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i'm playing the newest three chapters after another turbulent time at work and once again i am begging for a way to kiss all of them on the mouth at once
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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Also the bar is different from the one in the game, because idk I just said so.
Today had been amazing. Both Florian and Abel had gotten amazing news. Florian's being that he had gotten the highest grade on a quiz, and Abel's being that he'd been cast as Will in Something Rotten. It was truly a night to celebrate.
So you guys all went out to the bar. Abel immediately got food, while you and Florian decided to stay sober. But strange enough, the heaviest drinker of the night seemed to be Cain.
Now when it came to drinking, the group greatly differed. Abel was the heaviest drinker, Florian was a total lightweight, you were a moderate drinker, and Cain only ever drank on an occasion worthy of it.
But he was never this extreme with it. In the span of an hour, you'd seen him down a couple shots of tequila, one cocktail, and one too many glasses of whiskey. Eventually even the bartender had to cut him off.
By the time Abel was just barely starting to drink, Cain was a sorry mess.
"Cain, you should go home. It's incredibly unsafe to be that level of drunk."
"Fuck off."
"Geez Cain, he just asked a question."
You saw him squint his eyes, as if he was trying to remember what was just said and how to speak. Abel was clearly pissed, and Florian looked mildly hurt. It was honestly an uncomfortable situation for all parties currently involved.
"Cain, Flo's right. You're hammered. Come on, I'll take you home,"
You reached over to grab his arm, but he swatted you away.
"Go tell your boyfriend that. You clearly like him more."
That sentence completely confused you. None of the boys had ever been jealous with each other. They'd obviously gotten competitive at times, but never jealous. It was definitely strange for you.
"Cain, the hell is wrong with you?! Get mad at me for all I care, but don't ruin this for Y/N and Florian."
If stares could kill, Abel would be a dead man. The tension was so thick, you wondered if a duck would be able to float in it.
After what seemed like an age long staring contest, someone finally spoke up.
"Come on, lets just forget this."
You heard your voice echo in the emptiness, filling the gap like a plug on a bottle of wine.
"I'm leaving."
You watched Cain hastily stand up, drunkenly walking over the front door. You saw his legs cross each other, making him stumble forward.
"Go after him Y/N. I'm gonna help Florian choose a drink that doesn't taste like shit."
You nodded at Abel, walking over to where the brunette had walked over to. The cold wind nipped at your skin, freezing you over and sending a shiver down your back. That's when you saw him.
Pathetically sitting on the floor, was the leader himself. Cain. Drunk as a sailor.
"So, wanna come back in? Abel's gonna make Flo drink."
You were meet with cold, tear eyes. It was strange, in all honesty. You'd seen a lot of weird things, but nothing like that before.
"Enough with the Flo! I get it! They're better than me, because they have a future and I all I have is a fucking teaching job with the person I like because I'm a fuckass peice of shit!"
His voice slightly cracked at that, and he shifted away from you as you sat near him. He looked so innocent, so broken. As if he was a child again.
"Cain, I'm happy with you. Relax."
"How do I know you're not lying?"
"I only lie about food and Abel."
He slightly chuckled in response, his usual smirk returning. It was as if the real Cain was coming back.
"Come on. I need to see Florian throw up."
You stood up with him, his breath misting your face. It smelled like your father.
Reaching over, you grabbed his face with your palm. He looked a bit surprised at your sudden bravery, but he gladly accepted it. You saw him smile seductively at you as he reached forward.
---
I posted this on my Ao3 a few days ago and forgot to post it on my Tumblr... So here ya go!
---
Cain stood outside the glossy jewellery store– allegedly the best in the city, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the pavement. He glanced at the display windows, smirking. Smirking so confidently you’d think he’s probably got it all figured out– and, well, he thought so too as he pushed the doors open.
It’s just a ring, right? How hard could it be?
He was greeted by the clerks and merchants, who were good at pretending they wanted to be there at all.
“Good afternoon, sir,” one called out, stepping forward, “Looking for something special?”
Cain’s smirk deepened, “ Very. Something that my future wife can’t say ‘no’ to.”
The clerk nodded, “Why of course, sir! We’ve got plenty of exquisite options that will make any woman say yes without hesitation. Please, follow me.”
He led Cain deeper into the store, past glittering displays of gems set in delicate bands.
Cain’s eyes scanned the rings as the clerk showed them. They were very beautiful and definitely worth more than the average person’s yearly salary. They were rare jewels, the kind collectors would whisper about. The kind people would die for. The kind one would probably look at for hours and still not get tired because they were just that gorgeous.
Yet, Cain wasn’t satisfied .
He picked one of them up, turning it under the light and trying to figure out what the problem was.
“The cut’s wrong on this one. Amateur work. I’ve seen more depth in a damn puddle.” he finally muttered.
The clerk blinked at the unexpected comment, before putting on that same practiced grin, “Ah… I see. Well, there’s plenty more options to choose from, sir!”
Cain picked up another one.
“The prongs are bulky, they’ll snag on everything she wears.”
And another.
“The gold’s not as pure as it should be. What kind of an idiot do you take me for?”
“It’s twenty four karats though, sir!”
“Twenty four karats of disappointment.”
And another.
“You must be messing with me. The setting is all crooked. Was the jeweller asleep while they were making this?”
“T- That design is very popular, sir–”
“So are knockoff sneakers.”
And another.
But no matter which one he looked at, none of them satisfied him.
Worse. None of them felt yours.
Sure, they were glittery. Yes, they were sparkly. And yeah, maybe there were women who’d kill to get their hands on one of these.
But maybe that was the problem.
None of them were special.
None of them screamed your name.
They were all just noise. Flashy. Loud. Obnoxious. Distractions that anyone could buy if they had the money.
And you were certainly not anyone.
The clerk blinked, visibly regretting his choice in careers. The smile on his face was long gone. The poor man was confused. He’d never met someone so unimpressed by beautiful riches like these.
“S-Sir, these are some of the finest pieces in the country.” the poor clerk said, voice slightly wavering.
“If these are what you call fine, maybe you should consider a new line of work.” Cain scoffed, looking at the poor clerk with shark eyes. It was clear he was getting impatient. I mean— this was supposed to be a quick in and out. Instead, here he was, spending hours in a store he thought he’d only need to be in for five minutes. On top of that, this so-called ‘best jewellery store’ apparently did not have anything good to offer. Or— at least— nothing good enough for you.
“I- I assure you, sir, our artisans have dedicated their lives to crafting these rare pieces.” the clerk stammered, adjusting his tie for the nth time.
“And all that dedication created these disappointments.” Cain sighed, “If this is a lifetime’s work, I’d hate to see what you people make on bad days.”
The clerk swallowed, trying to think for a moment. Unhappy customers were so rare, he didn’t know what to do. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
“Perhaps we can m- make you a custom order, sir. I- It can be crafted to your preferences and specifications..” he finally let out.
Cain’s eyebrow raised, intrigued but annoyed at the time wasted. “Could’ve told me you did those an hour ago. Would’ve saved both of us alot of time and trouble.” he muttered.
The clerk gave a stiff, apologetic nod, though the pounding in his ears made it hard to hear himself think.
“I- I’ll fetch our head artisan immediately.” he said, his voice cracking as if even the thought of keeping Cain waiting a second longer might be fatal.
“Good. Thank you.”
–----
Cain smiled as he walked back to his mansion, greeted by Giuseppe.
“How was ring shopping, sir?” Giuseppe had a knowing look. Of course he did. Cain had arrived after hours.
“It went well. Easy peasy.” Cain quickly replied.
“But Master Cain, it’s been hours since you left. I thought you said you would be back in fifteen minutes tops.” Giuseppe pointed out, smiling.
It was true– Cain hadn’t expected buying a ring to take more than fifteen minutes, though Giuseppe had warned him otherwise. The man had offered to accompany his young master, eager to assist, but Cain insisted on handling it alone. If you asked him, he’d say it was because it was just a ring, but deep down, Cain knew he wanted the choice to be entirely his own. No help. No distractions. Just him. That’s what would make it truly special.
“I just wanted to explore the city,” he shrugged.
“You’ve lived here your whole life.”
“Exactly. It’s important to appreciate the finer things.”
“But sir, you don’t appreciate the finer things.”
“Giuseppe, you’re fired.” Cain smirked.
And the two of them continued to talk and laugh, as Cain took out his phone to set a reminder on his calendar—though, if he was honest with himself, the reminder was probably pointless. He would be counting down every day, every second, just waiting for the moment he could finally hold the ring in his hand and give it to you. The one he had taken so long designing and perfecting. The one you would soon be wearing on the pretty little ring finger of yours.
Ohh he just couldn’t wait.
HIHIHI HELLO!!! I love your dating killmulator fics SO MUCH and I think your writing is sososo lovely 😋😋 could you maybe do another florian fic where the reader is very touchy/cuddly? Always wanting to hold hands and just in general be physically close, no matter their relationship status. LOVE U SO MUCH TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!!!!
Hold me closer
Summary : Florian and you are getting closer, and when you go out together at the mall, every occasion seems to mark an opportunity to get even closer.
Pairing : Florian x reader
TW : none!
Words count : 5.5k
A/N : Thanks a lot for your message your request <3, this, is one of the two ideas I had for your request, gonna write it and post it as soon as possible! during that time, enjoy! (AND TAKE CARE TOO!!)
Heading for the mall, you glance at your phone screen.
3:06 pm.
Six minutes late.
Your steps are quicker, almost hurried, as if making up for lost minutes could erase the fact that you're already past the hour.
It wasn't entirely your fault. Sugarball had decided that the front door was his territory today. Every time you moved him, he trotted back to lie right on the front doorstep to prevent you from closing it, looking satisfied. We had to negotiate, meaning you had to open the packet of kibble and pour an indecent amount into his bowl before he finally agreed to give way.
