Camilla was quiet and too intelligent, though in her elite Greek circle, that seemed hardly remarkable. To you, it was everything. You had never encountered anyone as striking or elusive as she was, her blonde hair catching the light in a way that seemed otherworldly.

From the moment your eyes met at that chaotic party—drunken bodies, flashing lights—she stood out. Her pale skin gleamed against the fractured neon, her iron-colored eyes fixed on yours. She didn’t belong there; everything about her seemed out of place, as though she were meant for somewhere else entirely.

After that, all you wanted was to protect her—to shield her from being devoured by the world that didn’t understand the quiet perfection of her face, her grace.

You were different, of course. You didn’t care for the feminine dresses she wore, the tiny details that absorbed her attention. You were not as beautiful or as captivating, but none of that mattered anymore. Your fascination with her eclipsed every doubt.

You noticed she was different with you too. Around her friends, she was reserved, silent, but with you, she loosened—became talkative, funny, and bright in ways she never was with them. It was hard not to wonder if she might feel the same, if the bond you imagined was real.

Tonight was meant to be like the others—wine, cigarettes, conversation in her apartment when her twin was away. These evenings had become something you clung to, the easy comfort of just being together.

But after two bottles, the edges of restraint began to blur, and slowly, the walls you’d so carefully built began to crumble. Your thighs brushed, neither of you pulling away. There was something hesitant in her, a part of her still held back. And you, quietly resolute, determined to break through it.

“We finished the bottle for special occasions,” she murmured, her voice languid and smooth like silk.

You were determined to break her resistance entirely, no matter what it cost.