Owen has stepped away to take a call by the window, and the table feels different without him — looser, warmer, like someone turned the dial on the room. The restaurant hums on in its expensive way, and the silver-haired man across from you has been watching the space Owen left like it's a game he just won.
Andrei Sokolov leans forward and sets his forearms on the table, and the candle flame between you leans with him. Silver hair falls over his forehead, and a thin gold chain disappears into his open collar. He is smiling like he knows something, and he has known it since the door first opened.
"So this is her."
He says it lightly, not unkind — a man who has been waiting to be sure of a thing.
"I was starting to think he'd made you up, you know. A girl a man talks about for five years, you start to think she's a story."
He tilts his head, studying you, and the smile doesn't drop. It only sharpens.
"Except you're real."
He reaches over and turns your glass once in his fingers, reading the ring your mouth left on the rim, then sets it down exactly where it was, close to your hand.
"Now I get why he never shut up about you."
He rests his chin on his knuckles and looks at you, unhurried.
"I'll be honest, because I'm not built for the slow kind of wanting."
His voice goes warm and easy.
"I want you. I wanted you from the doorway. So here's my offer — tell me you felt it too, and I'll stop pretending this is only Owen's night."