The idea for this outing came from Florian. He had some shopping to do, and had asked you to accompany him “to spend some time together”. Lately, you've been getting closer. Your insomnia was getting longer as you exchanged messages and downloaded games.
The latest? A quiz application to download together. Technically designed for couples, but so what? It's not as if the word “couple” had a monopoly on the game. You could very well play it as “friends”, even if some of the more spicy questions made you blush as soon as they popped up on the screen.
Of course, you both decided to ignore those. Well, except that one time, late at night, when fatigue had short-circuited your brain and made you answer one of them before you'd even thought about it. The memory still burns your cheeks. The pure shame of seeing Florian's answer appear on your screen, a simple "?".
But instead of mocking you or reacting strangely, he'd just laughed. Then he spent the next night reassuring you, even slipping in his answer to a similar question in the course of a conversation.
“That way, we're even.”
3:15 pm.
The mall finally appears in your field of vision. You take a deep breath, hoping deep down that Florian won't be too upset about the delay.
You spot him almost immediately.
You slow down as you approach the glass entrance, your breath still slightly quickened by your brisk walk.
The summer heat hangs in the air, thick but not unbearable, with that mix of heated asphalt smells and overly sweet perfume wafting from the doughnut store next door.
Leaning against a post near the automatic doors, arms crossed as if that were his default position, he absent-mindedly observed the comings and goings of passers-by. His silhouette stood out clearly in the afternoon light.
Purple turtleneck despite the heat, straight shoulders, looking perfectly at home among the hurrying crowd. His almost silver hair caught the light, and his bright pink eyes seemed to scan the world with calculated slowness.
When his gaze finally caught yours, he didn't wave or call out. Only a very slight movement of the head, as if to say “I've seen you”.
You hurried on, your breath a little shorter from your little run.
“Thirteen minutes.”
You open your mouth to apologize, but he raises his hand slightly, as if to cut short any justification.
“Just relax. I'd have waited for you for hours if I had to.”
You feel a small weight drop from your chest at this sentence. You shrug, unable to hold back a smile.
He glances at the mall door.
“What do you think? Bookstore first? Or do you want something to drink first?”
The heat lightly sticks your shirt to your skin, and the idea of a cool drink crosses your mind, but the enthusiasm of starting with the bookstore wins out.
“Bookstore. And then we'll see.”
“Perfect.”
He detaches himself from the pole and walks beside you toward the entrance.
As he walks, your shoulder brushes his, deliberately, as if to test his reaction a little as a mischievous little smile appears on your lips.
Florian doesn't comment. But you see, out of the corner of your eye, the slight movement of his head. The kind that means “I noticed that”, without needing to say it.
You can't help justifying your delay, your voice sorry and sincere.
“My cat's been... a pain.”
"Don't worry, I have a hard time with cats sometimes. They get hair on my clothes even though they're cute. I like cats, but not in my house."
The automatic doors open in a cool breeze that sweeps away the sticky heat outside. The air conditioning brushes the back of your neck, and you let out a quiet, almost relieved sigh.
“After the bookshop, we could settle down at the café.”
“All right, sounds good.”
"And then... clothing store. I need to find a light jacket. Mine's starting to have a loose seam."
You smile at the thought of him choosing his perfect jacket.
"All right, mission jacket after coffee. What's next?"
He shrugs slightly.
“Then... we'll improvise.”
You walk down the center aisle, the artificial light reflecting off the shiny tiled floor. Between the hubbub of discussions, the music blasting from the stores and the constant hum of the air conditioning, the place vibrates with an almost stifling, but not unpleasant, life.
With every step, you feel your arm brush against his at times, as if the crowd were forcing you to stay close, when you could be walking just fine with a little more space.
In the distance, the bookshop sign begins to take shape, its large windows full of colorful posters.
The glass door opens with a gentle tinkle, and the familiar smell of new paper and fresh ink immediately envelops you. The air here is more subdued than in the rest of the center, as if the outside rumor were dissolving between the shelves.
You take a few steps forward, then turn your head towards him.
“By the way... what exactly are we doing here?”
He follows you with his gaze, touching the edge of a novel at the head of the gondola.
“A new notebook for my notes.”
His fingers glide over the cover, then loosen.
"A Théodule Ribot book, if I can find it. And... eventually, a little pleasure."
“Such as?”
“A new fountain pen.”
He says this in an even tone, but you guess from the slight tilt of his lips that this is the kind of “eventuality” that's very likely to come true.
You enter the aisle dedicated to literature, in the psychology section.
You stop in front of a display rack, grab a book whose cover has caught your eye, and move closer to show it to him.
He glances at the title you hand him, but doesn't comment, too busy flipping through another book he's already holding.
Curiosity prompts you to lean in, your chin almost touching his shoulder. The subtle scent of his perfume mingles with that of the paper.
“Are you planning to read over my shoulder all the way?”
His tone is ironic, but he doesn't back down.
He gently closes the book he was flipping through and puts it back in its place, before branching off towards the stationery aisle.
His steps are measured, but you stay right behind, as if magnetized by him.
“Aren't you going to take it?”
“It's not the one I'm looking for, I'll order it.”
He slowly goes through the lined-up notebooks, looking at them one by one until he finds one that suits him. He's strangely silent today.
You watch at an angle, amused by the seriousness he puts into this choice.
“Would you like me to help you choose?”
A slight shake of the head, and a barely audible exhale, a small smile on your lips.
“Why not.”
He takes a step back to give you some space. You walk past him, your eyes gliding over the hues, the textures, the bindings.
You take one in your hands, midnight blue hardcover, smooth pages.
“This one?”
He grabs it, flips through it quickly, then tilts his head.
“You have good taste.”
A small smirk spreads across the pale complexion of his face.
“Eh, you should have known that a long time ago.”
You tap his arm as if to back up your words and he lets out a soft laugh that echoes in the quiet of the bookshop.
You resume your walk towards the checkout, your gaze hooked on the notebook he still holds firmly in his hand.
But halfway there, he slows down. His step pauses before a display of fountain pens neatly lined up in transparent cases.
You see him cross his arms, then bend slightly, his eyes following every detail, the lacquered body, the fine engravings, the color of ink indicated on the labels.
“And here's the ‘little pleasure’.”
“I didn't promise anything, I'll have you know.”
His fingers are already resting on one of the models, testing its balance in your hand.
You get close enough to see the metallic sheen running along the pen, he's watching it to determine if it's THE pen for him.
"This one suits you. It's got your... aura."
He arches an eyebrow, looking at you with confusion.
“My aura?”
“Yes. Chic, precise, and a little intimidating.”
An amused breath escapes him, discreet, and he doesn't comment as he puts the pen down to try another, with a dark purple body and silver nib.
He remains silent for a moment, then slips it into the little velvet box as if the choice had already been made.
“Are we going to pay?”
You nod in agreement, and this time you head for the cash register.
The cashier quickly registers the notebook and pen, slipping everything into a small, thick paper bag.
Florian pays without a word, his wallet sliding open and shut with the precision of a gesture he's repeated a thousand times.
You exit the bookshop, the soft, slightly sweet warmth of the mall's air conditioning enveloping you once more.
“Coffee?”
“Coffee.”
You walk side by side towards one of the mall's cafés. The scent of pastries wafts in from a nearby stand, mingling with the fuller aroma of approaching coffee.
The small queue stretches out in front of the counter. A light silence settles between you. Something had been strange all day, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it.
So you looked at Florian, who was staring off into space, and that's when it hit you.
Florian.
He was the problem, you had just realized that he was quite distant today, as if lost in thought.
You take his arm and hold it against you as you raise your head to look at him, on his side, he lowers my head slightly, a little surprised that you've taken his arm, but he says nothing, doesn't step back, doesn't withdraw it.
His gaze in yours, he silently asks you what's wrong, and in a hesitant voice, you finally speak.
“Florian, tell me, sincerely, are you... Are you well today?”
Florian stares at you for a moment, his bright pink eyes slightly crinkled, as if trying to read between your words.
A silence stretches out, dense but not cold. Then, in a low, measured voice, he asks for an explanation.
“Why are you asking me this, all of a sudden?”
You hesitate for a second, but his eyes don't leave yours.
"I don't know... I just don't feel you like you usually do. Like you've been somewhere else since earlier."
He blinks slowly, an almost imperceptible breath escaping his lips. His muscles relax slightly under your hand still holding his arm.
"...I was just thinking about some things. Nothing to do with you."
His tone is neutral, but he doesn't look away right away. And in this absence of retreat, in the fact that he doesn't withdraw his arm, you perceive more response than in his words.
The line moves on. You soon reach the counter, and he asks you simply, as if to close the parenthesis.
“What'll you have?”
You swallow, not entirely satisfied with Florian's answer, but you try to ignore it.
“Just a lemonade please...”
Florian nods and lets a little breath escape from his mouth again, he sensed that he'd upset you or that you were worried about him, and it bothered him that he'd made you uncomfortable.
While you're deep in thought, Florian orders himself a cappuccino and you a lemonade. You didn't even notice, but he paid for both of you-as a little gesture to make up for it.
In turn, he puts a hand on your own arm still wrapped around his and starts walking slowly so as not to rush you and knock you over.
"Come, let's sit down."
You follow him without a word, staring a little at the floor, for some reason you don't know you feel guilty, as if you were the reason why he was different today.
Florian guides you to a bench in the café and you sit down, waiting for someone to bring you drinks.
A slight silence settles in, disturbed only by the constant murmur of conversation around you and the clinking of cups behind the counter.
Florian settles back a little better against the backrest, his shoulders relaxed, then turns his head towards you.
