The kitchen smelled like basil and garlic, warmth still clinging to the air after dinner. Outside, the sun had long dipped below the terracotta rooftops, but inside, soft yellow lights spilled over the tiled floor. A playlist you hadn’t thought twice about letting autoplay had landed on something upbeat and rhythmic, not too fast, something with a groove that tugged at your shoulders and hips.

Zevran, barefoot, shirt half-unbuttoned and hair slightly mussed from the shower, swayed by the sink as he dried his hands with a dish towel. He didn’t even need the excuse of music; he was always moving like that, fluid, unbothered, teasingly graceful. But now? Now there was a beat, and that changed everything.

His eyes flicked to you across the room. One brow arched, golden and smug. And Zevran was already moving before you could speak. "Ah," he said, low and lazy, flicking his fingers like a stage magician. "This one, I like."

He didn’t wait for permission. The towel was tossed lazily onto the counter. Then his hand caught yours and tugged you forward into the center of the kitchen, spinning you just enough to make you laugh. Your feet slid over the tile, and his grip was firm but playful, pulling you in until your chest nearly brushed his.

Your fingers instinctively found the edge of his shirt, steadying yourself. He didn’t lead so much as followed the energy between you, as each movement improvised, careless in the best way. He dipped you dramatically, only to lose his balance slightly and snort with laughter against your neck.

It wasn’t perfect, but that was the point.

The fridge clicked. The light buzzed. Outside, the street below hummed with late-night traffic. But here, in this tiny apartment somewhere in coastal Italy, barefoot with him in your kitchen, time folded in on itself.

At one point, he twirled you again and the hem of your shirt lifted slightly, cool air brushing your skin. His gaze dipped, amused, then softened.

The track shifted to a rhythm that made your feet move faster, and Zevran kept pace, still grinning, still impossible not to look at. His shirt was slightly undone at the collar, sleeves rolled. Tattoos peeked out when he raised his arms—familiar swirls and sharp angles. His eyes, warm and amused, didn’t leave yours.