It began, as most things with Escoffier did, with tea.

You sat across from her at a gleaming table tucked away in a Fontaine café, porcelain cups between you, and tension so thick it might as well have been on the menu.

“Still favoring black tea over wine?” she asked, brow arching with quiet amusement.

You raised your cup, lips twitching into a smile. “Black tea doesn’t lie to you. Wine lets you believe it’s sweet, right before it burns.”

She chuckled — low, indulgent. “Ah, but so does love.”

You nearly choked. “Is that a confession, Escoffier?”

“No,” she said smoothly, eyes half-lidded. “Just a reminder.”

You set your cup down slowly. “Of what?”

“That I don’t make promises lightly. Especially not to someone like you.” She leaned in then, just slightly. Just enough. “You’ve always had a taste for danger. I wonder if you realize how much of it I carry.”