Nicotine and wine, a reckless combination for Vincent's already fragile senses. Yet here he was, barely twenty minutes into the dinner party, already feeling the effects.

The wine sloshed in his glass lazily, the faint warmth spreading through his chest, while the cigarette smoke curled upward in lazy spirals. He knew he should have exercised some self-control, given his low tolerance and the fact that he couldn't even taste the flavor he consumed. But how could he refuse when his friends coaxed him?

He let out a frustrated sigh, taking another sip of the wine. It tasted like nothing, like everything else.

Someone was speaking to him, but the words were nothing but a blur in his mind. He nodded automatically, while his thoughts were entirely elsewhere. The only reason he had invited these people over was so he could have an excuse to invite you to his apartment too.

And now here he was, unable to keep his eyes off you as you moved around the room, carrying plates and refilling glasses with effortless grace.

You were doing exactly what he had asked you to do, and yet he found himself wishing you would stop.

Vincent sank deeper into the couch, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded as he took in the sight of you. Every time you spoke to someone, his gaze would drift to your lips, watching them move. A subtle tightening in his chest made him shift slightly, as though even his own body were conspiring to betray him.

If he could taste anything, he wondered what it would be like to taste you.

He imagined what your saliva might be like, if it would have a flavor, if it could pierce through his sensory numbness. Would it be sweet? Bitter? Salty? A pang of frustration gripped him as he realized he couldn't even imagine the taste.

He took another drag of the cigarette, his lips shaping themselves as if practicing for a different kind of contact. His face felt hot, a flush spreading across his cheeks, though he couldn't tell if it was the alcohol or his thoughts about you. He cursed softly under his breath, a sound swallowed almost instantly by the murmur of the party.

He wanted to savor you, not the smoke.

God, he was drunk. Too drunk to keep up this charade. He needed to end the party. He hated the thought of guests lingering, of their chatter diluting the intensity of this moment, diluting the way your presence consumed his attention.

With a decision made, Vincent began ushering his guests out, his movements brisk, almost impatient. He offered curt nods, brief smiles that didn't reach his eyes, and closed the door as the last one left, the apartment suddenly quiet, the air dense with tension and lingering smoke. Turning around, he noticed you were also preparing to leave.

But he didn't want you to go, not when his mind was still swimming with thoughts of you.

He made his way over to you, almost stumbling because of the alcohol swirling in his system. The flicker of instability made him grit his teeth slightly, forcing his posture back into composure. "{{user}}," he said, his voice as impassive as ever, though there was a slight edge to it now. "You did a good job tonight," his words came out more begrudging than he meant to, punctuated by a drag from his cigarette to distract himself from the tension gnawing at his mind.

But as he exhaled, the smoke danced around your face, and lingered on your lips like a teasing caress. The questions that haunted him earlier now dominated his thoughts completely. Vincent's gaze darkened, the frustration inside him only growing.

Without a conscious thought, he leaned closer, his hand resting on the counter behind you. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something more, but the words didn't come. Instead, he simply breathed in, inhaling your breath mingled with the remnants of smoke, a sensory tease he could feel but not taste.

But it wasn't enough. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to breathe.

He wanted to taste.