Her accent—soft, melodic. European.
“Only the ones who make eating chocolate look like a sin,” I said, amused.
She smiled holding up the red foil with the small tag still attached.
“Why do they call them kisses?” she asked, eyes sparkling with amusement as she pressed the tiny chocolate to her lips.
I smirked.
“Probably because they fit your mouth perfectly.”
She chuckled, low and playful, leaning in just enough to make my pulse skip.
“That was smooth. Dangerous kind of smooth.”
I offered my hand.
“Dorian.”
She took it, warm and light.
“Della.”
There was a pause. A flicker of recognition neither of us could name yet.
“You’re not from around here.”
“Was it the chocolate?” she asked, feigning shock, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Not the chocolate,” I said, voice low. “The fire.”
She raised a brow, caught somewhere between amused and intrigued.
“You’re like wildfire on the dance floor.” I stepped closer, fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve. “And this red shirt of yours? Pure trouble wrapped in silk.”
She laughed—deep and full, the kind of sound that hit straight in the chest and stayed there.
“So, you’re the poetic type.”
Her green eyes sparkled, playful and sharp, like she already knew the answer and was just enjoying the game.
“No.” I exhaled. “I’m the tired type.”
“Then why are you here?”
I should’ve said something clever. Instead, I told her the truth.
“Trying to remember what it feels like to be alive.”
She leaned closer, lips nearly brushing my ear.
“So, tell me, Dorian—do you dance, or just like to watch?”
Her voice was soft. Teasing. And I swear I could hear her smile.
“I do,” I murmured. “Both.”
I slid my hands around her waist and lifted her off the stool.
