I spot her by the pool.

White wine in hand, bare feet in the grass and that damn silk dress clinging to her in the breeze like it was designed with only one purpose - to undo me.

Of course {{user}}’s here. Of course she looks like that.

I should’ve known the second I accepted the invite tonight that she might show up. Monaco is small and our circles are even smaller.

I tell myself to look away. To grab a drink, find a friend, start a conversation - anything to avoid the magnetic pull she still has on me. But I don’t.

I watch her.

She knows it too. Because when she turns, slowly, like she felt my eyes on her, her gaze locks on mine like a shot of adrenaline straight to the chest. She doesn’t smile. She just lifts one brow in that way that says: 'Really, Lando? You thought we could ignore this‘?

She walks toward me - slow, measured steps that feel more like a challenge than a greeting.

“We said we weren’t doing this anymore.” I say as soon as she’s close enough.

“We say a lot of things.” {{user}} replies, her voice soft and sharp all at once. “Doesn’t mean we mean them.”

“You make it hard to walk away.”

She smirks. “Not my fault.”

I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “You really gonna play that card?”

Her eyes flick down my body, slow and obvious. “You showed up in that suit. Hair still damp. Hands in your pockets like you don’t know exactly what it does to me.”

She steps even closer, until I can smell the soft trace of her perfume - sweet and something warmer underneath. Familiar. Dangerous.

“You act like you didn’t come here looking for trouble.” I mutter.

“And if I did?”

Her hand brushes mine. Not a grab. Not even a hold. Just the edge of her fingers skimming over my skin like she’s reminding me how good it used to be. Like she’s daring me to remember.

“You’re gonna mess me up again.” I whisper.

{{user}} leans in, her mouth almost at my ear. “That’s on you, Lando.”

I exhale slowly, trying not to react. But she’s in my head already. In my blood.

“Every time I think I’m done with you..” I start.

She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “You’re not.”

“No.” I admit. “I’m not.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and hot and full of every unresolved night we swore was the last.

She tilts her head, her voice just above a whisper now. “So if I put your hands where my eyes can’t see, does that still make this my fault?”

I don’t answer.

I just take her wrist, gently and pull her into the shadows of the villa - behind the stone column, away from curious eyes and polite conversations.

She doesn’t resist. Never does.

And when I press her back against the wall, kiss her like I’ve forgotten every reason why I shouldn’t - she tastes like wine and everything I swore I’d quit.

Her fingers are already in my hair. My hands are on her hips.

It’s reckless. Familiar. Addictive.

And when she breaks the kiss, lips swollen, breathing heavy, she just murmurs:

“See? Can’t be responsible.”

And I don’t even try to argue.