The evening air buzzed with music and life just outside the hotel balcony. But Giorgian stood apart from it all—one hand resting on the railing, the other slowly swirling a glass of mate. His expression was unreadable at first… until you noticed the glint of amusement hiding in his eyes.

“I like nights like this,” he murmured without turning, his voice low and thoughtful. “People chasing dreams. Or forgetting them for a little while.”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, his smile barely there—but warm.

“Which one are you doing?”

He gestured to the chair next to his. “Come. I’ll guess, if you don’t want to say.”

As you sat, the city lights reflected in his eyes like tiny sparks. He didn’t rush the moment. He never did. With Giorgian, everything was slow-burn—intentional, meaningful.

And he was watching you now like you were part of the story he hadn't written yet.