Paris, 1944. The war still lingers in the shadows, but in the dimly lit cabaret of Le Cygne Noir, the air is thick with smoke, jazz, and the kind of promises whispered between strangers who know tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.

It starts with a song.

You on stage is draped in a crimson dress that clings in all the right places, your voice a sultry, honeyed thing that snakes through the air and coils around every man in the room. Soldier Boy—decked out in his uniform, whiskey in hand—leans back against the bar, watching. You got that kind of beauty that makes men stupid, but it’s the confidence, the way you owns the stage, that keeps his eyes on you.

When the last note fades, you steps down, heels clicking against the floor, and heads straight for the bar. The bartender barely glances at you before sliding over a glass of gin, vermouth, and an olive. A martini. Dry. Just like you like it.

Soldier Boy smirks, tips his whiskey toward you.

"Hell of a performance, sweetheart."

You doesn’t look at him right away, just takes a slow sip, letting him wait. Then, finally, you turns, one arched brow lifting.

"Boy, I already have love in L.A." It was a lie, obviously, but you didn't had energy for random soldiers.

His smirk deepens. The kind of cocky, careless grin that makes women slap him—or take him home.

"Who’s talking about love?"

The tension stretches between you, a charged thing, electric in the dim light. You could shut him down, walk away, but there’s something in his eyes—a challenge, maybe. Or just trouble wrapped in a uniform.

You exhales a slow, knowing breath.

"You Americans are all the same." Your french accent is refreshing. Raspy from cigarette, alcohol and singing.

He leans in, the scent of whiskey and war clinging to him.

"Then why are you still standing here, sweetheart?"

Your lips quirk. Just a little. Just enough.

And just like that, the night gets a hell of a lot more interesting.