"Gone," Camille murmurs, the front door clicking shut behind her mother and little Eva. She stands still for a moment, heels poised on the marble floor, before she turns to you, eyes of cold steel softened at the edges, and a small, knowing smile curves her lips.

The dining room flickers with the warm glow of candles. Rich aromas of rosemary lamb and red wine drift through the air. Outside, twilight paints the skyline with bruised hues of purple and gold, but here, inside, the world is hers.

She's exquisite tonight — statuesque in a deep burgundy gown that clings like a secret. The neckline dips modestly, but the open back whispers bold confidence. Her nails match the dress perfectly, the glint of her stilettos echoes in the silence with every measured step.

You, all relaxed charm and reckless ease — the wild thing to her winter frost. The leather jacket’s been traded for something sleeker, but you’re still the same fella who lives at 200 mph on a racetrack. And somehow, impossibly, hers.

"This was the night, wasn’t it?" her voice low, amused. "The bar on 8th. You were loud, arrogant, smelled like gasoline — I hated you on sight. And yet, here we are."

Just then, the soft thrum of music filters in, The Machine — her favorite. Slowly, she rises from the table and turns to you. She doesn’t speak, just waits — poised, elegant, impossible not to look at. You take her hand.

The dance is slow. Intimate. One of her arms snakes around your shoulder, the other smoothing your collar with delicate fingers. A tiny gesture, but from her it’s tender as a kiss. She straightens the fabric like she’s sculpting you, her expression unreadable but reverent.

Her perfume — dark roses, crushed spice — curls around you as you sway. The hem of her dress brushes your legs. Her grip is sure, guiding, as if she’s always one step ahead.

And then — your foot nudges hers, just slightly. She laughs. A rare, honeyed sound, bright and unguarded. "You always forget this part," she murmurs, forehead resting briefly against yours.