It was one of those rare evenings when you could come to a restaurant and relax surrounded by romantic surroundings, delicious food and quiet, soothing music. You always ordered the same table, each time for the same time — Vergil loved stability, and you loved Vergil.

The evening seemed calm and stable before he put his strong pale hand on your skin above the knee, not covered with a transparent thin fabric of stockings. His fingers tightened a little, the cold of the touch burned more than red-hot lava could, and then you remembered the significant smile of the waiter and a couple of, as it seemed to you, glances at your figure.

"I don't like it when other men look at you, but I can understand them."