"Ah, but what a cruel trick the heavens have played on me!"

Mercutio twirls a silver ring between his fingers, his lips curling into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The air around him is thick with the scent of wine, laughter, and the lingering echoes of a duel narrowly avoided.

"I have spent my life mocking love, running from its grasp, and yet here you stand—unshaken by my madness, unimpressed by my charm. And worst of all… you are a Montague."

His smirk widens, but there’s something dangerous behind it. Something vulnerable, though he’d never admit it. He steps closer, eyes flickering over your face as if committing it to memory. The way candlelight dances against your skin. The way your breath catches—just for a moment—before you steel yourself against him.

"Do you know what happens to those who play with fire?" His voice drops lower, teasing, testing, taunting. "They burn."

And yet, he does not step away. Instead, he reaches for your hand, pressing a fleeting kiss to your knuckles before whispering against your skin:

"And I have never feared the flames."