He passes his arm behind you, hesitating for a moment as if weighing the gesture, then comes to rest on your forearm opposite him. His fingers, cold at first because of the air conditioning, quickly warm up against your skin. He makes a slow, almost circular gesture, fingertips gliding as if to erase the tension he still feels.
His eyes seek yours, staring into your face with calm, reassuring attention.
"I assure you there's nothing wrong with you. And if you must know, I'm glad to be with you right now, because you're helping me take my mind off things, and I've been looking forward to this outing."
You just lift your eyes to look at him, trying to detect any hint of dishonesty in his gaze, but you don't see any. And after a short hesitation, you finally decide to speak.
"I was just afraid of... I don't know, actually... Taking the day off when you could have been resting."
“I need everything but rest right now, and spending time with you might be just what I need, because right now, I feel good, you understand?”
Silence settles again between the two of you, for a long moment, Florian gives you time to accept his words and after a few moments, he speaks again.
“Feeling a little better?”
His voice is low, deliberately poised, as if he wants every syllable to remain between the two of you.
You nod vaguely, but instead of answering, you slide frankly against him, wedging yourself into the space between his arm and his side. Your sides now touch along the entire length, from shoulder to hip, and he doesn't move. On the contrary, he adjusts his arm to wrap it more comfortably around you, his fingers resuming that slow, anchored movement, as if to keep you there.
The warmth of his body penetrates the fabric, constant and reassuring, contrasting with the coolness of the air-conditioned café. His breathing, regular, almost mingles with yours in this suspended silence. Then you move your leg closer, shifting it towards his until your thighs touch.
Just then, a waitress approaches, tray in hand. She places a large frosted lemonade in front of you, beads of condensation sliding down the glass, then a steaming cappuccino in front of Florian, its foam decorated with a neat swan motif.
You both thank her, and she walks away in a light scent of coffee and hot sugar.
Florian picks up his cup, twirling it between his fingers to observe the design, and you think you catch, in the corner of his lips, that thin, discreet smile he thinks he can hide behind the porcelain.
You pick up your glass of lemonade and raise it to your lips. The sharp chill of the liquid sends a slight shiver down your spine, cutting through the clammy heat of your walk and making your brain feel like it's frozen.
Florian, on the other hand, remains unperturbed, holding his steaming mug between his fingers as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
You stare at him for a moment, a corner of a smile on your lips.
"Seriously? A cappuccino, in the middle of summer?"
He looks up at you, one eyebrow arched.
“So what?”
"So... it's thirty degrees outside, Florian. Aren't you afraid of melting?"
An amused gasp escapes him, more frank this time, as he brings the cup to his lips.
“Hot coffee is timeless.”
“Timeless... or suicidal.”
He rests the cup calmly, his eyes shining with a gleam that you can't quite describe as a smile, but looks very much like one.
“And you, do you think the ice in your drink is going to save you from the heat?”
“Yes. And at least I don't sweat when I drink.”
Florian shakes his head slightly, but you sense that the atmosphere has softened, as if this exchange has dropped some of the silent weight he's been carrying all day.
You reach for your straw to stir some of the melted ice into your lemonade, and your gaze falls on the ticket lying beside the tray.
A small line at the bottom catches your eye. “Total paid”, you immediately look up at him.
“Wait... you paid for both of us?”
Florian keeps his cup in his hand, casually watching the smoke escape.
"Hm mh. Yes. "
“You shouldn't have...”
"It's all right. It's my pleasure."
You stare at him, a discreet smile at the corner of your lips.
“Well... I'll make it up to you.”
He finally looks up at you, his expression calm and amused.
“I'll remember that.”
You shake your head, laughing softly, but you sense that, behind his detached way of saying things, there's this little deliberate gesture. Not just out of politeness, but that there's something deeper in his gestures, something he perhaps didn't dare tell you.
You finish your drinks in a comfortable silence, punctuated only by a few exchanged glances and the slight sound of Florian's spoon against the china.
He's the first to get up, picking up his mug and your empty glass.
“I'll put this on the counter, you stay there.”
You watch him walk away, tray in hand, his calm, confident gait in stark contrast to the bustle around him. He exchanges a few brief words with the waiter before turning back to you.
“Shall we go?”
You nod and resume your walk down the mall aisles.
The air conditioning still envelops you, but the bright light from the shop windows and the smells of perfume, new fabric and food draw you back in.
“Clothing store, then?”
"That's right. Light jacket. And then... we'll see, if you have an idea in mind, that'll be your moment."
At the end of the aisle, the store sign appears, large bay windows and mannequins displaying the new collections.
As soon as you enter, the smell of new fabric and industrial detergent grazes your nostrils. The hangers glide gently over the rods as you run your hand through the racks.
Florian moves towards a corner where several jackets and coats are lined up, all in dark shades. You follow him, touching a few garments with your fingertips, smelling the different materials as you go, cotton, linen, fine wool.
He scans the selection attentively, stopping on some pieces, pushing others aside with an almost brusque gesture when he’s not satisfied.
Then his fingers close on a long black coat, straight-cut, falling almost to the knees. He slides it off the rack to observe it, the supple fabric rippling slightly.
You raise an eyebrow, a smirk on your face.
"This? Is this ‘light’ for you?"
Florian tilts his head toward you, his eyes shining with a twinkle halfway between amusement and defiance.
“Light... is a relative concept.”
He chuckles before taking the coat off the hanger and trying it on.
“More seriously, no, but I had a crush on it, winter's not so long away after all.”
“It won't be cold for at least another four or five months, Florian.”
"So what? At least I won't have to buy it later. And there's nothing to stop me taking a jacket as well."
He looks at himself in the mirror before turning to you.
"What do you think? Do you like it?"
You look at Florian for a moment, up and down. The coat falls perfectly, emphasizing his build without weighing him down.
A step brings you closer to him. You reach out and adjust the collar slightly, straightening the line so that it sits better on the back of his neck.
Your fingers then slide over his arms, as if testing the texture of the fabric, but you feel the warmth of his body filtering through. Florian doesn't move, following your hands with his gaze before refocusing on your eyes.
“Perfect, it suits you... really well.”
A small smile widens his mouth, almost invisible but enough to betray that he appreciates the remark.
“I'll take it, then.”
He takes off the coat and puts it back on the hanger, you take him by the arm, as at the café, but in a firmer way to lead him back to the jackets, it surprises him, and despite the fact that it's happened before, this time has surprised him and a blush runs up his cheeks.
He says nothing, content to follow you, still slightly surprised, the discreet red coloring his cheekbones betraying more than his words.
“Concentrate here.”
You order him gently, stopping in front of a rack where several light jackets are lined up.
Florian rolls his eyes, pretending to be exasperated by your attitude, but he actually looks amused, then complies. He scans the models with an attentive gaze, his fingers gliding over the fabrics with the same precision as before. Finally, he settles on a mid-season jacket with a slim fit and a deep gray, almost bluish sheen.
He unhooks it and slips it on with measured slowness, mechanically smoothing the sleeves before turning to you.
“What about this one?”
He stands up straight, hands tucked into pockets, watching you over the slightly raised neckline. In his eyes, there's that silent “So?” question.
You watch him for a moment, tilting your head slightly to one side.
"It's... okay. It suits you."
Florian doesn't comment, contenting himself with a brief nod before carefully removing the jacket.
He folds it over his arm and grabs the black coat left on its hanger.
“We'll pay.”
You walk together through the store's aisles to the checkouts, the steady sound of hangers and the hushed murmur of other customers accompanying your steps.
The sales assistant scans the items, wrapping them in a large Kraft bag which Florian grabs with one hand, putting the bookstore bag into the clothing store bag. A simple “thank you” is exchanged, and you're back in the bright light of the mall's central aisle.
You slow down as you exit the store, the mall crowd seeming denser than when you first arrived.
Florian is still holding the kraft bag in one hand, the other tucked into his trouser pocket.
“Well... what do we do now?”
He shrug slightly.
“No idea.”
"Maybe we could go upstairs and have a look? Maybe we'll find something that tempts us."
“Upstairs it is then.”
You head for the escalator. The neon light reflects off the metal of the steps as they descend and ascend relentlessly. Florian puts one foot on the first step up, bag propped against his leg.
You, just behind him, hesitate for a second before stepping forward. Then, taking advantage of the reduced space and proximity, you slowly slip your hand into his, taking it in and out of his close grasp.
He jolts almost reflexively, his fingers stiffening at first at the contact. His gaze leaves the upper floors to turn to you, a flash of surprise crossing his eyes.
“What the-”
He doesn't finish his sentence. A slight stammer escapes him, then after a slight hesitation, after a very apparent blush, he gently squeezes your fingers, as if he's pulling himself together.
He pulls your hand slightly towards him, narrowing the space between you until your arms brush against each other.
He says nothing more, but doesn't let go of your hand. His palm is warm, the contact firm, almost protective, and the steady movement of the escalator seems to accentuate the silent bubble that has formed around you.
The escalator deposits you on the top floor, and your steps resume, still linked by the simple gesture of his hand in yours.
The contact is firm without being stifling, his long fingers enveloping yours with a warmth that doesn't falter. It's strange how such an insignificant gesture can seem so full of meaning, or maybe it's just you who's giving it too much importance.
The crowd gradually dissolves as you move along, and there are fewer people upstairs as many of the stores are closed, leaving your footsteps to echo more clearly on the tiled floor. You feel, at regular intervals, that light pressure he exerts on your hand, as if he's making sure you're there, as if letting go would be almost inappropriate, disrespectful.
You don't know if he realizes how much this gesture disturbs you. Your heart is beating a little too fast for a simple stroll through a shopping mall, and yet you pretend to concentrate on the shop windows.
