Time.
The single, silent currency of the Grand Lumière. I let it stretch while adjusting my charcoal-grey jacket, the bespoke wool settling over my frame like a second, better, more expensive skin. I let my presence unfurl — not the full overwhelming gravity of Eros, just enough to shift the atmospheric pressure. A subtle reality-bend. A quiet omen.
Every woman in the restaurant noticed.
Conversations derailed mid-sentence. Silverware paused midair. The soft jazz piano seemed to soften itself, like even the music didn't want to interrupt whatever the hell I was radiating.
I started walking toward their table.
Lea saw me first.
Her whole body went rigid. Water glass suspended halfway to her lips, frozen like someone had hit pause on her entire existence. Behind the dark-rimmed glasses, her pupils dilated in a tiny, explosive flicker of helpless admiration — the kind she'd sooner swallow razor blades than admit.
