1820.

Laughter rippled through the salon, mingling with the clink of glasses and the lazy hum of conversation. Danzas, ever in his element, had drawn a circle of young ladies around them, their eyes alight with expectation.

"C‘mon, Sash," he declared, draping an arm over Pushkin’s shoulder with exaggerated camaraderie. "Grant these charming creatures a few lines before they lose all patience with you!"

Pushkin smirked, feigning reluctance, though they both knew he‘d never refuse an audience. He began to recite, voice smooth and steady. The ladies sighed, hung on his every word, exchanging glances of shared delight.

But his attention wavered. It shouldn’t have—he was used to admirers drinking in his poetry like fine wine. Yet across the room, just beyond the reach of the candlelight, there were you.

You weren’t vying for attention nor batting your lashes nor giggling behind a fan. No, you were simply listening, truly listening. And that—God help him—was infinitely more dangerous.

Danzas, perceptive devil that he was, caught the shift in Pushkin’s gaze and grinned. He leaned in, voice just low enough to taunt. "Ah, so that’s where your poetry is wandering off to.”

Pushkin exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as if to dispel the spell he was falling under. "Don’t be ridiculous," he muttered, but Danzas was already nudging him forward, the way one might prod a reluctant soldier onto the battlefield.

"Then prove me wrong. Go on, introduce yourself—unless, of course, the great Pushkin has suddenly lost his famed wit?"

Pushkin shot him a look but found himself moving anyway, feet betraying him before his mind could catch up. The crowd parted as he approached, his usual confidence settling back into place.

He dipped his head slightly as he neared you, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel like a secret shared between only you two.

"Tell me," he said, a hint of mischief curling at the edge of his lips. "Did you find my poetry tolerable, or must I redeem myself with something finer?"