Primal

⚠️ Content Warning:

This chapter contains adult themes, explicit content, emotionally charged conversations about kink, and the sinister, unpredictable nature of... ducks. Proceed with caution. You’ve been warned. 🦆

8:07 p.m.

Seven minutes wasn’t what any reasonable person would consider late, but it was late enough for his nerves to take notice—and at the moment, they were doing him no favors. He adjusted his sleeve back down over his watch, but not being able to see the hands ticking didn’t stop him from feeling them against his wrist. Like a pulse that wasn’t his.

He shoved his hand back into his pocket to eliminate the temptation to look again, his thumb fidgeting with the fob of his car keys. His other hand rested atop the bar, knuckles tapping out an uneven and unpredictable rhythm.

He wasn’t sure how he ended up being talked into a blind date–by Royce of all people. It wouldn’t have been the most careless decision he’d ever made, but knowing what he knew about his old university friend made it hard for him to have his usual level of confidence.

Never did he think he’d find himself on a blind date. Those were for people who had trouble getting real ones, and Sebastain didn’t have trouble finding company–far from it.

He was a good enough looking man. He took pride in his appearance, went to the gym regularly, and generally looked after himself. If his looks didn’t seal the deal, his accent did the rest of the heavy lifting–provided he kept it in check.

Finding someone was easy.

The trouble was finding someone worth keeping. Which, admittedly, he had struggled with.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like or trust Royce; he did. The man had to have some sense; he managed to become a successful investment banker, and people trusted him with millions of dollars in their personal assets. But it was also hard to have complete faith in a man who used to host black tie raves at university and had once woken up in Monaco with no passport and three new tattoos.

Then again, if total strangers could trust him with their money, Sebastian supposed he could trust him with his dating life. Right?

Yeah, this was a terrible idea. But it was too late to back out now.

At least he hadn’t stooped to speed dating.

He shuddered. Full-body cringe.

God, no. Speed dating ranked somewhere between dental surgery and cheering for Arsenal. If it came to that, he’d rather have a root canal without anesthesia.

Please, God—don’t ever let it come to that.

If this failed, he was pretty sure his only other option would be architect-themed TikTok thirst traps and letting the algorithm decide his romantic fate. But that worried him too. He’d seen those comment sections. He wasn’t sure he’d survive the feral women of the internet.

His shoulders sagged as he let out a breath, resisting the urge to check his watch again. Then his nerves won out, and he checked it anyway.

8:13 p.m.

Pull yourself together, mate. It’s a date, not a bloody hostage negotiation. Give it five before you lose the plot.

He shoved both hands into his pockets now and let his eyes wander over the bar.

He didn’t care that she was late, not really. He wasn’t fussed about punctuality outside of meetings and appointments, and it wasn’t as if he had better things he could be doing or other places to be.

It was much simpler than that.

He was nervous.

In the end, he’d simply agreed to the date because certain mystery tattoo having friends wouldn’t let it go. Royce wasn’t really one to exaggerate, but their ideas of what was attractive didn’t always align. When Royce told Sebastian she was pretty, smart, and sweet, he didn’t doubt him, but the question was, pretty, smart, and sweet by whose standards?

Christ alive. He really wanted a drink to take the edge off, but ordering before your date arrived was in poor taste. Or so his grandad had told him.

‘A gentleman waits, Sebastian Callum.’

So, he did some window shopping instead— eyeing the backlit bottles stocked higher than could be reached by any bartender without a ladder. The different hues lit up like liquid gemstones—sapphire blue, emerald green, rose-quartz pink, and deep amethyst purple. Beefeater, Bombay Sapphire, Empress 1908, Tanqueray, London No. 1— all solid choices, but he’d already made his selection.

The Botanist. Clean, crisp, with a hint of citrus on the nose and just herbaceous enough to feel like a grown-up drink. Sophisticated enough to make an impression, but not flashy enough to look like he was trying too hard.

Not his absolute top-shelf choice, but good enough for a first date.

A first blind date.

Moments like these, spent in quiet anticipation — had a way of revealing just how much trust you really had in your so-called mates. And here he was, leaving his dating fate in the hands of Matthew Royce, of all people. His old uni mate with a talent for chaos and a track record of questionable ideas.

If this went sideways, Royce was getting throttled with his own tie.

8:19 pm.

“Sebastian?”

A tap on his shoulder made him jolt, and he turned sharply, smacking his knee against the bar. It connected with a dull thud that he tried to mask with indifference. He looked up, part of him expected to see Royce in a cocktail dress pulling a prank–wouldn’t be the first time, or even the second.

But that wasn’t what he saw.

“Are you ok?” She asked, glancing at his knee and wincing on his behalf with a pained expression.

She was gorgeous. Petite, no taller than the hostess and nearly a foot shorter than him. Long, dark brown falling around her shoulders–it looked like it had a bit of bounce to it, like she’d just taken it down after having it pinned up all day.

“--Course.” His reply came out stiff, and he cleared his throat. “You must be Océane?”

“Yes, it’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand to shake his. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No–It’s fine–was lost in my own thoughts.” He replied, doing his best to ignore how ridiculous he must have looked, jumping like a nervous cat.

“Alright, if you’ll both follow me to your table.” The hostess reappeared with perfect timing and, with a nod toward the dining room, she led them away from the bar.

He held out his hand, gesturing for Océane to go first, falling in step behind her–purely out of courtesy, of course. The view was just... an unexpected perk.

The clean lines and two-toned black on white gave her a polished, professional edge, like she might’ve come straight from the office. But the way it cinched at the waist a little too well, the way the pleats flared out and swayed with each step? That suggested something else entirely.

Fun. Flirty. Intentional.

She’d made a choice. A damn good one.

...Nice legs.

Bloody hell. There it was—his inner caveman, dragging a chair right up to the front row.

“Here, we are. These are our drink menus, and your waitress will be with you shortly,” the hostess offered with a polite smile before slipping away.

The table was set squarely in the center of the dining room–crisp white lined and a candle flickering just enough to make eye contact a little more dramatic than necessary.

Brilliant. Center stage.

Nothing like mild performance anxiety with drinks.

Her hand had barely touched the back of her chair when he stepped forward and beat her to it, his fingers curling around the top to pull it out for her. Not something he usually managed—American women were often too quick for him, already halfway sitting before he got the chance.

“Oh,” she murmured, a soft flutter of surprise escaping as she sat. “Thank you.”

One point for good manners, then.

He took his seat across from her, only then noticing a few curious glances their way—likely thanks to his little show of chivalry. He was used to getting looks, whether for his accent or his manners, but Océane? She dipped her chin slightly, not out of embarrassment but something closer to what he hoped was modest delight. A smile tugging at her lips and a hint of pink blooming across her cheeks

Didn’t work, he noticed.

“Good evening, my name is Selene. Would we like to start with any drinks tonight?”

Somewhere between admiring the way she blushed and wondering what else he might coax from her with more gentlemanly gestures, he’d failed to notice the waitress had arrived. He nodded toward Océane.

“Spritz with Cointreau on the rocks, no garnish, please.”

He’d expected something pink and playful—maybe a cosmopolitan, some rosé, or one of those glitter-swirled drinks you see all over Instagram. Not something bitter-orange and bare.

“And for you, sir?”

“Negroni with The Botanist, classic build, please.”

Drink orders taken, the waitress wandered off, leaving them suspended in that peculiar rite of passage known to the dating pool: small talk before there’s anything to talk about.

While they had exchanged text messages to arrange a time and place, most of the date had been facilitated by Royce. Which meant they were effectively strangers–introduced by proxy and more or less equipped with nothing but curiosity. Not exactly a great foundation for conversation.

“Sorry, I was late,” she offered quickly. “Couldn’t get a cab.”

“No, it’s fine.” He brushed it off with a dismissive wave of his hand, shifting in his chair.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he hated them–not because they were wrong, but because fine felt like an unfinished thought–something people said when they didn’t know what else to say. It felt like he should have followed it up with something, a question, a statement, a joke–anything.

He’d navigated high-stakes client meetings, zoning board hearings, and passive-aggressive conference calls with developers who thought glass curtain walls were still revolutionary.

He’d moved countries, rebuilt his social circle from scratch, and somehow learned to make small talk at networking events full of people he had nothing in common with other than a shared interest in breathing. This was something else, and he couldn’t remember a time when he seemed to forget how words worked.

He’d even made it through multiple dinner meetings seated between a senior partner who hated him and a client who thought his accent was fake.

But this was something else. He couldn’t recall a time when words just... wouldn’t come.

Pure social static.

He cleared his throat, hoping—praying—a coherent thought might tumble loose and some sort of conversation might come from it. But there was nothing.

“So, uh... how exactly is it you know Royce?”

Christ. Why hadn’t he asked that?

