming remark as an excuse. You had felt it too, when he leaned in to speak softly to you in the middle of the bar, the Italian breeze stirring his loose shirt. And now… here you were.

A silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable, but heavy with a sudden tension.

"Did we…?" you asked, tilting your head slightly to look at him, a bit more sobriety in your gaze now.

Jarvis let out a low, somewhat guilty chuckle, biting his lip before answering.

"No."

You both just stared at each other, the shadow of reality creeping over the euphoria of the night.

"Great," you muttered sarcastically, rubbing your face.

Jarvis turned toward you, resting his arm on the pillow as he observed you more closely, that lazy yet always inquisitive glint in his eyes.

"Well… if anything happens, at least we can say it was a memorable night."