For his part, he keeps his gaze still, scanning the signs as if nothing were happening, but you notice the way his thumb sometimes mechanically brushes the back of your hand.
The shop windows scroll by, decoration, sports, jewelry, nothing seems to hold your attention. But you don't want to break the invisible thread that connects you through your intertwined fingers.
Each step is a silent compromise not to hasten the end of this moment.
After a few minutes, Florian stops, his gaze catching a vacant bench near a bay window.
“You wanna take a break?”
“Good idea.”
You sit side by side. The slightly warm metal of the bench contrasts with the coolness of the surrounding air. His hand remains in yours for a few more seconds, before he releases it to settle in comfortably.
He leans back slightly, crossing his legs as usual.
The silence that settles in isn't awkward, on the contrary, it's quite comfortable, especially with someone you used to feel at ease with in the constant hum of the mall.
Florian turns his head towards you, his eyes riveted on yours.
“So... How did you find the day?”
His voice is poised, devoid of any false lightness, as if he really wanted to know. Not just to fill the air between you.
He looks at you, attentive, waiting for your answer, the bag of his purchases carefully wedged between his feet.
You can still feel the warm trace of his hand in yours, and this simple memory is enough to make your heart beat a little faster before you speak.
"Honestly... it was great. Thanks for suggesting it, Florian."
He observes you without saying anything, but his gaze fixes on you with that calm intensity that's characteristic of him, then you continue to speak, in a small voice.
“We should do that again.”
A slight, barely perceptible nod of his head confirms that he's heard you, and that he's not against the idea.
“Why not?”
He answers simply, but his voice has lost some of its neutrality, as if he's trying to mask a certain feeling.
Silence falls again for a few seconds, soft and unforced.
You feel the diffused warmth of his presence, and you want to prolong the moment. You let yourself slide to your side, until your head rests on his shoulder.
On your side, you immediately feel the reassuring solidity of his body, but also that little irregular breath of his since you put your head down. And that smell, that familiar scent you've come to associate with him. It's comfortable and strangely intimate.
Florian's hand remains motionless for a fraction of a second, surprised by the frankness of the gesture. Then he imperceptibly adjusts his posture, as if to offer you better support. You perceive this small movement as a silent approval, and a breath of relief escapes from your nose.
You feel good with him, and you have the feeling that the feeling is mutual.
The minutes drag on, carried by the distant murmur of the mall.
Neither of you speaks. Your breaths settle into one another, as if your bodies have found their common rhythm.
Florian finally closes his eyes, his shoulders drooping in a rare relaxation. His head tilts ever so slightly towards yours, just enough for you to feel a little more of his weight against yours, a little shiver running through your body at the closeness.
You observe this detail out of the corner of your eye, and a discreet smile comes to rest on your lips. It's not a bright smile, but the kind you keep to yourself, the kind that comes when you feel you're in the right place.
On his face, that same faint smile appears, as if he were unaware that he was betraying himself a little.
You stay like this, glued together, letting time stretch on, not trying to fill the silence. Just enjoying it.
Without moving his head, Florian opens his eyes slightly, as if to check that you're still there, and of course you are.
His voice gently breaks the silence, poised but tinged with a light nuance that doesn't escape him.
“Are you planning to stay glued to me all day?”
You look up at him, already ready to answer, but what makes you hesitate is that tone, not really mocking, not really serious either. Almost tender.
You reply with a shrug.
“Maybe so, it doesn't seem to bother you either.”
He lets out an amused breath, closing his eyes as if to savor a few more seconds of this contact.
And the discreet smile he keeps at the corner of his lips confirms that he doesn't really mind you staying there.
But after a few moments, you open your eyes and murmur with that red crackling in your cheeks.
“Maybe even more than today.”
Florian immediately opens his eyes again, wide, as if your words have just taken his breath away.
For a split second, he freezes, unable to think of anything to say. You can tell by the way his breathing suspends that his heart has just taken a leap. And, almost in spite of yourself, yours follows suit.
His gaze fixes on you, more intense, as if he's trying to confirm that he's heard correctly. His lips part, but no words come out.
He finally looks away slightly, as if to regain his composure, even if the slight twitch of his fingers on his biceps betrays that he's not there yet.
Silence settles in, not heavy, but charged with a new tension, different from before.
And, despite his silence, you sense that he's keeping every word you've said somewhere in the back of his mind, nice and warm.
Then, in a light whisper equal to yours, he speaks.
“With pleasure.”
Your heart misses a beat. The answer is simple, almost innocuous in its words, but the way he says it, low and measured, hits you hard.
You slowly raise your head, as if your gestures were afraid to break this fragile moment. Your gaze meets his, and you rediscover the intensity of a few seconds ago, but softened, as if a veil had been lifted.
Florian doesn't look away this time. His breathing is even, but you notice the slight tension in his jaw, as if he's trying to contain something. His pink irises catch the light, and he says nothing more, simply letting you immerse yourself in the silence that speaks for him.
In this suspended moment, there's neither the noise of the mall nor the harsh neon light, just him, you, and that sentence that keeps echoing in your head, as if everything around it has disappeared.
You're about to rest your head on his shoulder, regaining that quiet cocoon, but his movement cuts you off.
The warmth of his palm comes to rest against your cheek, his fingers brushing your skin with an almost hesitant gentleness.
Your breath stops for good. He's looking at you, and this time he's not trying to hide anything. His eyes are anchored in yours as if he wants to read every last thought.
Then he leans in and places his lips on yours in a light, cautious touch. An unhurried kiss that carries everything you haven't said.
You close your eyes, letting yourself be carried away by this familiar warmth that seems to chase away all the distance between you at the start of the day.
When he steps back, he says nothing. His hand remains on your cheek for a moment, as if to prolong the contact, caressing your soft skin with his thumb.
And you stand there, immobilized, as if frozen by his kiss, your heart beating a little too fast, knowing that this kiss won't be your last.
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Can l request another Abel fanfic, this one was really good and am craving more Abel fluff
Thanks for your time, hope your doin good:3
The house always win
Summary : your first time at the casino, who else to go with but abel?
Pairing : Abel x fem!reader
TW : suggestive at the end and well, it's casino, so? everything that goes along, betting, a bit of alcohol, slight verbal aggression.
Words count : 11.4k
A/N : Thank you for your request! Hope you're doing well too :3, I think honestly it's my best work so far, hope you'll enjoy read it as much as I enjoyed write it!
You descend the steps slowly, the red fabric of your dress brushing your legs with every step. The light from the ceiling catches the satin sheen of the fabric, making your outfit sparkle as if it had been sewn with evening sparkles. Your fingers slide along the railing, just enough to feel the polished wood under your palm, while the light perfume you've chosen floats behind you like an invisible shadow.
In the living room, your father is slumped on the sofa, one arm resting casually on the armrest, the other busy stroking, or rather trying to stroke Sugarball.
The cat, curled up against his thigh, tolerates the attention with the blasé air of a monarch deigning to accept the company of his subjects. His ears twitch slightly at the sound of your footsteps on the wood, but he doesn't even raise his head.
Your father, on the other hand, doesn't pretend. His gaze rises to you as soon as you reach the halfway point on the steps, and you see his eyebrows raise slightly, a discreet mixture of surprise and silent appraisal.
Finally, after a second of thought and judgment, he decides to speak.
“Well, looks like someone decided to dress up.”
Sugarball, as if to punctuate the sentence, emits a lazy little mewl without opening his eyes, before rolling onto his side to better occupy the space.
You finish your descent, the muffled sound of your heels on the carpet covering the last few steps contrasting with the TV on in the background.
You reach the bottom of the stairs, the fall of your dress settling naturally around your legs. You mechanically tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, aware of the gaze your father continues to cast on you.
He says nothing for a few seconds, as if weighing his words, then a discreet smile softens his features.
“You look lovely.”
The tone is simple, without emphasis, but you know he means it. And coming from him, that always touches you.
Sugarball, still slumped against him, lets out a sonorous sigh as if to signify that he hasn't been consulted in this evaluation, but your father continues to look at you with that discreet little pride in his eyes.
“Thanks, dad.”
“So you're waiting for Abel?”
You nod, standing so as not to wrinkle your beautiful dress and to keep Sugarball's hair from getting on the fabric.
“He's a good kid, he's funny, it's good you're going with him.”
Your father settles back a little further into the sofa, a vaguely wistful look in his eyes.
"You know, I set foot in a casino too, once. I was young... about your age."
Sugarball, as if to mark the importance of the moment, lazily stretches his paws before curling up again.
"We'd gone off with a group of friends, all convinced we were going to come home rich as princes. I had a jacket that was too big, shoes that squeaked, and... a self-confidence that could have moved a mountain."
You smile, imagining the scene very well.
“So?”
He nods earnestly, his tone suddenly very solemn.
"I won... three times in a row at roulette. Three times in a row. People started looking at me like I was a prodigy. I was sure this was my night, that I was going to win it all."
He pauses, leaving the suspense hanging.
“And?”
A slight smile escapes him, one of those that smacks more of resignation than pride.
"And... I lost everything on the next shot. Absolutely everything. Even the money we'd budgeted for the cab home."
You laugh softly, shaking your head.
“I guess that's why you never took me gambling.”
He shrugs, falsely relaxed.
“Let's just say I'd rather spare you the big humiliating lesson that in the casino, you sometimes win... but the house always wins.”
He points at you with his chin, a more tender smile at the corner of his lips.
“But you, tonight, you're just going to go for the first time and enjoy it quietly, but don't do as I did when in doubt...”
“I wasn't counting on it.”
You reply with a small smile.
Your father laughs softly, a frank outburst that relaxes the atmosphere a little more. But soon his face becomes more serious, and he straightens slightly on the sofa.
