It was evening by the time they arrived, the sun already painting the streets with long orange shadows that stretched like lazy fingers across the cobblestones.
Lor followed her through the winding paths, his boots scuffing softly against the ground, the air cooling with the promise of night.
Eva's house was larger than he expected, well-kept but not ostentatious—a sturdy two-story affair with flower boxes in the windows and the faint scent of varnished wood clinging to the walls from the family business in carpentry.
She led him upstairs, her hips swaying a little too naturally in those charcoal-gray skirt that hugged her curves, each step drawing his eyes despite his best efforts.
In her sitting room, they shared tea—black, fragrant with hints of bergamot, poured into delicate cups that steamed between them on a low table polished to a shine.
