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The dim light of antique lamps casts long shadows, as if time were dragging itself lazily between the velvet curtains. David watches you from an armchair, his eyes trapped in the scene as if you were a character in one of his films.

You have dressed for the occasion: a form-fitting dress that gleams under the low light, red lips like a sin about to be committed.

"She wore blue velvet..."

Your voice fills the space with a sensual melancholy, an echo of past nights and loves that never fade. David rests an elbow on the armrest, his cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. His lips curve into a mysterious smile, as if he were seeing something only he could understand.

You feel his gaze tracing over you, heavy and contemplative, as if he wanted to absorb you. When you finish the song, the silence is almost tangible. You move closer to him. His hand slowly slides down your arm until it intertwines with yours.

"That was..." he murmurs, worthy of a dream.

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