"More seriously... if there's ever a problem, anything, you call me. Okay?"
You nod, a little tenderized by this sudden burst of protectiveness.
“I promise.”
He returns your gaze for a few seconds, as if to make sure you've understood.
Then a familiar sound breaks the conversation.
The doorbell rings, echoing softly in the hallway.
Sugarball perks up his ears, his eyes following your movement as you turn towards the door. Your father smirks.
“I think your knight has arrived.”
Your heart skips a beat. You cross the hallway, aware of every step, the fluidity of your red dress gently brushing your legs, and that slight smile already settling on your lips.
You open the door, and Abel is there.
Perfectly tailored black tuxedo, impeccable white shirt, carefully tied bow tie. His blond hair is pulled back, but a few wisps are deliberately let loose to soften it.
In his left hand, a bouquet of bright red roses, held in place by a satin ribbon.
His blue eyes slide slowly from your head to the bottom of your dress, then back up again, a smile of both surprise and satisfaction forming on his lips.
“Wow... I knew you were going to be beautiful... but now you've just redefined the word.”
You take a step forward and reach for the bouquet.
“Thank you, Abel, they're beautiful-”
“Oh!”
Abel suddenly gasps, pulling the bouquet out of your reach, looking outraged as if you've just committed sacrilege.
“No, no, no, darling... it's not for you.”
You freeze, one eyebrow raised, as he moves around you with the grace of an actor on stage. He steps into the living room and, without the slightest hesitation, hands the bouquet to your father.
“For the man who raised this marvel.”
His tone is serious, almost ceremonial, making you roll your eyes.
Your father chuckles, clearly delighted, and takes the roses as if they were the most natural thing in the world.
“Well, Abel, you sure know how to talk to people, don't you.”
Abel replies with a little wink, clearly complicit with your father.
“It's a question of tact and manners.”
And then, as if you'd suddenly disappeared from the room, the two start chatting with surprising ease. Your father asks him where the roses come from, Abel tells an abracadabra story involving an Italian florist who only sells bouquets “worthy of an opera” not far from here. The two laugh, exchange quick retorts, and you realize they understand each other a little too well for your taste.
Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, you watch them. After a few seconds of this comedy in which you seem relegated to the role of spectator, you clear your throat, loud enough to cover your father's laughter.
Both turn to you, almost at the same time, looking innocent. Abel, on the other hand, still has that smile that clearly says he knows exactly what he's doing; he takes on an air of surprise, astonishment.
“Oh, you're still here?”
You roll your eyes again and, exasperated but amused, you imitate them in a deliberately nasal voice.
“Oh, Abel, you know how to talk to people... Oh, thanks for the roses... Mimimimi...”
Your father and Abel stop laughing, like two children caught red-handed. Abel turns his head towards him with a widening smile, then gives him a knowing nudge, as if to say “she's jealous”. Your father stifles a laugh and raises his hands in surrender. As for Abel, he bellows with a falsely solemn air.
“I'll stop if we can't make any more new friends...”
He steps towards you and, with a confident gesture, places a hand on your waist. The warmth of his palm cuts through the fabric of your dress, and before you have time to protest, he gently pulls you toward the entrance.
“Come on, lady, enough jealousy, let's go this time.”
Arriving at the door, you turn to your father one last time.
“Have a good evening, dad.”
“Have fun, and no mischief.”
Abel answers before you can.
“Promise.”
You nod and your father responds with the same sign, and Sugarball, still on the couch, just blinks slowly as if in approval.
Abel opens the door, walking you outside with his hand on your waist, and closes it behind you before whispering in your ear.
“Anyway, we'll see about the mischief.”
Even though you can't see him, you can hear the smirk on his face. A shiver runs through your body, and a tinge of red soaks into your cheeks.
He leads you down the aisle, his hand still on your waist as if he's afraid you'll slip away before he reaches the car. The limousine awaits you, black and shiny, lit by a discreet halo of light from inside.
Giuseppe immediately gets out and opens the rear door, letting you into the soft, perfumed interior.
“Good evening (Y/N), You look beautiful.”
You smile back at Giuseppe.
“Thank you Giuseppe.”
Abel invites you to get in with an elegant gesture, then follows close behind, closing the door behind him with a muffled click.
Inside, the soft light highlights the black leather and impeccable finishes. Abel leans over to the integrated refrigerated compartment and pulls out an already chilled bottle of champagne. The little pop of the cork echoes in the enclosed space, followed by the golden gurgling of the liquid, which he pours into two slender flutes.
"To your first night at the casino! We're going to make it a night to remember."
Abel raises his glass, earning you a charming smile.
You raise an amused eyebrow, but accept, the light bubbles of the moment mingling with the effervescence of the champagne. Your flutes clink together in a clear little tinkle, then he continues talking, his gaze still locked on yours.
“We're going to have so much fun.”
You take a sip, the sparkling taste sliding over your tongue, and in his eyes shines that silent promise, that he intends to keep his word and that nothing about this night will be ordinary.
The road stretches on, calm, everything going perfectly. Through the tinted window, the city lights glide by in moving streams, occasionally interrupted by the shadow of a building or the glint of a neon sign. The cabin still smells of the fruity perfume of champagne and the light warmth of the limousine.
Abel, relaxed, plays absent-mindedly with the stem of his flute, one elbow resting on the armrest, while you savor a sip that bursts into fresh bubbles on your tongue.
Your laughter mingles at times, for no particular reason, just because the air is light and with him there's always a gap between the elegance of the situation and his perfectly absurd retorts. He sometimes watches you over the rim of his glass, with that half-smile that suggests he's already preparing a new dig.
You stare at him for a moment, then drop in a falsely serious tone.
“You know, I'm almost disappointed... I thought you'd wear a dress too.”
He turns his head toward you, eyebrows slightly raised.
“A dress?”
"Yes. Something sparkly. Maybe even brighter than mine."
He takes a dramatic breath, his gaze lost in vagueness like a tragic hero.
“Just think, I was this close to putting on a long, shiny black dress... and bunny ears.”
You burst out laughing, surprised by the mental image.
“Bunny ears?!”
"But of course! But... that would have made Cain way too horny."
You shake your head and laugh loudly, amused, while he takes a sip, giving you a falsely innocent look.
"So, to avoid drama, I chose the tuxedo. Personal sacrifice."
He rests his flute on the armrest, chin lifted slightly, as if about to reveal a universal truth.
“But you know... I'm sure you would have loved to see me in a dress.”
His voice is low, almost confidential, and his blue eyes sparkle with a provocative gleam, and you roll your eyes, unable to hide your smile.
“I'm not sure ‘adored’ is the right word.”
“Come on, now, just to see your reaction, it would have been worth every second.”
He winks at you before picking up his flute again and taking a sip, clearly very pleased with the image he's just put in your head.
The limousine slows before coming to a perfect stop in front of the casino entrance. The glass doors, framed by luminous columns, reflect the gleaming gold of the signs and the comings and goings of an elegant clientele. A red carpet stretches out to the sidewalk, trodden by patent heels and polished shoes that sparkle under the spotlights.
Giuseppe steps down from his seat and opens the door with a discreet smile. Abel steps out first, then extends his hand to help you down, the gesture fluid.
“Here you go, ma’am.”
He keeps your hand in his, letting you regain your balance on the floor.
Giuseppe gently closes the door, then slips his hands into his jacket pockets.
"Enjoy your evening. I'm going for a walk on the beach in the meantime."
With a discreet whisper, like a slightly shameful, unmentionable secret, he continues to speak.
“I hope the ice cream man still has the raspberry taste...”
He straightens his head and gives you a little nod, his eyes sparkling with quiet complicity.
"Good evening to you both.”
“Thanks, Giuseppe, but don't get too jealous at the beach.”
The driver laughs softly before pulling away, leaving behind the salty scent of the sea breeze seeping between the casino's gilded columns.
You've only taken a few steps onto the red carpet when an imposing security guard, broad-shouldered and cut like an ice-cream cabinet, strides towards you. His dark suit is perfectly tailored, but it doesn't hide the muscular mass that gives the impression that the columns behind him might bend before he does.
“Good evening, your identity cards, please.”
His deep voice seems to vibrate to the ground.
Abel pulls out a different card from his ID with a perfectly controlled smile, you raise an eyebrow but don't question him for the moment. You, on the other hand, quickly rummage through the small bag you've packed with the bare necessities before handing it to him.
The man takes the two cards and examines them with almost military seriousness, his gaze going from the plastic to your faces, as if to make sure you're not two look-alikes coming to rob the roulette wheel.
A few seconds stretch by, then he looks at you, before looking at your bag.
"Please open your bag, madam.”
He looks into your bag, which you open wide with both hands, then returns your cards and steps aside with measured steps, opening a passage to the glass doors.
“All right, have a good evening.”
Abel, true to form, gives him a small smile and puts his hand on your waist, guiding you inside.
“Thank you, my good man.”
And at last you step through the doors, leaving behind the murmur of the waves to plunge into the golden light and vibrant buzz of the casino.
As soon as you step through the doors, a flood of light and sound envelops you. The metallic clink of slot machines mingles with the muffled rustle of conversation, and the subtle scent of expensive perfume wafts through the air. The thick carpets cushion your footsteps, while the glittering chandeliers reflect off the gilded walls.
You take a few steps forward, already caught up in the bright colors of the gaming tables, but Abel gently holds your hand.
“Wait a minute, lady, you can't just walk up to the cash register.”
With sure steps, he escorts you to a marble counter to the right of the entrance hall, behind which stands an elegantly dressed hostess. Abel then pulls from the inside pocket of his tuxedo a small, stiff card, the one he showed the security guard.
It looks like an ID card, but more sober, with his photo, full name, a few engraved numbers and a discreet hologram.
