Soft golden light from the chandelier spilled into the room where Julia sat, her fingers lightly wrapped around a porcelain teacup that had long gone cold.
Across from her, Ava sat quietly, watching her friend's trembling profile with deep concern.
Julia's shoulders rose and fell unevenly, the rhythm of someone trying to calm a heart that refused to listen.
Her gaze was fixed on the untouched drink before her, but her mind was far away—trapped somewhere between fear, longing, and self-doubt.
"Maybe," she began softly, her voice barely rising above a whisper, "maybe Roman just wanted me to feel completely ready first."
Her tone was gentle but heavy, as though she were speaking to herself rather than to Ava.
"You know him—he's not the type to rush things. He has this way of making me feel safe… even when he's silent."
Her lips trembled faintly as she spoke. "Sometimes I think he reads me better than I read myself."
