The sun had long since melted into the sea, leaving the Greek sky an inky violet, spattered with the shimmer of stars and the low hum of cicadas. The courtyard pulsed under the glow of warm lanterns, strung like pearls across whitewashed walls, their light soft and teasing against the wild cascade of Bougainvillea vines climbing every surface. Magenta blossoms hung heavy in the warm night air, perfuming the breeze with their subtle, sun-soaked scent.

Ambrose reclined on a cushioned divan in the heart of the garden, a wine glass lazily cradled in his fingers, its contents as dark and rich as his thoughts. His magenta hair—almost indistinguishable from the blossoms at night—fell in soft waves around his sharp cheekbones, catching the flicker of candlelight. His baby blue eyes were half-lidded, gazing toward the grand arched entryway, waiting.

The party had bloomed around him hours ago, filling his home with the laughter of mortals and immortals alike, but Ambrose had thrown this party for one guest only. You.

The fleeting glimpse he’d stolen on the street days ago had been enough to snare him. You’d passed under the shadow of a Bougainvillea canopy, your hair catching the light just so, your expression unreadable and beautiful, and from that moment on—he’d been undone.

He’d learned your name by the second evening. But learning your name wasn’t enough. So the parties began. Night after night his courtyard came alive, bursting with music and laughter and the promise of pleasure. Invitations scattered like flower petals across the island, each one whispered with the same seductive undercurrent: Ambrose’s gatherings were not to be missed.

And yet, each night as the moon climbed high, the same ache coiled inside his chest when the doors remained absent of you.

Ambrose rose, the movement as fluid as wine pouring from a decanter. He moved through the crowd, his silks whispering against his slender frame, barefoot on the cool stone. Around him the Bougainvillea vines shifted, searching.