“We were mates at uni together,” he said. “You?”

“I know his boss better than I know him,” she said, lifting one shoulder. “I met Royce at a charity fundraiser back in June—something for work. His firm made a donation to a restoration project, and in return, we hosted a small private showing for their clients.”

Sebastian made a face, like something was missing. “And he didn’t try to chat you up?”

“Oh, he did. Several times. He’s just not my type.” A dry smile flickered across her lips. “He finally settled on trying to talk up some of his friends to me, kept going on about how ‘he knew a few lads.’ Figured he was drunk and making things up.”

Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Well,” she said, resting her elbow lightly on the table, “glad to see that wasn’t the case after all.”

Was that a compliment?

Probably not.

‘Glad to see your mate wasn’t a lying, skirt-chasing disaster’—not exactly high praise. He wanted to laugh.

“Royce is, uh, a bit much,” he admitted, with a bit of a lopsided smile. “But he’s calmed down a lot since uni.”

“What university?”

“Edinburgh.”

Her face lit slightly. “That’s on my bucket list. Always wanted to see it. One of these days—though work keeps me busy.”

“Where at?”

“Museum of Chicago,” she replied, politely folding her hands neatly on the table. “I’m in the art conservation department.”

“Oh.”

Oh? That’s it? Brilliant response. Top marks.

Silence sprouted between them, like an irritating weed, and he was kicking himself. She’d just handed him three or four solid conversational leads, and he was batting zero.

Desperate for a distraction, he stole a glance at the bar. The restaurant wasn’t particularly busy—just a late-evening trickle of coworkers winding down, a few second-date hopefuls nestled into booths.

Behind the bar, the bartender was building his Negroni, measuring each pour with unhurried precision.

His brow ticked in mild irritation.

Why was he only building one drink at a time? Most bartenders worked in batches or pairs when it came to drink orders–it was more efficient. And even so, if he was only making one at a time, why wasn’t he making hers first?

He tried to ignore it. The man wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was just his nerves looking for a target.

Still. Hurry up, mate.

Not that a drink would fix this. But at least he could hide behind the glass while he figured out how not to crash and burn.

He looked back at the table and felt his anxiety spike. He could see it—the flick of her eyes, scanning the room. Not rudely. Just searching for something to hold onto. Her smile started to fade, just slightly—still trying to stay polite, but he could see the strain creeping in.

Say something. Anything.

He jostled his thoughts like loose change in a pocket and prayed whatever tumbled out wasn’t wildly inappropriate.

“Weather’s been nice, hasn’t it? Bit chilly this time of year.”

No. God, no. That was worse than silence.

She blinked.

“—Yeah, uh... the leaves are gorgeous,” she offered, clearly trying to meet him halfway. “Makes walking outside... nice.”

She didn’t sound the least bit interested, but bless her, she was humoring him. He wanted to melt straight through the chair. But no, his mouth just kept moving.

“Do you, uh... take a lot of walks?”

“Not as many as I should,” She shrugged. “If anything, I’m more of a yoga person. But also, I’m usually running from one thing to the next. What about you? Big walker?”

“Only when I’m procrastinating,” he admitted. “Which might be more often than I should say out loud.”

Fantastic. Now you’re not just boring—you’re lazy, too. Good show, mate.

Mercifully, the waitress returned.

“Here we are. A Negroni with the Botanist for you, sir.” She set his drink down with a soft clink, “And a spritz with Cointreau on the rocks, no garnish.” The second drink followed.

“Would you like a few minutes to look at the menu, or are we just enjoying drinks tonight?”

“Undecided,” he said, a bit too quickly.

The waitress nodded. “Alright. I’ll check back in a bit—but if you need anything, just flag me.”

He thought–maybe–Océane had parted her lips to say something, but the moment had already passed, and the waitress was already halfway back to the wait station. He silently cursed himself again.

Undecided? Really? What if she was hungry and simply too polite to say so? An appetizer would’ve been smart. Something to do that didn’t involve talking.

This was going well...

Christ, he’d needed a drink for over an hour at this point. Maybe the alcohol would take the edge off–smooth out his nerves enough to keep him from saying anything else stupid. The crisp bitterness hit him sharp at first, but the warmth that followed settled nicely in his chest.

She brought her drink to her lips, testing the flavor. A soft hum of approval and a little nod followed.

Then, as if determined to throw a lifeline, she smiled and said, “Okay... so. Blind dates, huh? What made you say yes to this one?”

There was something hopeful in her tone—nervous, but trying.

Sebastian exhaled a small, half-laugh.

“Uh, curiosity. And peer pressure. Heavy on the peer pressure. You?”

“Same,” she replied. “And a fair bit of guilt-tripping from coworkers. They said I was overdue for a night out.”

A tiny silence crept back in, lingering like an awkward third wheel.

He watched as she stirred her drink with the straw, teeth lightly catching her lower lip. Any second now, he was bracing for it—that dreaded “Well, this was fun” line, right before she ghosted him.

But instead... she shook her head and started to smile.

Then she laughed.

Not a polite little chuckle, either—but the kind that snowballed, spilling into something full and unfiltered, as if someone had just told her the best joke of the night.

He blinked, thoroughly confused. Part curiosity, part creeping mortification.

Was she laughing at him? Was she having a stroke? Was he? Weren’t you supposed to taste metal?

He brought his hand up to the left side of his face and scratched his jaw in what he hoped was a subtle ‘non-stroke having’ manner–no numbness. Small victories.

He could only look on completely perplexed. Not exactly a great sign if he couldn’t tell if she was having a laugh or a medical emergency.

It took a minute for her to settle down, sitting back in her seat, one arm crossed over her chest, while the other lifted up her drink. She took a proper swallow, no dainty straw-sipping this time—then set the glass down with a lingering grin.

“I’m sorry—I’m not laughing at you, I promise,” she said, her shoulders still shaking. “It’s just... this whole thing is ridiculous.” She held her hands up as if encompassing the whole table.

He wanted to agree, but not without some context. Was he ridiculous? Christ, Royce was never going to let him live this down if he heard about it.

“I have a degree from Smith College, a graduate degree from NYU, and the only thought in my brain right now is that your tie matches a pigment sample we recreated in grad school from the 1800s.”

He looked down at his tie unsure of what to say. He hated ties, and didn’t wear them if he could avoid it but now he wasn’t sure if it had been a good or a bad idea.

“The key chemical components” She continued, her grin growing wider. “Were arsenic and lead.”

Nope. He tugged the knot loose with a bit of a flourish and a grimace, setting it on the table like it had personally betrayed him.

“I hate ties.”

A beat.

Then his shoulders started to shake, too. Because yes—two educated adults, reduced to weather talk and walk schedules, now bonding over toxic necktie pigment. The absurdity finally caught up with him.

He let out a real laugh. One that felt good.

Finally.

“Blind dates,” she said, hiding her smile behind the rim of her glass.

“Right?” he echoed, settling back, a little looser now. “So, what now? We just keep stumbling through this? Can’t get any worse, right?”

She tilted her head. “I’m pretty sure our waitress is betting with her coworkers on which one of us goes to the bathroom and never comes back.”

He looked over his shoulder.

Sure enough, three staff members scattered like pigeons while a fourth picked up a wine glass that probably didn’t need polishing and began to wipe it down, avoiding eye contact.

He scoffed. “Who do you reckon they’ve got their money on?”

She shrugged, teasing. “Hard to say. I don’t study people. I restore them after they’ve cracked.”

He chuckled, still shaking his head. “Some date, yeah?”

“I’ve been on worse, but if I’m being honest, I’m definitely not on my A game tonight-–” She hesitated, looking very guilty. “I actually almost bailed.”

His brows rose up in surprise and uncertainty. “Oh...”

“Not because of you!”

She quickly reached across the table, setting her hand on his, “I–oh god—” Her head dropped into her hands. “I wasn’t late because I couldn’t get a cab–I got here just as you were walking inside.”

“You did?”

“I did, yeah. See–I didn’t want to walk in just after you, so I hung back a few minutes and–” Her voice trailed off, and she winced as if reliving it all over again. “When I finally turned to go in...I walked into the door.”

She groaned and dropped her head again, hiding behind her hands.

“Oh, God, like five people swarmed me and were asking if I was ok, and I hate to make a scene or be the center of attention, so I just sort of ran inside and straight into the bathroom.”

He leaned forward, concern softening his features. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine–I mean, my pride is hurting.”

She gave a half-laugh, half-sigh.

“I was obsessively checking the mirror to make sure I didn’t have a giant red mark on my face and then another ten minutes on the phone with one of my girlfriends while she tried to convince me to calm down and just go on the damn date.”

Her gaze flickered to him.