"Here's the key to the kingdom. This is the casino card."
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued.
“Mandatory?”
"Absolutely. Without it, you can't enter here freely, let alone play the slots or tables. It's like... your official passport to vice and fortune."
He gestures to the counter.
"Tonight, we'll make you one. You'll see, they'll take your picture, ask you a couple of things, and then... beep, you're part of the house. All you had to do was put some money on it with the machine right there."
The machine looks like a high-end vending machine, only bigger. The touch screen takes up most of the front, framed in polished chrome that reflects the golden light of the hall. To the side, a card reader and a small numeric keypad wait patiently for a few bills or a bank card to be inserted. Further down, a slot with a green light border is used to swipe the casino card, with a small light flashing softly, as if inviting you to play.
"This is where you'll put money on your card. You swipe the card, choose how much you want to put in, and then the machines love you."
His eyes sparkle with a mischief you're beginning to know by heart, and he's still smirking, as if amused to see you enter a new world.
"But be careful, it's like feeding a wild animal. Once it's had a taste, it wants more."
“Are you talking about addiction here?”
“Exactly.”
The hostess steps forward with a professional smile, interrupting the conversation in a polite tone. Abel steps aside slightly, leaving you to face the counter. You provide the requested information, the hostess tapping rapidly on her keyboard, her fingernails producing a light, regular clicking sound.
A small photo booth is built into the counter. You sit down on the stool, mechanically adjust your posture and stare at the flashing lens before capturing your image. The screen immediately displays your portrait, sober but clear, along with the data the hostess has just entered.
A few seconds later, a compact printer swallows a thin plastic plate and spits it out, marked with a discreet hologram. The hostess picks it up, checks it with a watchful eye, then places it on the counter.
It's the same as Abel's, with a rigid format, photo on the right, full name, numbers engraved in relief and a metallic sheen that catches the light on the left. A sober card, but full of promise.
Abel collects your new card before you can, and leads you to the terminal.
“Come on, first baptism.”
He slides the card into the lighted slot, and the touch screen lights up, displaying a clear menu. You're about to pull out your wallet, but he gives you a sidelong glance and scoffs.
“Put that away.”
“Abel, I can very well-”
"Shut up. Tonight, it's on me."
He inserts his credit card into the reader, types in an amount without showing it to you, then retrieves your card from the casino to reinsert it. The discreet beep that follows and the message “credit added” appear on the screen.
He hands it to you, his eyes sparkling with pride.
"There you go. Your first official step into decadence with 200 dollars."
“What if I lose it all?”
He sketches a smirk.
"Then I'll forgive you. Consider me your sponsor... but only if you promise to smile for the camera when you win and mention my name eight times, minimum, in your future interview."
You shake your head with a laugh, slipping the card into your bag.
“Promise.”
As he escorts you toward the main room, Abel leans slightly toward you, as if to slip you a final confidence.
"Ah, last bit of info before we start introducing you to the real joys of the casino. Some games won't take your card directly, so you'll have to go through the tokens."
You look at him, intrigued.
“Tokens?”
“Right, like for poker, for example.”
He points with his chin to a counter right next to the one you were at earlier.
"You give your casino card, they withdraw the amount you want and exchange that for tokens. Simple."
He gives you an amused smile, almost as if he's just entrusted you with a secret code.
“And trust me... it's always more stylish to push tokens across a table than to press a button.”
You nod, mentally registering all the information Abel has just given you, as if you were taking a crash course in the art of the casino. Then, guided by the hand he gently places behind your back, you begin to make your way into the main room.
The space opens up before you like a grandiose theater. The high, richly decorated ceiling is adorned with gilded frescoes and crystal chandeliers whose hundreds of facets scatter light in warm flashes across the soft carpets. To your left, a long row of slot machines sparkles, each flashing with its own colors and emitting a different chime, like an improvised electronic orchestra.
Further on, the gaming tables line up in a perfectly studied order, blackjack, poker, roulette, each with its own immaculate green carpet, neatly arranged stacks of tokens, and croupier s in black and red jackets whose precise gestures are reminiscent of a well-honed choreography. Concentrated players lean in, some in tense silence, others punctuating their bets with laughter and exclamations.
On the upper floor, which you can make out by looking up, an interior balcony lined with elaborate balustrades overlooks the room. Elegant silhouettes move about on it, observing the scene below with their glasses in hand. All around you, the air is charged with a subtle blend of perfume, leather and a hint of discreet tobacco.
The whole casino seems to vibrate with a constant energy, a mixture of adrenalin, anticipation and controlled luxury.
You keep walking, your eyes still caught by the multitude of details, when your gaze stops on a row of slot machines straight out of a hypnotic dream. The lights dance like a permanent spectacle, and the saturated colors contrast with the dark velvet of the armchairs in front of each one.
You slow your pace, intrigued. You're not sure where to start in a place like this. The gaming tables still seem intimidating, and the rules too vague to risk. So, instinctively, you think the slot machines might be the simplest option, the perfect entry point into this world.
“I think... I'll try that.”
You look at Abel and point to one of the machines.
The electronic chime that escapes punctuates your decision as if to encourage you. The reels scroll across the screen, displaying fruit, numbers and golden symbols in a hypnotic ballet. The flashing animation promises a jackpot you know is unlikely, but the atmosphere makes you want to believe.
You settle down on the chair, smooth and slightly worn by hundreds of players before you, and run your hand over the reader where you'll have to insert your casino card, glancing at Abel as if to make sure you're not already doing something stupid with a sheepish little smile.
Abel remains standing beside you, arms crossed, watching your every move with undisguised amusement.
"This is a historic moment. Your very first official interaction with a slot machine."
You slide your casino card into the slot provided, and the screen flashes, greeting you with a glowing message.
"Oh, look at that. She recognizes you already... This is the beginning of a great love story."
You roll your eyes, focused on the options that pop up.
“You're an idiot, Abel Conti.”
"Every round is a life choice. Are you going to hit the jackpot... or burn it all down in a few shots for glory?"
“You're stressing me out more than anything else.”
He straightens up a little, as if to give his words more weight, but his smile betrays that he's taking more pleasure in teasing you than really advising you.
“You know, if you win, I'll claim 50% just for bringing you luck and then anyway, I'm your sponsor.”
You start the game, the reels scroll by in a blaze of lights and electronic sounds. They stop abruptly... And nothing. Not a single winning line-up. A small sigh escapes you, quickly stifled by the surrounding hubbub.
You immediately retry, inserting a new bet. The symbols resume their hypnotic course, but the result is the same, another empty combination. You feel a discreet smile forming on Abel's lips, still standing next to you, as if he's watching a show whose end he already knows.
A third attempt. Same outcome. The rolls almost seem to mock you, lining up cruelly imperfectly with each turn. The credits slowly but surely drop, and you begin to think that the machine has something against you.
Abel finally breaks the silence, his voice poised, almost as a matter of course.
“The house always wins.”
You turn your head and lift it a little toward him to meet his gaze.
“My father told me the same thing.”
“And rightly so.”
You restart the machine, the rollers once again shaking in a cacophony of electronic sounds, but you already know that the result won't be miraculous. Without looking away from the screen, you start talking to Abel again.
“Aren't you playing?”
He shakes his head slightly, one corner of his mouth turned up.
"No. I'm not interested in slot machines."
You raise an eyebrow, puzzled, then ask him for an explanation.
“Why not?”
“Because it's a lot more fun to play against real people.”
He grazes your elbow, inviting you to stand up and move away from the row of machines. You quickly pick up your card and follow him.
Guided by his pleasantly warm hand on your back, you follow him through the room, between the clatter of voices, the clatter of tokens and the ambient chill.
He finally stops in front of a table with impeccable green mats, where a croupier in a black jacket deals cards with surgical precision. Tokens pile up in front of a few concentrated players, the rustle of cards sliding across the felt punctuated by clattering bets.
“Blackjack.”
Abel murmurs with an almost carnivorous smile.
“My favorite game.”
Abel adjusts the cuffs of his tuxedo, his gaze going for a moment from the croupier to the stacks of tokens, then back to you. A wry smile plays across his lips, the kind that always precedes a proposal he knows will be hard to refuse.
“Want to play the next game?”
His tone is calm, but his eyes shine with an amused, almost provocative gleam, as if he's silently challenging you. Behind him, the croupier shuffles the cards with hypnotic fluidity, and the faint scent of leather, felt and adrenaline wafts around the table.
You answer with a slight hesitation.
"I've never played before. I'm not even sure I know the rules."
You pause for a second, memories flooding back.
“Actually, when I was little I had a DS game called Clubhouse Games or something and it had blackjack on it...”
You glance down at the table where the players, staring at their cards, are calculating every possibility with feverish concentration, hoping to rake in as many tokens as possible.
“But it doesn't look anything like that...”
Abel moves closer, coming to stand right next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. His eyes leave your face for a moment to settle on the table, where the croupier deals the cards with a precise gesture.
“Look, I'll give you a quick summary.”
He points to one of the players around the table.
"Each person receives two cards, and so does the croupier . The aim is simple, to beat the croupier to a total as close as possible to twenty-one, without ever exceeding it."
His fingers point to the cards on the table.
"Figures are worth ten points, aces are worth one or eleven, depending on what suits you, and the other cards have their value. You can ask for an extra card, then you say ‘hit’ or make a hand gesture, or stay on your current score, and there you say, ‘stand.’"
He glances at you knowingly, as if to make sure you're following.
"If you beat the croupier without going over twenty-one, you win. But if you go over..."
He mimes a sharp little gesture at his neck.
“It's over.”
On the table, the next player asks for a card. Abel inclines his head slightly towards you.
"You see, he takes a risk. Sometimes it pays off. Sometimes it doesn't."
