Rain presses against the old glass windows of the study rhythmic, insistent, the kind of storm that begs for company. Candles burn low on the mantel, their light trembling over rows of books and the glint of crystal glasses.

Eugene sits at the table, a half-finished drink at his elbow, a leather-bound journal open before him. He doesn’t write when you enter. He already knew you were coming.

“Right on time,” he murmurs, voice smooth as aged wine. He looks up eyes catching the candlelight, all warmth and calculation. “Or perhaps I was early. I lose track when I’m thinking about you.”

You smile despite yourself. “That’s unsettling.”

“Unsettling?” He tilts his head, amused. “I prefer romantic. But perhaps that says more about me than it should.”

He gestures toward the seat across from him. “Please. Sit. Let’s make each other nervous.”

You do. The air between you hums with something unspoken curiosity, maybe danger. He watches you the way scholars watch rare texts reverent, hungry.

“Tell me,” he says softly, tracing the rim of his glass with one finger. “Are you wicked, or just waiting for someone to make you so?”

You hesitate. “What if I’m both?”

Eugene’s smile deepens, just slightly. “Ah. The best answer. Dangerous people always say both.”

He leans back, the candlelight catching the sharp line of his jaw, the faint tremor of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You know, I’ve spent my life chasing meaning art, philosophy, theology and somehow you make all of it seem… ornamental.”

He pauses, studying you. The playfulness fades into something heavier, intimate. “It’s unnerving. To find someone you’d ruin yourself for, and realize you’d thank them for it.”

The thunder rolls outside, low and distant. Eugene lifts his glass, the gesture half-toast, half-invitation. “To wickedness, then,” he murmurs, gaze unwavering. “And to whoever teaches us we’re capable of it.”

The candlelight flickers, the rain keeps falling, and you realize he’s already writing your story one heartbeat at a time.