“But I was absolutely freaking out and panicked that maybe you saw it. In which case, my only rational option was to resign from my job and go hide at my parents’ house in Boston.”

“I wondered what that spot was...”

She gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth in horror, fumbling for her phone to check, her eyes wide.

He broke, shoulders shaking as reached across the table, catching her wrist. “No–wait-wait! Only kidding!”

Her posture collapsed in relief and she let out a breathless laugh. “That was just plain cruel! I swear I was going to have a heart attack!”

He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

“So there’s nothing on my face?”

“Apart from a blush? No, love, there’s nothing wrong with your face.” He winced internally, maybe ′love′ wasn’t a wise endearment.

“Gotta say, I was nervous too.” He picked up his glass, giving it a slow swirl. “Royce has a reputation for taking the piss outta people–he once set me up with a date to a New Year’s Eve party, said I’d be speechless.”

He took a sip.

“Turns out it was him in a cocktail dress. Makeup. Heels, the works. Then he actually tried kissing me at midnight.”

She snorted, nearly choking on her drink. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” He replied. “Dunno why I was surprised–he’d already pulled the same stunt on another friend going through a breakup. Though I think he actually kissed him that time.”

The laughter died down to a few small chuckles before their table went quiet again.

“So, you were worried I would be him in drag?” She looked herself over, “No offense to your friend, but if he can wear my size nine, I’ll kill myself.”

She paused, finally getting a drink without choking.

“So, that’s why you were nervous?”

“Well, I did smash my knee into the bar too, it’s not as bad as walking into a door and causing a riot—”

She groaned, dragging her hand down her face, then peeking at him from between her fingers. “Don’t remind me...”

“Truthfully? I haven’t had too many dates lately—work and all—and I’m still waiting on my work visa extension to come through. It’s always nerve-wracking.”

He tapped his fingers lightly on the table. “Wound a bit tighter than usual, I suppose.”

A quiet pause settled between them, but this time, it wasn’t awkward. And it didn’t last long.

“You know what the worst part of a blind date is?” She asked.

“I’d say my current awkwardness is leading the charge.”

She grinned, but shook her head. “Seriously—what do you think it is?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, considering it, then gave up. “No idea. What’s the worst bit?”

“You never know what you’re allowed to say.” Her tone shifted, thoughtful now. “The rules are different for blind dates.”

He tilted his head, unsure what she meant.

“How d’you mean?”

“Well... we didn’t meet at a coffee shop or walking our dogs. You didn’t ask for my number, and I didn’t hint that I wanted you to. We didn’t walk away wondering if it was too soon to text or flirt.”

She gestured between them. “We skipped all that. So what are we supposed to talk about? Where do we start?”

He nodded, slowly starting to track with her.

“So... the small talk?”

“Kind of. Let me ask you something: did you know what you wanted before you walked in tonight? Were you hoping to meet someone serious or just have a little fun?”

He opened his mouth... and closed it again.

What did she mean exactly—kissing? A second date? Something steamier? He fumbled for a reply.

“Don’t bother,” she said, cutting in. “That pause already gave me the answer.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “That we don’t know what we’re doing?”

“Exactly.”

She shrugged. “We’re not really supposed to ask the things we actually want to know—because it’s too forward, too crass, not ladylike. Whatever that means.”

“Like what?”

She tilted her head, like she was debating whether to push it—then just went for it.

“Like... were you hoping to have sex tonight?”

He froze, glass halfway to his mouth.

"That’s an important question?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“Isn’t it?” She countered, utterly unapologetic. “Normally, first dates happen after you’ve talked a bit. Texted. Flirted. Maybe done some social media stalking. You’ve got something to work with.”

He lifted a hand. “I don’t have social media.”

“Well, I do, unfortunately.” She added, like it pained her. “But the point is, we came into this cold.”

She sat back.

“Dating’s really just two options—relationship or hookup. And each one has different rules of engagement. You’re supposed to feel it out, guess what the other person wants, and pray you don’t get it wrong so no one gets hurt.”

He nodded slowly. “I see what you mean.”

“We sit here talking about jobs, families, hobbies—which matter, sure—but they’re not the only things that do. We could have perfect chemistry—”

“Like we’ve clearly demonstrated...”

“—But if we’re only compatible on the surface, and underneath you’re hoping for some sweet little housewife who cooks and plays nice in bed, then we’ve got a problem—because that’s not me.”

He nearly choked on nothing.

He really wanted to ask which part she wasn’t—the housewife bit, or the behaving-in-bed part—but he wisely kept that thought to himself.

“Fair enough. For the record—I don’t.”

“Good. Because if you did, this whole thing would’ve been...” Her hand hung in the air while she searched for the right word.

“Anti-climactic?”

He gave a crooked grin, causing her to clap a hand over her mouth.

“Exactly.”

He tilted his head, feeling a little more relaxed. “So what’s your idea, then?”

“Let’s lean into the awkward.”

Her eyes sparkled now, more at ease than before.

“We’re already off-script. So let’s skip the small talk and ask what we actually want to know to figure out where this is going. Worst case? We laugh about it and call it a night. Best case? We skip the guessing games.”

“Alright—so how do we play this game?”

“We take turns asking any question we want. You can choose to pass if it’s too personal or is a touchy subject, but otherwise—you have to answer. No judgment. This table is now a no-shame zone. That means if you say something outrageous, I can’t call you a pig and slap you. And if I say something unladylike, you can’t call me a slut.”

He balked at that one, not because it was unreasonable but because the very idea of calling a woman a slut was grotesque. Also he was fairly certain his granddad would have rolled over in his grave, claw his way out, and throttle him with his walking stick.

“Also,” she continued, “no matter how tonight ends, we don’t talk about what’s said here with our friends or coworkers. Just a polite ‘he/she wasn’t for me’ and we move on. Simple. Deal?”

Of all the outcomes he’d considered, this wasn’t even in the same galaxy. But somehow, she had him. What started as a slow-motion disaster was starting to get... interesting. It sounded fun.

“Yeah, alright. I’m in.” He replied, a little more certain now, almost smiling. “Ladies first.”

She leaned in a little, eyes lighting with something sharper than amusement—more like relief.

“Let’s start with something low stakes. What’s your biggest insecurity on a date?”

“Had that one ready, did you?” He hadn’t been prepared for that—but it was a good question. One of those that nudged you right out of your shell.

“It’s a first date,” she said with a shrug. “All anyone thinks about is their insecurities–we just hope they don’t show.”

He nodded; it wasn’t untrue at all.

“I suppose... my accent.”

Her brows knitted together, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.

“Why on earth would you be insecure about your accent?”

“Practical reasons.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes drifting to the table. “Simple fact is, sometimes people literally can’t understand what I’m saying. Whether it’s how fast I speak or the words I use, I’m always panicking that I’ll start jabbering away and no one has a clue.”

She looked skeptical. Guess he had to give her a demonstration

So, he gave her a crooked grin and leaned in—then dropped the careful enunciation and polished rhythm he’d been using all night. Instead, the words came fast and loose, accent thick and completely unfiltered.

“Right, so I’m meant to nip down the chippy, grab a curry sauce, but I’m skint, so I legged it back home through the pissing rain and slipped on me arse in front of a bird I fancied—brilliant, innit?”

Océane stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. Then slowly shook her head with a helpless laugh.

“Nope. Not a single clue. Not one word.”

“See? Told you.” He chuckled, smug satisfaction warming his chest. “You’ve no idea what I said?”

“No. I’m not even sure that was English.” She laughed again, good-natured and delighted. “Okay, seriously—what did you just say? Translate.”

He smirked, rubbing the back of his jaw like he was only now realizing just how far he’d let his mouth run.

“All right,” he said, sitting back and slowing it down. “I said—I was supposed to stop by the chip shop, get some curry sauce, but I was broke. So I ran back home in the pouring rain and completely wiped out—fell on my ass—in front of a girl I liked.”

Her jaw dropped slightly.

“Wait... that was all of that?”

He gave a sheepish shrug. “More or less, yeah.”

“Why were you getting curry sauce?”

“Because it’s divine,” he said simply. “And you haven’t lived until you’ve dunked chips in curry sauce at 1 AM outside a pub.”

She gave a playful scoff, her lips twitching into a grin. “Ok, ok, I see what you mean.”

“Yeah.” His voice softened. “Sometimes I worry I’ve got to translate meself too much just to be understood. Gets tiring. And it’s not just that—when something does slip, people always have something to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I said ‘meself’ just now—back home everyone talks that way. It’s called a regionalism,” he added after a beat—like it was a term he’d learned just to have an answer ready. “Same way people say ‘y’all’ down South or drop their R’s in New York. I get corrected sometimes—‘It’s myself, not meself’—as if I’m too thick to know the difference.”

His smile faded, replaced by something more honest and tired. He let out a breath, like he was just realizing how much he’d said.