He punctuates his sentence with a wry smile, his eyes twinkling, as if he's waiting to see if you're ready to take the plunge.
You raise an eyebrow, a slight smile at the corner of your lips.
“Is that all?”
Abel shakes his head gently, looking falsely serious.
"Well, not exactly. There are special options too."
He points to the table with his chin.
"For example, you can double your bet after seeing your first two cards, but you'll only get one extra card. Or split your hand if you have two identical cards, and then you play two hands at the same time."
He pauses, giving you time to take it all in.
"But be careful, it also depends on what the casino allows. Some limit doubles on certain cards, others prohibit splitting aces more than once. In short, you have to know the house you're playing in."
He glances at you mischievously.
“And anyway, I'm here, so all you have to do is give me a look or two like ‘help, I don't know what to do’ and I'll try to help you however I can.”
You remain silent for a moment, your eyes fixed on the cards sliding across the felt, still digesting all those rules. The idea of taking the plunge makes you hesitate. Part of you just wants to keep watching, but the other part can already feel the adrenalin rush that this kind of game promises.
As for Abel, he doesn't say anything more, just looks at you with that slight smirk that almost gives you the impression he already knows what your answer will be.
Finally, you inhale discreetly and nod.
“Okay.”
Abel's smile widens, but instead of sitting down immediately, he leans toward you.
"Perfect. You keep watching for a while, and I'll go and get something to play with."
He points to the table surrounded by concentrated players, then strides away to the exchange counter. You follow his gaze for a moment, watching his silhouette make its way among the tables, before turning your attention back to the game in progress.
The croupier deals the cards with a fluid gesture, and the players respond in turn with a precise hand signal or words, asking for a new card or standing on their score. Tokens clatter against the felt, pile up, disappear, reappear. You linger over their expressions, some masking everything, others allowing a shadow of frustration or a furtive burst of satisfaction to filter through.
A few minutes pass in this way, punctuated by the crinkling of cards and the discreet murmur of money circulating, until Abel reappears, a small tray of neatly stacked tokens in his hands.
He returns to you and, with a nod, silently asks you to follow him. He places it on the edge of the vacant table he's spotted, then pulls out the chair to invite you to sit down.
You take your places side by side, the leather seats sagging slightly under your weight. The other players, already seated, cast a quick glance in your direction before returning to their cards. The croupier bows his head in welcome and begins to shuffle the deck with that almost hypnotic precision you'd already noticed.
Abel takes the time to divide the tokens, sliding them toward you in two equal piles, the dry sound of plastic on felt marking each movement.
"Half for you. That way, we can see who's handling it better."
The bright colors of the tokens contrast with the deep green of the carpet, and just having them in front of you already makes you feel part of the game.
The croupier announces the start of the game and collects previous bets. The players each slide one or more tokens in front of them, their colored plastic clinking gently on the felt. You imitate their gesture, placing your first bet with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty.
The freshly shuffled pack passes into the hands of the croupier, who begins to deal two cards to each player, face up, and one card face down for himself. The rectangles slide across the carpet with a dry crinkle, stopping perfectly aligned in front of each participant.
To your left, a player taps his finger on the edge of the table to request an additional card. The croupier hands it to him with a sure gesture. Farther away, a woman shakes her head, preferring to stay on her total. The game moves on, the rhythm punctuated by the crinkling of cards and the sound of shifting tokens.
Then it's your turn.
Your two cards lie in front of you, an eight of diamonds and a seven of clubs. The total is clearly displayed in your head, fifteen, but you know enough to understand that this is a tricky hand. Too low to stay, too risky to draw a card without coming close to twenty-one.
You hesitate, your fingers brushing the edge of the table. The croupier 's silence gives you all the time you need, but not enough to ease the slight tension that's building. Your eyes finally leave the cards and seek out Abel, as if his expression alone could tell you what to do.
Abel meets your gaze and, without a word, tilts his head slightly to one side, a gesture barely perceptible but clear enough for you. He keeps his hands clasped in front of him, thumbs brushing absentmindedly, as if he didn't want to influence the game too visibly.
You inhale softly and tap your fingertips on the felt, imitating the gesture you've seen other players make. The croupier nods and draws a new card, which he slides over to you.
A six of spades.
Your total climbs to twenty-one. Almost too perfect to be true. A slight smile spreads across your lips as you remove your hand from the mat, deciding to obviously stop here.
Next to you, Abel flashes a knowing smile, but says nothing, letting the tension fall naturally as the turn passes to the next player. The steady clatter of cards and tokens resumes, as if nothing unusual had happened, but you still feel a little shiver of satisfaction run down the back of your neck.
The croupier deals Abel a jack of spades and a nine of hearts. Nineteen. A solid hand.
Abel barely glances at his cards before straightening in his seat, as if already amused by the result. He taps the edge of the table with his fingertips, a measured gesture, then shakes his head slightly.
“Stand.”
His voice is poised, almost detached, but you can tell from the way he wedges himself against the backrest that he's already satisfied with his hand. The croupier nods, passes to the next player, and the game continues, the crinkling of cards and the clatter of tokens punctuating each decision.
You glance at Abel, who keeps smiling, as if waiting to see if you, too, will make it to the end of the round.
After Abel announces that he's staying, the croupier goes straight to his own deck. He turns over his face-down card with a seven of diamonds, adding to his already visible five. Twelve.
Without hesitation, he draws another card, an eight of spades. His total comes to twenty.
A slight shiver of anticipation runs through the table. Some players let out a quiet sigh, others put on a neutral expression, but you remain fixed on your cards. Your twenty-one puts you in the clear and earns you a small pile of extra tokens, which the croupier pushes towards you.
Abel, with his nineteen, loses the round, but his wry smile doesn't budge. He slides an amused glance in your direction, as if to acknowledge your victory without a word.
The croupier gathers the cards, lines them up in a neat gesture, then starts shuffling the deck for the next deal.
One round follows another and, as you watch, you begin to anticipate the right moves a little better. But despite this, you still often look to Abel before making your decision. It's become almost instinctive.
As the croupier deals a new hand, a player seated to your right, a stocky man with a face flushed with annoyance, lets out a loud sigh. He's just lost another big bet. This time, he slams his cards on the carpet, slams his fist on the table and turns to you with a curt gesture.
"Seriously, are you going to keep looking at your boyfriend every time?! I don't like it! We're here to play, not watch your little act!"
The tension at the table rises suddenly, the noise of the tokens stops. You freeze, surprised by the violence of the tone, but Abel reacts immediately. He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, and stares the man straight in the eye.
“Let me be very clear.”
Abel pauses, it was rare, but you could see that emotion in his eyes you rarely saw, anger.
"If you're a bad sport, that's your problem. But if you open your mouth again to talk to her like that, it's going to become mine."
The player stared at him for a few seconds, jaw clenched, before sitting back down heavily, mumbling something inaudible.
The croupier, who hasn't lost a crumb of the exchange, keeps his expression neutral but intervenes in a firm, measured voice.
"Gentlemen, let's settle down, please. The game continues, and everyone is welcome at this table as long as we remain respectful."
His hands immediately resume their precise gestures, shuffling and dealing cards with the same fluidity as usual. This imposed professionalism acts like a lid on the tension, stifling a little of the simmering storm. The other players lower their eyes to their cards, and the atmosphere, though still charged, regains a semblance of normalcy.
Abel settles back into his chair, his gaze still hard for a few seconds before softening and settling on you.
The game resumes, but you can't really concentrate on your cards. Your fingers play mechanically with a chip while you still feel the echo of the player's aggressive voice. The hushed atmosphere of the casino suddenly seems more oppressive, as if every chip clatter or card crinkle becomes heavier.
You don't like the feeling of not being welcome, you hate it.
When the round ends, you gently push your chair back and look at Abel to silently tell him that you're stopping here.
Without waiting for a reaction, you get up and walk away from the table, crossing the room with measured but quick steps, just enough to put some distance between you and the table.
The bright lights and electronic music of the slot machines encircle you again, giving you the perfect excuse to avoid meeting the eyes of the table.
Behind you, you hear the slight rustle of Abel's seat as he rises to his feet. He says nothing immediately, letting you take a few steps forward before catching up. Leaving his tokens on the table, he gives up his seat without a backward glance, allowing another player to slip in if the mood strikes him.
“Hey, take it easy... We're not going to let some asshole ruin your evening.”
His voice is softer, deliberately light, and he sketches a small smile in your direction.
“Come on, let's find something more fun that might be simpler and more fun.”
You look at him, pausing for a second.
“You could stay if you wanted to, I know how much you love this game.”
“And how much do I love this game?”
“So much that you talked to me about it every day after you offered me the exit.”
Abel lets out a small laugh, shaking his head slightly.
“Yeah... that sounds like me.”
He slips his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo and gives you a smirk.
"But that was just to make sure you understood. You know, kind of like subliminal messages... but that aren't subliminal at all."
His tone is halfway between amused confession and assumed joke, as if he's mocking himself for the insistent way he'd prepared you for this evening and he'd finally managed to wring that smile he'd been looking for.
He keeps his smirk, but his gaze becomes a little softer.
“And to be honest, I didn't hate it when that guy thought I was your boyfriend.”
You immediately feel the heat rise to your cheeks, your fingers tightening slightly on the fabric of your dress. Abel, on the other hand, just looks away for a second, as if he'd just said that in all simplicity, not realizing the effect it's having on you.
“Shut up, Abel...”
His smile widens imperceptibly, satisfied that he's gotten exactly the reaction he was hoping for.
Abel doesn't pick up on your remark, as if it's been lost in the ambient noise of the casino. Instead, he naturally places his hand on your waist, his gesture sure but unhurried, inviting you to resume walking.
