Eryka I Am

By the time Simone arrived, the gallery had already exhaled for the night.

Lights were dimmed to a honeyed glow, paintings half-shadowed like secrets that preferred not to be named. The air smelled faintly of polish and old jazz—warm, deliberate, intimate. This was the hour when the room stopped performing and started telling the truth.

She felt him before she saw him.

Julian stood near the back wall, one hand in his pocket, the other resting loosely against a pedestal as if he’d always belonged there. Still. Watching. He didn’t greet her. He didn’t have to. His attention landed on her with the quiet certainty of something inevitable.

Simone slowed without meaning to. Adjusted the cuff of her sleeve. Let the moment stretch. His gaze followed the movement like it mattered.

He shifted his stance—barely—just enough to angle himself toward her. The gesture was small, almost lazy, but it pulled at her all the same. An invitation disguised as nothing at all.

She let her eyes take their time with him. The line of his mouth. The calm authority in his shoulders. He noticed. The corner of his lips tipped upward, subtle and knowing, and the look he gave her made warmth bloom low and unhurried.

She crossed the room, heels quiet against the floor, hips moving in that natural way that wasn’t entirely innocent. Julian’s fingers brushed the edge of the pedestal, a mirror of restraint, and she felt the echo of it in her own body.

She stopped near a table scattered with exhibition notes, pretending interest. Her breath betrayed her. He stepped closer—just one step—closing a distance that suddenly felt loud.

His eyes dipped to her collarbone, then returned to her face, slow and intentional. Simone held his gaze. Let the silence work. Let the awareness thicken between them.

He leaned back against the table, casual, close enough now that his scent—wood, spice, something dark and familiar—wrapped around her. Her pulse answered before she could stop it.

Her fingers brushed the papers. A soft sound. Julian noticed everything. His eyes traced the movement, then lifted, heavy with unspoken meaning.

They didn’t touch. They didn’t need to.

The space between them hummed, taut with things deferred and desired. One look. One pause too long. One shared understanding that this—right here, unsaid and unresolved—was the most dangerous part.

And neither of them rushed to end it.

I am Eryka.