“It’s not the word itself. It’s what they hear in it. Where I’m from. Who they think I am—before I’ve even said a damn thing. Sorry, that was a bit much, wasn’t it?”

“I think it was just right.” Her voice was soft, steady. “And I wouldn’t have thought of that, but it makes a lot of sense.”

She tilted her head slightly, watching him. “And, if it’s any consolation... I think your accent has a rhythm to it. Like a song in another language—I might not catch every word, but I still like the sound.”

He blinked, caught off guard—not by her understanding, but by the kindness in it.

“Huh. Never heard that one before.” His mouth tugged into a small, surprised smile. “But... a song, is it? I’ll take that.”

She smiled, warm and sure now. “Okay. Your turn. Ask me anything.”

He sat back in thought for a moment.

“Do I ask you the same thing? Or something different?”

“You could,” she said, “but you probably wouldn’t like the answer. I’m a woman—my list of insecurities is a mile long.”

He scoffed internally, wondering what she could possibly be insecure about. Still, he decided to cover new ground.

“When was the last time someone broke your heart?”

Her mouth dropped open—but she quickly turned it into a sort of surprised smile, one hand covering her lips.

“Wow. Okay—”

He immediately panicked and tried to backpedal. “If it’s too much—”

She held up her hand. “No, no, it’s not too much. I’m just surprised, that’s a really good question, and I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before.”

She looked away for a second–then back to him. “The last time or the first?”

“You choose.”

She nodded slightly, gathering her thoughts. “Last time someone broke my heart was at the Art Institute in Chicago. Two years ago.”

He folded his arms on the table, gaze fixed on her.

“It was my birthday. He’d promised me we could go anywhere I wanted for the day. I picked the museum. He said it was fine, but he kind of acted like he didn’t want to be there the whole time.”

She exhaled.

“We were standing in front of that painting—you know, the Seurat one? Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. I loved that painting. And he just stared at it and said, ‘I don’t get why this matters to you so much.’”

Her voice went soft.

“I think that’s when I knew. Two weeks later, we broke up. But really, it ended in that moment—him looking at something I loved and not seeing me in it.”

Sebastian winced. “That’s awful.”

She nodded, lips pressing together briefly.

“The worst part was, I was supposed to bring him home to meet my family for Christmas a week later. I ended up boarding the flight alone, trying not to cry next to some poor old woman just trying to read her Nora Roberts novel.”

She gave a breath of laughter.

“Sweet lady ended up in the seat he was supposed to take. She hugged me and let me cry it out.”

He smiled gently. “Grans are good for that.”

“That they are. She gave me literally the best advice I’ve ever heard when it comes to dating.”

“What’s that?” He tilted his head, curious.

“It’s better to give twenty different men a chance than to give twenty chances to the same man.”

He blinked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “That is some banging advice. Did she adopt you right then and there?”

“No, but she did buy me drinks for the rest of the flight.”

She took a drink before looking back at him. “Okay, so my turn. You ready?”

He set his glass down and gave a nod, a little wary. “Think I’m ready.”

She tilted her head, smirking.

“I’m not sure you are, but okay. Did you have a weird... phase growing up—goth, theatre kid, equestrian?”

He let out a low groan.

“Yeah– yeah, I did. I went through a full-on ancient history phase. Wouldn’t shut up about Rome. Had a cardboard gladius and everything.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait, were you a toga kid?”

He paused for a suspicious amount of time before answering.

“...Define ‘toga.’”

She gasped, laughing. “Oh my god, you were a toga kid.”

“To be fair,” he said, holding up a finger, “I was also very into pirates the year before, so it was a progression.”

“Are there pictures?” She asked, leaning forward like she was about to be let in on state secrets.

He brought his glass to his lips again, forcing a light cough before taking a drink. “Ahem! There, uh... might be.”

She smiled softly at his flustered tone but didn’t push.

A few seconds passed, the moment settling between them like the last ripple in a glass.

She combed a hand through her hair, brushing it over onto one shoulder. “Ok, your turn, fire away.”

He rubbed his chin as he combed through the many questions that were surfacing, most of them harmless but ultimately more amusing than anything he’d ever chatted about on a first date before.

“What’s your most guilty pleasure?”

Sebastian took a sip of his drink, eyes twinkling with mischief.

She let out a resigned sigh.

“Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh at me.” She braced herself like she was about to confess a mortal sin.

She leaned in across the table, voice lowered.

“I watch The Bachelor. Religiously. Like, brackets, fantasy league, wine and cheese board level invested.”

She winced the moment it left her mouth.

“I yell at the TV. I get mad when the villain gets a rose. I’ve said, ‘She’s not here for the right reasons’ more times than I’m proud of. I know it’s all scripted garbage, but I don’t know—it’s just so fun to watch and trash talk!”

Sebastian stifled what was definitely a laugh, masking it poorly as a cough, his shoulders already shaking with amusement.

“You promised!” She said, pointing an accusing finger at him even as she grinned.

He snatched up his napkin and cleared his throat like he was preparing to give a eulogy.

“No, no—just, uh... something in the air. Must be allergic to—”

“Oh really? Allergic to what, exactly?” She asked, folding her arms.

He fought to keep a straight face. “Bad reality telly...”

She gasped in mock offense. “Oh, and is that dust in your eye, too?”

He rubbed at his face, blinking fast. “Yeah. Tragic, really.” He sniffed once, then added, deadpan, “May need to be hospitalized.”

“Uh-huh. While you’re recovering—” she smirked, reaching for her drink, “What’s your weirdest irrational fear?”

Sebastian didn’t even blink. “Ducks.”

“Ducks... Like... mallards?”

“All of them. But especially the ones in parks. Vicious bastards.”

She stared at him. “You’re afraid of ducks?”

“I have real trauma.” He leaned in slightly. “When I was six, I was chased through Kensington Gardens by an entire flock. I was holding a little tea sandwich—ham and mustard, I think—and they just descended like feathery demons.”

She gave a sharp breath of laughter, half-disbelieving. “Oh my God. Were you hurt?”

“Only my pride,” he said grimly. “One of them pecked my shoelace loose, and I tripped. They swarmed. I had to be rescued by someone’s nanny with a handbag.”

“You were mugged by ducks.” She clamped her mouth shut, but her shoulders started to shake.

“They made off with the sandwich. I never got it back. Can’t enjoy a ham sandwich without having flashbacks.”

“You poor thing.” She reached across the table and patted his hand like he was a war veteran. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. No ducks here.”

“Don’t patronize me. You didn’t see the look in their eyes.” His eyes narrowed, she was biting her lips now. “--They’re unpredictable. Always watching. You ever see a duck just... sitting there? They look peaceful, but you know they’re planning something.”

Océane tried—really tried—not to laugh, but failed spectacularly.

“You think ducks are plotting... what, exactly?”

“Whatever they bloody well want.” He took a drink, like he was washing down the memory. “They’ve got serrated beaks, Océane. Serrated. That’s not for bread—it’s for vengeance.”

She lost it again, nearly choking on her drink. “I’m sorry, are you afraid a duck is going to, what—jump you in a park again?”

“You joke, but those things move in formation. They’re organized. I see a gaggle heading my way, I’m out. Not risking death by duck.”

“You know geese are worse, right?”

He frowned.

“Yes, but everyone knows geese are evil. Ducks fly under the radar. That’s what makes them dangerous.”

She glanced around, then raised a hand and flagged down their waitress with a dramatic little wave, still giggling.

“Hi, yes—could I get another spritz? Actually, make it a double. I’ve just been informed ducks are secretly plotting our downfall, and apparently their serrated beaks aren’t for bread—they’re for vengeance.”

The waitress blinked, clearly unsure if she’d heard that right, then turned to Sebastian.

“... Another Negroni for you, sir?”

“Yeah, that’d be lovely, thanks.” He said, wincing like someone bracing for judgment.

She nodded slowly and turned away, still clearly processing. As she walked off, she cast one last glance over her shoulder.

Sebastian caught her mouth forming a single, baffled word: ”Ducks?”

Océane leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Think she’s about to spread the word about the Mallard sleeper cell?”

“We’re gonna be that table she talks to her mates about...”

“I think we already are.” She at least had the decency to cover her mouth to hide the last of her laughter.

“Alright, enjoyed your chuckle at my expense, did you?”

She nodded, looking very pleased. “Superbly.”

“Cheeky.” He scoffed. “Alright, your turn. What’s something your family still teases you about?”

Océane groaned immediately, head tipping back with theatrical dread.

“Oh no. You’re really going there?”

Sebastian leaned back with an easy smile, one brow lifted in quiet amusement.

“Absolutely.” He nodded, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Let’s hear it.”

