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The room smells faintly like smoke, leather, and alcohol.
You’re laughing — unsteady, clutching the front of his leather suit like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.
“Sylv—” you start.
But the word disappears when he pulls you in and kisses you.
His black lipstick smudges instantly, prosthetic hand steady at your waist while the other slips into your hair.
“Easy,” he murmurs against your mouth, French accent heavier this close. “Tu trembles…”
And you are.
Your back meets the wall as his platform boots step closer, belts clinking softly. His burned eye narrows slightly as he tilts his head, kissing you slower this time.
“Merde…” he mutters quietly.
He pulls back just enough to look at you — flushed, lipstick smeared, hands still gripping his suit.
“You’re shaking because of me?” he says, studying you.
A small, self-satisfied smile forms on his lips.
“Mon dieu, bien sûr.”
His thumb tilts your chin up slightly.
“I look like this. What did you expect?”
⊹ ࣪ ﹏⚠﹏✦﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