Trust.
Could she trust me?
The irony of that question lingered in my mind long after she asked it, because the truth was—I didn't trust myself around her. Not at all. There was something about her presence that disrupted the careful order I'd built around my life. A charm that wasn't loud or deliberate, but dangerously natural. Something that pulled at me without permission.
And yet, she was indifferent. Detached. As if she had already learned the art of emotional survival by expecting nothing.
But one thing became painfully clear to me in that moment.
No one would hurt her again.
The thought startled me—its possessiveness, its certainty. I had never felt this way about anyone. Not this instinctive need to protect, to claim responsibility for someone else's pain. It wasn't obsession. It was recognition. As if some invisible thread had tied us together without asking either of us.
She shifted suddenly, pushing her chair back.
"Where's the washroom?" she asked, her voice steady but distant.
I pointed down the corridor. "Second door on the left."
She nodded and walked away, her steps slightly uneven—not enough to alarm me, but enough to make me watch her until she disappeared from sight. I stayed where I was, fingers tightening around my glass, waiting. Not impatiently. Intentionally.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
Just as I was about to get up, I saw her again—walking back toward me, eyes unfocused, movements slower. She didn't notice what was happening ahead of her until it was too late. A couple pressed against the corridor wall, lost in their own world. She froze, clearly not expecting to walk into such a moment.
Alcohol betrayed her then.
I saw it in the way she inhaled sharply, in the way her cheeks flushed, in the sudden heat that seemed to rise beneath her skin. Confusion mixed with something else—vulnerability, maybe embarrassment. I moved toward her instinctively.
Before I could speak, she turned.
And kissed me.
Right there. Unexpected. Soft. Uncertain.
Time stopped.
My mind screamed reason, but my body didn't listen. Her lips were warm, hesitant, searching without knowing what they were searching for. I tasted sweetness—whiskey, maybe something else—and my world narrowed to that single moment. From that second on, I knew I'd never forget it.
I pulled back—not because I didn't want it, but because I wanted more than a mistake. Her eyes widened slightly, as if she realized what she'd done, but instead of panic, there was curiosity. Innocence. A lack of experience she hadn't tried to hide.
And that… only drew me closer.
There was something dangerously alluring about her honesty. She wasn't trying to impress me. She wasn't trying to seduce me. She was simply reacting, feeling, existing.
"I think," I said quietly, my voice low, steady, "you need somewhere calmer."
She didn't argue.
I led her away from the noise, past the crowd, to a private suite reserved for members who valued discretion. The door clicked shut behind us, sealing us into a different world—one quieter, darker, filled with tension that hummed in the air between us.
She leaned against the wall, exhaling as if she'd been holding herself together all night.
I stepped closer—not touching, not yet.
"Tell me to stop," I said.
She didn't.
Instead, she lifted her eyes to mine, green and intense, and whispered, "Just… don't disappear."
Something inside me broke open at that.
I closed the distance between us, resting my forehead against hers. Her breath mingled with mine. I could feel her heart racing, mirroring my own. Slowly, deliberately, I traced my fingers along her arm—not claiming, not demanding—just grounding her.
She responded instinctively, hands finding their way to my shoulders, as if seeking balance. When my lips brushed her neck, she shivered, a quiet sound escaping her that told me more than words ever could.
She smelled like warmth and something floral—comforting, intoxicating.
I pressed my lips there again, slower this time, more careful. Her fingers tightened in my shirt, not pulling away. When I felt her relax against me, I knew she trusted me—not completely, not blindly—but enough.
Enough was everything.
Her breath hitched as I leaned closer, and I realized how easily this moment could tip into something neither of us was ready for. I forced myself to slow down, anchoring us both in the present instead of letting desire take control.
She rested her head against my chest, listening to my heartbeat, and I wrapped an arm around her—not possessive, not restraining—just protective.
"I won't hurt you," I murmured, more promise than statement.
She didn't answer, but her silence wasn't empty. It was full—of exhaustion, of relief, of something fragile beginning to form between us.
We stood there like that for a long time, the world outside forgotten.
And in that stillness, I realized something terrifying and beautiful all at once.
I wasn't just drawn to her.
I was undone by her.
And from that moment on, whether she knew it or not, I was already hers.