She covered her face with both hands for a second, then peeked at him through her fingers. “When I was seven, I tried to run away because my parents said I couldn’t have ice cream for dinner.”

He grinned. “Reasonable reaction.”

“I packed one of those little pink princess suitcases with exactly four things—my teddy bear, a dress, a box of crayons, and a granola bar.”

He blinked. “No ice cream, but a granola bar made the cut?”

“It was chocolate chip! I thought it counted, and also I couldn’t reach the freezer in the garage where we kept the ice cream.” She added. “My mom still tells that story at every holiday dinner. And somehow, every year, the suitcase gets smaller, and the tantrum gets louder.”

“You mean it doesn’t end with you dramatically hitchhiking to freedom yet?”

“No, it started raining and I sat at my school bus stop three doors down crying, and my neighbor came to check on me and brought me home. I hid in my room anytime one of my brothers brought it up for like six months.”

She smirked and reached for her drink. “Are we both sufficiently embarrassed?”

He nodded, “Well, I’m not nervous anymore, that’s for sure.”

“Alright, more serious question now—”

She waited while he took a sip of his drink, giving him a moment to collect himself as the last bit of laughter faded.

“What was the first thing you noticed about me tonight? Be honest.”

His face dropped slightly. Not because he didn’t want to answer—but because he had two answers. The “nice” one and the “guy” one. And he wasn’t sure which way to go.

“Uh—”

She tilted her head knowingly. “Let me guess, you’ve got two very different answers to that?”

He nodded, lips pressed in a thin line, offering only a ‘Mmmm..’ in response.

“Okay, so let’s hear them both.”

“Not gonna slap me?” He checked, eyeing her warily.

“I promise. Look—” She leaned forward on the table and clasped her hands under her chin in a picture of innocence. “Hands clasped. Couldn’t slap you if I wanted to.”

Which was all good and well—except now he had a front-row view of her cleavage.

“Fucking hell...” He muttered, eyes lifting skyward. “You’re really not making this easy, are you?”

“Would it help if I went first?” She offered sweetly.

“Probably not, but off you go.”

“Broad shoulders. Strong back.” She listed them off quickly and matter-of-factly, taking him by surprise.

His brow lifted as he leaned in slightly, amused. “How’d you know I have a strong back?”

“Ah, so you do?” She teased, flashing him a sly grin.

He grinned, almost looking bashful as she continued.

“Call it a woman’s intuition. The shoulders were a dead giveaway, and your posture sealed the deal. The rest was just... imaginative thinking.” She winked. “Though, looks like I was right.”

He needed another cold drink—or a fan.

“No more stalling, now. Come on, what was the first thing you noticed about me when I walked in?”

He blew out a long breath. “Pretty face. Bright smile. Long hair—I like long hair.”

Her gaze flicked to the strands draped over her shoulder, then back to him. “And the other answer?”

“Legs.”

There was no hesitation, and no shame. Just the honest truth.

“That dress of yours? The way the pleats moved when you walked across the room... You had this light, easy sway in your hips like you owned the place. Bloody hard not to notice.”

Instead of looking offended, she grinned, looking down at her legs.

“Guess it’s a good thing I picked a dress, then. I almost went with this really cute pantsuit.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered,” he said with a smirk. “Bloke’s mind can connect the dots and fill in the blanks.”

“Anything else?” She scooted her chair in and crossed her legs under the table, the toe of her heel brushing against his calf.

A muscle flexed in his cheek, and his fingers curled slightly against the table.

“No, but you really should sit back up.” His voice dropped, equal parts pleading and amused. “I’m doing my best to be a gentleman here, and you’re making it bloody difficult.”

She glanced down, then up at him—a beat of realization flashing in her eyes.

With a slight shift of her hips, she adjusted her posture, easing back into her seat with a playful little arch of her brow.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Thanks for that.”

He finally dared to meet her eyes again. “My question, then?”

She nodded, lips curled in quiet satisfaction.

“Would you rather be seduced with words or actions?” Sebastian asked, his voice lower now, tone sliding into something smooth and velvety.

“Can’t I have both?”

He gave a small shake of his head, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“You can have anything you want—eventually. But for the purposes of the question, no.”

“Words.”

“That was fast.” He blinked. “Why words?”

Her smile turned a little more wicked as she propped her chin on her hand.

“Because for the purposes of this question... You should never underestimate the seductive power of a good vocabulary, and I’d be very interested in hearing your accent wrapped around those words.”

He let out a surprised chuckle, low and throaty.

“Did you forget how I really sound?” His voice dipped further, letting the brogue slip through just a little.

She met his gaze without flinching, eyes warm with mischief.

“Not at all,” she murmured.“It’s been living rent-free in my head since the second you opened your mouth.”

His chest tightened. A little breath caught behind his ribs. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to say—but that? That wasn’t just flirting.

That was admiration, wrapped in interest. Laced with hunger.

And now all he could think about... was what else she wanted to hear.

“What’s your biggest turn-on... that has nothing to do with sex?”

She asked it calmly, her voice quiet but assured—like the question had been waiting patiently for its moment.

He exhaled slowly, caught off guard—not by the question, but by the way she asked it. No hesitation.

“Confidence,” he said after a beat. “But not the loud kind.”

Her head tilted slightly, curiosity blooming in her expression as she leaned in just a touch, like she didn’t want to miss a word.

“I mean the quiet sort,” he went on, voice dropping a little. “The kind that doesn’t try to prove anything.”

She didn’t speak, just listened—really listened—and that only pushed him further.

“I like people who move with certainty,” he continued, eyes flicking to hers. “Who speak like they mean every word. Who don’t shrink themselves just to keep things comfortable for everyone else.”

There was a pause—his chest rose slightly with the breath he held before adding, softer now:

“Sitting like you belong. Walking like the room is lucky to have you in it.”

Her lips curved, slow and faint, the kind of smile born of being seen.

“That,” he said, His eyes dropped briefly to the table, and he gave a quiet shake of his head, as if picturing something he couldn’t quite put into words, “does more to me than any short dress or long legs ever could.”

The toe of her heel brushed against his ankle now. His fingers idly tapped the side of his empty glass.

“What would make you get up and leave this table right now?” He tapped the table for emphasis.

Océane didn’t miss a beat.

“If you made me feel like I wasn’t worth listening to.”

She didn’t smile—just met his eyes, steady and sure.

“Like you’d already decided there was nothing special about me. Or worse... that I bored you.”

Her voice dropped on that last part, quieter but no less honest.

“Trust me,” he replied, his tone dipping just a little. “I’ve been to enough dull dinners to know when I’m bored.”

Then, after a beat, his gaze held hers, and he added, “And I’m not.”

Océane rested her elbows lightly on the table, chin tilted as she studied him. “What’s something you hope this date isn’t?”

“Short and singular,” he said without hesitation, then gave a small shrug, running his thumb along the side of his glass.

She tilted her head, brows raised. “That’s it?”

He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting with a kind of quiet mischief.

“Well, if you want the long-winded version—” he leaned in just slightly, voice dipping low, “—I don’t like the idea of good things being fleeting. And this?” He gestured between them. “Feels good. I don’t want it to be something I remember as a one-night thing I let end too quickly.”

A pause followed—just long enough to let it settle.

Then, with a dry, playful glint in his eye, he added, “Besides, singular outcomes make me twitchy. I prefer things with structure. Repetition. Continuity.”

Her lips curled into a soft smirk. “You want a sequel?”

“I want a whole series.”

She laughed, warm and genuine. “That’s a very good answer. Your turn.”

“Have you ever cheated?”

A look of guilt fell over her face, and she nodded slowly.

“In college. I had this boyfriend—well, we’d been seeing each other for a while. In hindsight, we weren’t a good fit. He came from the same kind of people my family knew, and it felt more like convenience than connection. One night, we had this huge fight. He stormed off to his friend’s dorm, and I went out to a party with mine. I got drunk—like, really drunk—and ended up kissing this guy from my chemistry class.”

She paused, looking down for a beat before continuing.

“The moment I realized what I’d done, I ran to my girlfriends in tears and begged them to take me to his dorm so I could confess. They refused. Took me home, sobered me up. The next morning, I went to him, told him everything, expecting him to be furious.”

She gave a dry, humorless laugh.

“He just shrugged and said he didn’t care. Turns out he’d been sleeping with his lab partner for two months.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his.

“It doesn’t make what I did okay. But yeah—once.”

Sebastian’s jaw shifted, his brow furrowed.

“He sounds like a twat.” He said simply. “So you got drunk, kissed some bloke at a party, felt awful, and you’re the one carrying guilt? Meanwhile, he’s been shagging his lab partner for months?”

“It was still cheating,” she said softly. “I kissed someone who wasn’t my boyfriend.”

He wasn’t convinced. If anything, he was irritated—just not at her.

