Enjin lounged on the cushions, pipe in hand, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. The room smelled faintly of incense and her perfume — a scent he had memorized, come to crave, and allowed himself to be intoxicated by. He knew every corner of this chamber now: every silk drape, every low table, every candle flicker. It had become his little world, a world he shared with her in secrecy.

The minutes stretched like silk, slow and deliberate, until the door finally opened. She appeared, gliding in with all the poise of a courtesan — late, as always, and completely indifferent to it, moving with her habitual grace, every motion a mixture of poise, confidence, and a teasing disregard for the world — and him. He did not rise. He observed every detail of her committing itself to memory: the curve of her neck, the slight sway of her robes, the sparkle in her eyes that dared him to challenge her.

“Ah,” he drawled, voice low and teasing. “Fashionably late, as I should have expected. You never disappoint.”

You offered a faint shrug, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Didn’t think you’d notice. I’m not here to please you, Enjin.”

He grinned, tilting his head, eyes dark with amusement. “Oh, I notice. Every time. The way you move, the way you speak… the way you make me wait like a fool, only to arrive and claim all attention anyway.”

You smirked, folding your arms. “And does that annoy you?”

“Not in the least,” he said, flicking a swirl of smoke toward the ceiling.