SEX & LOVE | 18 +

05 | единственный

         

I held her gaze for a moment, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “For now, I own this place.”

Her reaction was almost comical—the slight gasp, the widening eyes. She blinked, and I couldn’t help but laugh softly at her surprise.

“Are you serious?” she asked, her voice a little higher than usual, still trying to process it.

“Dead serious,” I said, still smiling as the waiter came over and placed a small appetizer in front of me—a welcome dish, something they only served to me.

She glanced between the waiter and me, still looking thrown off balance.

As the waiter left, I leaned forward slightly. “Originally from Krasnodar,” I began, my voice low, conversational. “Spent most of my life there, before I joined the army.”

Océane was still staring at me, probably processing the fact that she’d just walked into a restaurant I owned. “Krasnodar?”

“South of Russia. Warmer there,” I explained, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. “After the army, I drifted around for a while. Like the wind.” I smirked at the old metaphor. “Found myself here, eventually.”

She was quiet, absorbing my words, and I could see her relaxing just a little, the initial shock wearing off. But there was something else there— surprise, maybe. Or wariness.

I gestured to her plate. “Try the food. It’s good here.”

Her eyes flicked down to her plate, and she picked up her fork slowly, her movements careful, as if she was still trying to figure out how to fit into this world I had casually dropped her into.

It was always like this with people. They saw what was on the surface—wealth, ease, a sense of control—and they tried to make sense of it, to fit it into their understanding of how things worked.

But there was always more beneath that.

There always is.

I watched her as she took a bite, her expression unreadable, but something told me she wasn’t just thinking about the food.

Océane awkwardly laughed, the sound soft and unsure. "I still can’t believe you own The Wavefront," she muttered, half to herself, her fingers playing with the edge of the napkin.

As she leaned forward to take another bite, a small piece of food slipped from her fork, landing softly on the table.

She froze, glancing up at me nervously, then quickly tried to hide her embarrassment by straightening her posture.

I just smiled, brushing it off as if nothing had happened.

After a beat of silence, she asked, “So... You like perfection.” Her eyes searched mine, genuinely curious.

I leaned back in my chair, considering her question, then took a sip from my glass before answering. “You see,” I said, my voice low, almost thoughtful.

“I’ve seen years pass, countless people come and go. You can feel it when you meet them. It’s not imperfection or perfection, but it’s realism.”

I let my words hang in the air for a moment, watching her reaction. "Perfection is overrated, anyway. It’s the cracks that show us what’s underneath, right?"

She nodded, but her expression was still puzzled.

"Besides," I continued, my voice softening, "there’s something about simplicity. About being in a place where the distractions are stripped away. We're just in our own vicinity. Where you’re just left with the essentials. It lets you think, lets you feel."