“You’re telling me that if I had been your boyfriend, and you kissed someone while you were blackout sad, and angry, I should’ve thrown everything away over that?”

She blinked. “Wouldn’t you be furious?”

He exhaled, “I’d be mad, yeah. But not at you—not really. I’d be pissed at your friends for not looking after you. Pissed at myself for letting you walk out like that in the first place.”

He nodded to her, awaiting her next question.

“Ever lie to get out of a second date?”

Sebastian shifted in his seat, his expression instantly telling.

Océane’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a yes-face.”

He gave a guilty little shrug.

“Yeah... once.”

She leaned in slightly, curiosity piqued. “What happened?”

“She wasn’t a bad person,” he started, tone careful. “It was one of those ‘plus-one’ situations—a charity gala, actually. She was a friend of a friend, sweet enough, and I agreed because her date bailed last minute.”

He hesitated, running his thumb along the base of his glass.

“The problem was, she seemed to think it was the start of something serious. Kept calling me her boyfriend by the end of the night. Tried to hold my hand in front of her family. Even asked if I wanted to do couple’s costumes for Halloween. This was after knowing me for, like, three hours.”

Océane winced. “Yikes.”

He nodded.

“I panicked. I said I was moving abroad for work.” A beat. “Which... I wasn’t.”

She laughed. “Please tell me she didn’t find out.”

“I think she might’ve. Pretty sure she saw me at a pub three weeks later. I ducked behind the bar.”

Océane nearly spat her drink. “You hid?”

“I crouched. There’s a difference.” He held up a finger in emphasis.

She tilted her head thoughtfully, “Do you actually want a relationship—or just company?”

“A relationship.”

Sebastian leaned back slightly, thumb brushing the edge of his empty glass as he spoke.

“I was always working. School, internships, the grind of proving myself in a job that eats your time and leaves you nothing for anyone else.”

He looked up, eyes meeting hers across the table.

“But now? I’ve done all that. I’m steady. I have room in my life, in my head, for more than just company. I want someone real. Something lasting.”

A beat passed, quiet but weighted.

“Otherwise, what’s the point?”

She nodded in agreement.

“Do you believe in soulmates, or is it just good marketing?” He shrugged when he asked as if the answer didn’t matter.

“I think the idea that there’s one perfect person out there who fits you without effort or change is kind of absurd.” She tapped her nails against her glass.

“One person who just... completes you, no matter who you are or who they are? No work? No growth? Just instant cosmic compatibility?” She shook her head.

“Because people don’t stay the same. They grow. They change. The real trick is finding someone whose evolution keeps syncing with yours.”

She met his gaze.

“So no, I don’t believe in soulmates—not really. But after a breakup? Sure. It’s a nice fairy tale to tell yourself. Makes the loss feel less like failure and more like... fate rerouting you.”

Sebastian exhaled softly. “That’s a bloody good answer.”

She smirked. “Yeah, well... if Hitler, Stalin, and Mussolini had wives, then really—what’s my excuse for being single every Christmas?”

He nearly choked on his drink, coughing as he grabbed his napkin.

“Right, okay—now I feel worse about my love life. But at least I’m not a megalomaniac dictator... that counts for something, yeah?”

She gave a mock-serious nod. “Definitely. Huge plus. Low bar, but still—plus.”

A beat.

“What’s your body count?”

Sebastian’s chest expanded with a slow breath. “Eighteen.”

Her eyes widened. “Eighteen?”

He squinted. “Thought this was a shame-free zone?”

“No—it is, it is, I’m just...” she stammered, hands gesturing vaguely. “Impressed. Really.”

He didn’t look entirely convinced.

“So how does that happen if you were so busy with school and work?”

“They’re called one-night stands and fuck buddies for a reason.” He said it casually, like it was just math.

She nodded slowly. “Good point.”

He raised a brow. “Never had one? A friend with benefits situation, I mean?”

She shook her head.

“What’s yours?” He asked. “Body count.”

“Assuming we’re not talking about the ones in my parents’ basement–-six,” she said, then paused. She chuckled, “What can I say? I was...”

“Prudish?”

“Selective.” She corrected. “And a bit of a nerd, is that so surprising? I told you your tie reminded me of a color pigment made of lead and arsenic. Are we really that surprised?”

He chuckled and shrugged. “Suppose not.”

“Eighteen... wow.” She muttered to herself, looking at her hands like she was counting, but ran out of fingers.

His mouth curved in a slow, unapologetic smirk. “Just means I know what I’m doing.”

It was cocky, confident—and anything but innocent.

She didn’t have any witty response to that one, but there was no ignoring the little flicker in her eyes.

The waitress returned, setting down their fresh drinks and collecting the old ones. She lingered longer than strictly necessary, eyes flicking between them like she was taking notes—trying to gauge the energy of the date.

More likely, she was figuring out if she’d won whatever bet the waitstaff had going.

Océane watched her leave, then leaned in slightly. “Who do you think she’s got her money on?”

Sebastian took a sip, lips twitching.

“Not sure. Think we’ve thrown off their whole game.” He raised a brow. “Could’ve been the ducks, though.”

She gasped in mock offense. “You think they’re in on the Mallard attack squawk—squad?”

“Without question.” He grinned, then glanced at her drink before looking back. His voice dipped. “When’s the last time you slept with someone?”

Océane smiled slowly, leaning forward—careful, but not too careful, which didn’t help him one bit.

“You want to know the last time I slept in a bed with someone, or the last time I had sex?”

Sebastian didn’t blink. Didn’t joke. “When was the last time you had sex?” he asked, voice low, as if the question itself carried weight.

“Six months ago,” she said easily. “Met someone at a bar in New York. We went back to his hotel. I left when he passed out.”

“Why sneak off?” He asked, brow furrowing slightly. “Little embarrassed?”

“Hardly.” She shrugged one shoulder, swirling her drink. “The sex was subpar, and I had brunch plans that included mimosas. No way was I showing up to that in a wrinkled dress and smelling like disappointment.”

Sebastian let out a breath of a laugh, eyes narrowing with quiet admiration. “Brunch waits for no woman.”

“Exactly.” She winked, then took a slow sip.

Océane swirled her spritz again, watching the bubbles rise. Then, casually—like she wasn’t about to stir something deeper—she asked, “Ever had a one-night stand that made you want a second?”

Sebastian’s smile faltered. Just slightly.

He looked down at his drink, thumb brushing the condensation along the side.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Once.”

Océane tilted her head, quietly studying him. “What happened?”

He gave a soft exhale, like the memory still itched somewhere.

“Met her at a gallery opening in Barcelona. She was sharp, funny. Kept challenging me on everything—art, architecture, travel. We talked for hours. Went back to my hotel. And the next morning, she was just... gone.” He chuckled dryly.

“Left a note on the counter with half a croissant, said ‘thanks for the ride.’”

“That sounds... romantic?” She offered gently.

“It was,” he admitted. “Every bloody city I went to after that, I looked. Never saw her again.”

Océane’s expression softened. “You didn’t try to find her?”

“I did. Turns out, ‘Nina’ is a common name, and Barcelona is a maze. All I knew was her first name and her laugh.”

A quiet moment passed between them, the din of the restaurant fading into the background.

Then, he looked at her again, eyes flicking to her mouth and back up. “Would’ve liked a second night with her. But I’ve stopped looking.”

“Why?” She asked.

“Because she was a chapter.” He smiled faintly. “And maybe I was only supposed to read that one page. Doesn’t mean there isn’t a better story waiting.”

He didn’t say this could be it—but he didn’t have to.

The air between them said enough.

“What’s something you think I’d be very good at—without having to try?” He asked the question, light on his lips but heavy with curiosity.

Océane didn’t answer right away. She leaned back slightly, studying him with a slow, deliberate gaze—one that lingered on his mouth just a second too long.

“Kissing,” she said finally, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “Your lips look soft. The kind that don’t need to try hard to leave a lasting impression.”

Her voice had dropped slightly, turned thoughtful—almost reverent.

She stirred the ice in her drink with her straw, then looked back up at him, eyes darker now. “I bet you’re the type who kisses like he means it. Slow at first. Then... not so slow.”

Sebastian blinked, caught between flattered and completely undone.

He didn’t speak right away, just watched her for a beat—his focus narrowing to the coral gloss on her lips and the slight curve they held when she said something bold like that.

Then his grin slid into place, lazy and devastating.

“I do like kissing,” he said, voice low and warm, “But I think I like the way you talk about it even more.”

Her eyes looked down again—to his mouth—then slowly back up.

“That’s dangerous,” she murmured, resting her chin lightly on her knuckles. “You give me a look like that and I might want proof.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Depends. Are you as good as I think?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, not touching her—just getting close enough to make the distance feel charged. “You might just have to wait and see.”

“What do you like?”

He raised a brow. “Bit open-ended, isn’t it?” His mouth twitched into the start of a smirk. “What do I like... cinema? Cooking? Long walks? Or are you asking what I like in bed, Océane?”

Her lips parted—caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath.

“Just trying to make sure I answer the right question,” he went on, that smile sharpening into something wolfish.

“Alright then—what kind of lover are you?”

His brows lifted, more impressed than surprised, a flicker of amusement passing over his face. He leaned forward slightly, voice warm, rich.

“That’s two questions, sweetheart.”

“Are they?”

“What I like in bed and what kind of lover I am—very different questions. But lucky for you...” His mouth curved into a smile that was anything but innocent. “I can answer both.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t drop eye contact.

“Intensity. That’s the common denominator. When I care about something—or someone—I go all in. I don’t do half measures. That applies to how I work, how I feel... and how I fuck.”

The air between them pulled tight. She didn’t look away. Neither did he.

“So,” she asked, her voice a little lower now, “does that mean you only fuck—or do you make love too?”

His jaw ticked—not from irritation, but restraint. The question had stirred something in him he didn’t often unpack on a first date. His fingers curled around the rim of his empty glass, slow and deliberate.

“I don’t waste intensity on people I don’t value,” he said quietly. “If I fuck, it’s because I want someone. If I make love, it’s because I feel something.”

A beat passed.

Then his smile shifted—softer now, but darker around the edges.

“But I’ll tell you a secret...” he said, voice dipping. “Sometimes those things overlap.”

She said nothing, no sly remarks, no jokes, only a space where she was entranced by his words and processing their meaning.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low and even, “what kind of lover are you?”

The question snapped her out of her reverie. She blinked, then let out a soft, nervous laugh, glancing down at her glass—embarrassed, maybe stalling.

“Not much to report, I’m afraid. I’m pretty vanilla.” Another awkward laugh. “Still technically ice cream—just not very exciting.”

“That’s bollocks.”

Her head lifted, startled. “What?”

“Means it’s bullshit.”

He didn’t smile. Not quite. But his voice dipped, slower now—more certain. Teasing, but not joking.

“You don’t ask the kinds of questions you’ve asked tonight if you’re boring. You don’t look at me the way you’ve been looking at me, and then pretend to be innocent.”

He let that settle before continuing, “You’re not vanilla, Océane. You’ve just never had someone who made you feel safe enough to want more.”

His fingers slid from his glass to the table—close, just a few inches from hers.

“Or maybe,” he added, softer now, “no one ever offered it in a way that made you curious enough to want more.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

He leaned in just slightly, his gaze steady on hers.

“So, what do you think I am?” Her question came out almost fragile-sounding.

He let it hang.

“Curious. Hungry. Exciting. Sexy.” His voice was a slow drawl now, velvet over steel. “You’re a lot of things, Océane. But boring isn’t one of them.”

“Were you hoping to have sex tonight?”

It slipped out before she could stop it—but there was no regret in her eyes.

“At the start of tonight?” he echoed, “Yes. Absolutely. Without question.”

“And now?”

“No.”

He watched her expression shift—just a flicker, but enough to catch. Before she could retreat, his hand shot out and caught hers, firm but gentle.

“Wait—let me explain why.”

She nodded slowly.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said carefully. “Believe me—I do. But I’m redoing the math.”

“The math?” She repeated, brows pinched slightly.

He gave a small nod.

“Part of the reason I haven’t had many relationships is that they’ve never... really fulfilled me. Not in the ways that matter to me. I have certain tastes and preferences that aren’t exactly conventional. And they require time. Trust. The kind you build slowly, not over one drink or a shared taxi.”

He paused, watching her face for any sign of hesitation. She didn’t interrupt, her fingers still curled under his.

“And when your schedule is chaos—between university, internships, work—building that kind of trust? It just doesn’t happen. So it’s easier to keep things surface-level. Fun. Forgettable.”

He looked her in the eye. “But you’re not forgettable.”

Her breath caught.

“I like you, Océane. A lot. And I meant what I said—I’m not looking for just company. If this goes anywhere—and I hope it does—then sex will be part of it. But it’s not just about getting off. Not for me.”

He glanced down, thumb brushing her knuckles.

She nodded again—quieter now, almost still.

“Then I don’t want to risk scaring you off before we’ve even gotten started. You don’t know how hard it is to sit across from you and say I don’t want to take you home tonight.”

He gave a faint, almost pained smile.

“You say unconventional tastes. What does that mean?” She looked a little unsure, but not afraid.

“It’s... hard to put into words without sounding dramatic. Mind if we move someplace quieter?”

She looked around, realizing for the first time just how exposed they were—seated in the middle of the dining room, their conversation far too intimate for the clinking of silverware and scattered laughter around them. She shook her head.

Now seated in a booth near the back of the restaurant, the lighting was softer, the space tighter—more private. A fresh round of drinks sat between them, condensation trailing down the glasses. Around them, the din of conversation had faded into a low murmur, letting their words settle without fear of being overheard.

Océane took a sip and set her glass down with a soft clink.

“Alright. So when you said ‘unconventional tastes’... were you talking about kinks?”

Sebastian let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair before resting it on the table, fingers tapping absently. “Yeah.”

“Like... handcuffs and safewords?” She teased gently, trying to ease the growing tension between curiosity and nerves.

He didn’t smile, but he didn’t pull away either. His shrug was small—almost reluctant—but it carried weight.

Her eyebrows lifted, amused. “Wait—am I close?”

“Closer than you know.”

That earned a grin from her. She inched forward in the booth, her voice dropping slightly. “Go on.”

She watched him closely, studying his expression like a puzzle she wasn’t sure how to solve.

“Does it... have a name?”

He gave a short laugh—quiet, not mocking. More impressed than surprised.

“Yeah. It does. But promise me something first?”

She tilted her head. “What’s that?”

“No assumptions. No judgments. And we’re still honoring the ‘no slapping me across the face’ rule, yeah?”

That made her laugh, tension cracking like a brittle shell. “I promise. No slapping. Now tell me... what makes a man like you nervous when it comes to sex?”

He hesitated, searching her face one last time before speaking.

“It’s called Primal Play.”

She repeated it under her breath, testing the words like she was rolling them over on her tongue.

“Sounds... intense.”

He nodded.

“It can be, but lots of people get the wrong idea about it.” He looked her dead in the eye. “It’s not about growling or playing animal—none of that over-the-top rubbish people take the piss out of. It’s not performative like most people think. And it’s not about being in charge just to be cruel. None of that alpha male nonsense.”

Her brows drew together, but she didn’t interrupt.

“It’s control that protects, not control that punishes. Anyone can bark orders—doesn’t mean they’ve got a bloody clue what they’re doing. It’s about responding to the tension, to what’s natural. And about trust—a lot of trust. That’s what most people miss.”

She tilted her head and brought her drink to her lips, “So, what’s involved? How is it different from regular sex?”

He paused, eyes flicking to her mouth, then back to her eyes. He wanted to get this right.

“Regular sex is... polite. Controlled. It asks permission, follows steps, foreplay, rhythm, finish. This—what I like—it’s more intuitive. There’s this give and take—the thrill of chasing and being chased. Teeth, nails, breath on skin, bruises in the right places for the right reasons. You feel it in your chest before anything even touches you.”

He let out a breath like he’d said more than he intended to.

“It’s still safe. Still respectful. But it’s not soft. It’s about need, not just want. The kind that builds until you either take or beg to be taken.”

He gave her a moment to let that sink in before adding:

“But none of it happens without trust. If that’s not there—none of it works. You have to feel safe enough to let go. Or to let me. Because surrender without safety? That’s not passion—it’s fear.”

“So... safewords?”

“Absolutely. Every single time. Non-negotiable. Safewords, boundaries, check in, aftercare all of it.”

“Ok... So, it’s rough?”

“The easy answer is yes, but I think intense works better. Any idiot can be rough, but being rough with intent and care? That’s different. It’s the difference between what some tosser who likes to tie up his girl and be mean to them and demeaning does and what I do.”

“What do you like to do?”

He leaned in, voice low.

“I like the build. When a kiss deepens—turns into a bite. When fingers grip harder, when breath stutters. I like watching desire take over—when it’s not just sex, but instinct. Mutual need. No performance, no pretending. Just you... wanting me as badly as I want you.”

He held her gaze.

“And I like being the one who draws that out.”

She looked contemplative, then hesitant. “Have you ever seen Mr. & Mrs. Smith?”

“That one with Angelina Jolie and what’s his name? Blonde bloke?” He blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah... why?”

“Humor me—but it kind of sounds like what you’re describing is that scene. After they try to kill each other. In the kitchen.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “You know... that’s not a bad comparison.”

“Really?”

He nodded, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Well, maybe with fewer flying knives and shattered plates. But the tension? The intensity? That line between conflict and chemistry? Yeah. It’s messy, raw... real.”

She tilted her head. “So it’s not about being in control the whole time. You want to feel... undone. Just as much as you want to undo someone else.”

His smile faded into something softer, more serious.

“That’s exactly it. It’s not just about power—it’s about surrender, too. Both sides. The danger’s all pretend—but the intensity? That’s real. Which is why trust matters more than anything. I’d never hurt you.”

“Does that mean it’s part of the BDSM community?”

“Yeah. It falls under that umbrella. We’re a private group, mostly because there’s a lot of misinformation out there—and a lot of people who give us a bad name.”

“Like those alpha-bro types? The ones who tie up their partners and just... get off on being mean?” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “Degradation and all that?”

“Exactly. Loads of wankers like that, unfortunately. No care for their partner—just chasing control without any real connection or reciprocity.”

She nodded slowly, the concern in her expression shifting toward understanding.

“Do you—” She paused, chewing on the edge of her lip.

“Go on,” he prompted gently.

“Do youusethings? Like... cuffs or whips?” She asked, visibly cautious about how it sounded.

“Me personally?” He shook his head. “No. Too harsh for my taste.”

“What do you use?”

He let out a soft chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re walking me straight into dangerous territory with that question.”

They both laughed quietly, the tension between them relaxing just enough to deepen.

“Alright, let me rephrase: you’re more of a ‘biting and nails down the back’ kind of man?”

As she spoke, her fingers lightly dragged down his arm in demonstration—innocent in intent, but the effect was anything but. His pulse jumped.

“Yes,” he said simply, voice a touch rougher than before.

“Does that make you a Dom?”

“I’m a dominant, yeah.”

“So you like to hold your partner’s down and take control?”

“Not all the time.” He gave her a long look. “But sometimes it’s nice to let go. Surrender that control to someone I trust.”

Her brows rose, playful now. “Like me?”

His eyes darkened, the corner of his mouth curling. “Now that’s a question that makes me very curious... What would you do with that kind of power?”

“Do you have to have sex like this or...” she asked, her voice trailing off into the quiet between them.

He shook his head gently, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his glass. “No, not all the time, regular sex is still great. It’s not a fetish—it’s a kink.”

She tilted her head. “What’s the difference?”

“A kink is for fun—makes everything more exciting,” he explained, eyes steady on hers. “A fetish is something you need to get off. I don’t need it. But I like it.”

She bit her lip, then looked up at him through her lashes. “Okay... so if I were into this and I ran?”

A smile tugged at his lips, slow and deliberate. “I’d chase you.”

Her brow lifted, playful. “And if you caught me... would you pin me and--I dunno, bite me?”

His jaw flexed, a low breath slipping past his teeth like it took effort to hold himself together. “I’d like to.”

Their drinks sat forgotten between them, condensation pooling beneath the glasses as the air tightened.

“So,” she said softly, “where does that leave us tonight?”

He leaned back just enough to breathe, his voice dipping into something that almost sounded regretful.

“Sounds to me like it means I take you home like a gentleman... and go back to mine for a very cold shower.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “I meant beyond tonight.”

“I know.” His eyes met hers again, clear and intent. “As it stands, I like you. And I’d love to see you again,soon. Work still keeps me on my toes, but I’ll make time. Six a.m. or two a.m., doesn’t matter to me.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Where does that leave you?”

She considered him for a moment before answering, her voice light but sincere. “I’m off Monday at seven.”

“Can I take you out again, then?”

“If you don’t, I’d be really disappointed,” she said with a teasing grin. “Because I still have a lot of questions.”

“Be honest with me,” he said as they neared her apartment building, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the sidewalk. “Did any of what I talked about bother you... in any way? It’s important you tell me the truth.”

She shook her head with a small smile. “No, actually. This was the most interesting date I’ve ever been on. And it was really fascinating hearing about it—like I said, I still have tons of questions. Should I write them down or can I text you?”

“Texting might be a bad idea,” he said with a chuckle, glancing sideways at her. “Bit distracting at work. Maybe just keep a list in your mobile until Monday.”

She laughed and gave a playful nod. “Fair enough. I’ll do that.” She paused, giving him a curious look. “So once we started our game... nerves went away, then?”

He let out a bark of laughter, the tension from earlier completely gone. “Absolutely. I’m not normally that tense on a date.”

“Same,” she admitted with a grin. “It was fun. I really did have a great time. But...” She gave a sheepish shrug. “There’s a slight flaw in my idea.”

“Oh?” He lifted a brow. “What’s that?”

“It was great for breaking the ice and having fun... but I still don’t really know anything about you. Like normal stuff.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding knowingly. “You mean the typical boring first date stuff—job, family, hobbies.”

“Yeah.” She laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “Those things.”

“Well, how about this—you can text me those questions between now and Monday.” He slowed as they reached the building’s entrance and stopped. “And on Monday, if you’re still feeling bold... we can go back to what clearly worked for us.”

“Ah, yes, the forbidden first date fruit questions,” she said, lips curling at the edges.

They stopped under the awning outside her building. The air between them shifted, heavier with awareness. She let out a quiet, almost nervous laugh, glancing up at him.

He was just about to ask what made her laugh when she beat him to it.

“It’s funny,” she said, voice quieter now. “I don’t think I’ve ever left a date feeling this curious and keyed up—all without so much as a kiss.”

He smiled at that, deep and amused. “Well... if you’re interested, I might have a solution for that.”

“Oh?” Her voice had the hint of a dare in it.

“I can kiss you,” he said, stepping a little closer, “but it’ll be my kind of kiss. Think of it as a preview.”

Her brows lifted. “Your kind of kiss... does that mean you’re going to bite me?”

He gave her a wicked smirk. “Only a little.”

She crossed her arms, pretending to think. “Are there rules for this? Like... don’t bite back?”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “Biting back means we’re doing it right.” His voice dropped as he added, “If you want me to stop, just push against my chest.”

She looked up at him, her voice soft. “So... if I don’t put my hands on your chest, where do I put them?”

Without missing a beat, he reached out gently, guiding her arms up and around his neck. “I think about... here is fine.”

Her hands slid into place, fingers curling slightly as her breath caught. She looked into his eyes, heart pounding.

“Alright,” she whispered. “Let’s see this preview.”

He didn’t waste time. One arm slid firmly around her waist, the other rose to cradle her jaw with a surprising gentleness. His lips ghosted over hers first, giving her just a breath of hesitation—then he took.

There was nothing hesitant about the kiss. His mouth crashed into hers, rough and hungry, lips parting hers with force and purpose. His tongue swept in without invitation, claiming space like it was already his.

She gasped, fingers twining into his hair. Her back met the brick wall. He kissed her like he’d been starving for it. Like he couldn’t get deep enough, couldn’t get closer.

His grip on her hip tightened, pinning her in place as his mouth moved against hers with heated, deliberate pressure. It was the kind of kiss that left no room to breathe, no space to think.

His teeth caught her lower lip and bit just hard enough to make her eyes flutter shut.

Heat exploded down her spine. Her thighs clenched. If he hadn’t been holding her up, she might’ve melted right there.

And then, just when it became too much—he pulled away.

Barely. His forehead leaned into hers, both of them breathing heavy, still tangled in each other’s arms.

“That,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint, “was me holding back.”

Intense.

He almost looked smug when he pulled back, “Alright?”

She nodded, “Very.”

“Good, I’ll see you Monday then, yeah?”

He stepped back, smug and grinning like he’d just won something.

“Goodnight, Oceane.”

But before he could turn, her fingers curled in the front of his belt, and she pulled him right back in with a tug that said ‘not so fast.’

“You got your kind of kiss...” Her voice was velvet, and danger. “Now let me show you mine.”

And then she kissed him.

Not rough. Not fast. No pressure.

Her lips just brushed his—barely there, featherlight. A whisper of contact that sent a spark racing across his skin. She lingered just long enough for him to lean in, then she pulled back with the softest exhale... only to kiss him again.

And again.

Each kiss slower, deeper, more deliberate. Coaxing a response from him with maddening patience. Her tongue barely grazed his lip, teeth catching it just enough to tease. Her fingers slid up his chest, resting lightly at the base of his throat as if she could feel his pulse hammering.

He groaned, leaning in to chase her mouth.

She pulled away.

Her lips were kiss-swollen, her smile wicked.

“Don’t disappoint me,” she whispered. “I’m looking forward to Monday, too.”

And just like that, she let go of his belt and turned, walking away like she hadn’t just made him the one gasping for more.

He stood there stunned, breathless, lips tingling.

Yeah. She won that one.