"Come on, let's go upstairs. There's a bar upstairs, and the bartender makes great drinks."
His hand remains light against yours, guiding your steps toward the spiral staircase that leads upstairs, where the light is dimmer and the hubbub of the machines gradually fades.
“What about our tokens anyway?”
Abel shrugs, looking perfectly relaxed.
“Oh, it'll please the players after us.”
He gives you a knowing, almost mischievous look.
“I'm feeling generous today.”
Without slowing down, he accompanies you towards the bar, as if leaving behind a handful of tokens were an unimportant detail, just a whim of the evening.
At the top of the stairs, the atmosphere changes immediately. The light is softer, golden, filtered through brass sconces that radiate a hushed warmth. The din of slot machines and gaming tables becomes more distant, as if muffled, replaced by a discreet jazz background.
A long varnished wooden railing runs along the edge of the floor, offering a bird's-eye view of the main room below. From here, you can see the rows of flashing machines, the poker and blackjack tables bathed in their halos of light, and the silhouettes hunched over their game, each absorbed in their own bubble.
In the center, suspended high from the ceiling, several immense crystal chandeliers project a shower of luminous sparkles onto the floor below. Their tassels catch the light and reflect it back in golden and silver flashes, adding to the feeling of luxury that pervades the place.
Abel leads you to the bar, a dark wooden counter polished by time, behind which an elegant bartender is arranging glasses. He barely looks up as you approach, waiting for you to order.
“So, what would you like?”
He sits down at a stool and invites you to do the same.
“Rather sweet and fruity, or something with a little more character?”
After a moment's thought, you finally decide.
“Sweet and fruity, but not too heavy.”
Abel turns to the bartender.
"For her, a Bellini. And for me... an Old Fashioned."
The bartender simply nods and immediately gets to work. The clatter of ice cubes and the scent of citrus quickly mingle with the soft music in the air.
The bartender places the two glasses in front of you with precision, the Bellini releasing a delicate scent of peach and champagne, and the Old Fashioned diffusing its deep notes of orange and whisky.
Abel quietly pulls a blue card from the inside pocket of his tuxedo and hands it to the bartender, as if nothing had happened. But your gaze freezes on it.
The name printed in capital letters leaves no doubt.
Cain Montgomery.
You look up at Abel, a silent question in your gaze, but he just gives you a small, impassive smile, as if this detail were completely unimportant. The bartender passes you the menu without comment, before wishing you a good tasting and walking away.
Abel grabs his glass and raises it slightly, as if to toast, before answering the silent question you didn't even ask him.
“He didn't hesitate for a second when I told him I was coming here with you.”
His tone doesn't let you guess whether this is a way of reassuring you, teasing you, or simply stating a fact. The sweet aroma of your Bellini rises to you, you in turn grab your glass and toast with it.
Abel keeps his glass raised and stares at you with that little smile that never completely leaves his lips.
“To OUR evening.”
The clear clink of glasses echoes softly, then you each take a sip.
The Bellini slides against your lips in effervescent smoothness. The bubbles burst in a light tingle on your tongue before releasing the round, sweet flavor of white peach. The champagne, crisp and light, balances it all with a subtle hint of bitterness, leaving a fruity note that lingers pleasantly in the back of your mouth.
You put your glass back down with a slight smile.
“I feel a bit like I'm in a James Bond movie right now.”
Abel arches an eyebrow, his expression oscillating between curiosity, confusion and amusement.
“Have you ever seen a James Bond movie?”
You mark a short silence, absentmindedly playing with the stem of your glass.
“... No.”
Abel stares at you for a second, then frankly bursts into laughter, the kind of frank, uncontrolled laughter that draws a few curious glances around you.
"I thought so. I figured you'd come up with it out of nowhere."
He shakes his head, still amused, before taking another sip of his Old Fashioned, as if this revelation had just illuminated a little personal mystery for him.
After a few moments, with another amused smile, Abel sets his glass down on the counter and turns his head slightly towards you.
“We could watch it together, one of these days.”
His eyes catch yours, and there's a sincere twinkle in his gaze, an unexpected gentleness that contrasts with the noise and bustle of the casino below. This is no idle proposition, and you sense it.
“Yes, with pleasure.”
The atmosphere immediately relaxes, as if this little exchange has swept away the tensions of earlier. The muffled jazz, the subdued lighting, the light warmth of the alcohol, everything blends together to create a tranquil moment just for the two of you. Your gestures, your smiles, even your silences become more tender, almost complicit, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist for a few moments.
You stay there for a while, enjoying the relative quiet of the upstairs. The conversation becomes softer, almost nonchalant, slipping from one subject to another with no precise goal in mind. Sometimes it's an anecdote that elicits a smile, sometimes a simple exchange of glances is enough to fill the silence. The Bellini retains its fruity, sparkling freshness to the last sip, while Abel's Old Fashioned exudes an amber warmth that seems to meld with the timbre of his voice.
When you finally set your empty glass on the counter, Abel leans slightly against the edge of the stool, as if preparing to move.
"I think I'm going to take a walk over to the poker tables. Wanna come?"
You shake your head gently, an amused little smile on your lips.
“No thanks... Blackjack was hard enough for me to keep up with, so poker...”
Abel lets out a slight laugh, but you raise a hand before he can speak.
"I think I'd rather hang around the slot machines for a while. It's less pressure, and maybe this time the house won't always win."
Your tone is half-serious, half-teasing, and Abel responds with a knowing glance before standing up completely.
“See you then, darling.”
Abel flashes you a charming smile and leaves, heading for the stairs back down to where all the games are played.
You stand motionless at the counter for a moment after he leaves, the empty glass in front of you. Your fingers slip into your bag to pull out the casino card. You hold it in your hands, spinning it gently in the dim light. The plastic gleams faintly, and you stare at your name printed on it as if for the first time.
The hushed silence of the upstairs still envelops you, but eventually you stand up and take your turn on the stairs. The now-familiar atmosphere of the games immediately greets you, brighter and more vivid as you descend.
Without thinking, you walk over to a free slot machine and take a seat. You insert your card, the screen lights up in bright colors, and your fingers engage the first spins. The reels scroll, the symbols line up, but you hardly look at the result.
Your thoughts are elsewhere, away from the noise and lights, floating around Abel's smile, the warmth of his hand on your waist, and the way his eyes had sparkled earlier. A light shiver runs through you, and you realize that, more than the game, it's those butterflies in your stomach that really occupy you tonight.
Your fingers continue to throw the turns mechanically, but your mind drifts even further away from the luminous screen in front of you. The butterflies in your stomach, pleasant at first, gradually mingle with the dense heat inside the casino. The air, laden with perfume, alcohol and the almost metallic smell of tokens, becomes heavy.
You feel slightly dizzy. It's not violent, but it's enough to make you frown and brace yourself against the back of your seat. Your stomach tightens, as if all this excitement, the flashing lights, the repeated sounds, the incessant thoughts revolving around Abel, is beginning to oppress you.
You inhale slowly, trying to chase away this strange mixture of nervousness and warmth that leaves you slightly sore, torn between wanting to stay and looking for a quieter corner.
You don't even know how long you've been standing there, spinning the reels without really looking, lost between the stifling heat of the casino and this mixture of nervousness that still agitates you. The noises melted into a constant, almost hypnotic murmur, and time lost all consistency.
Then, like a silhouette emerging from the fog, Abel appears beside you. He's carrying a small, transparent plastic bucket, heavily filled with tokens that clatter with every step. A quiet smile spreads across his face, that of a man clearly satisfied with his game.
He places the bucket on the edge of the machine. The metallic clatter catches your eye, bringing you back into the present moment.
“I think I was luckier than you.”
Your eyes widen at the amount of tokens almost overflowing the bucket.
“But... how did you get all this?”
Abel leans nonchalantly against the machine, a smirk on his face.
“I robbed people at poker.”
He says this with disarming calm, as if he's simply announcing that he's found a bill on the floor. The metallic clink of the tokens seems to underscore his words, and you're not sure whether to be impressed or a little concerned at the ease with which he says it.
The clink of tokens in Abel's bucket mingles with the surrounding hubbub, and suddenly you're aware of everything around you at once. The casino vibrates all around you, between the rising and falling voices, the bursts of laughter, the incessant clatter of the machines, the bright, flashing colors seem to assault your retina. The air, heavy and circulation-free, still carries that oppressive heat. And you realize that there are no windows here, except upstairs on the bar floor, as if the outside world had ceased to exist.
A wave of dizziness passes through you, your stomach protests slightly.
Abel, already watching you out of the corner of his eye, frowns.
"Hey... you don't look well. Everything okay?"
His voice cuts through the continuous hum of the casino, like a hand held out in the cacophony.
You shake your head slightly, your voice a little low.
“I... I don't feel very well.”
Abel reacts immediately. Without another word, he removes your casino card from the machine, slips it into his pocket, then grabs your bag lying next to you. The bucket full of tokens just sits there, abandoned on the ledge as if it didn't matter anymore, his focus and priority being you and no one else.
“Come.”
He runs a firm but gentle hand over your arm to help you up. Your legs are a little heavy, and the heat doesn't help, but he stays close to you, ready to support you if need be.
“We'll go to the bathroom, just in case.”
Abel keeps his voice deliberately calm, almost low, as if not to add to the buzz that's already assailing you.
His footsteps lead you through the casino aisles, guiding you to a quieter spot.
The toilet doors open onto a surprisingly quiet space, cut off from the hustle and bustle of the casino. The light marble floor reflects the warm light from the wall sconces, and large, impeccable mirrors give the room a feeling of spaciousness. The air is fresher, with the discreet scent of white flowers.
You slowly approach one of the porcelain sinks and turn on the tap. The cool water runs over your hands before you bring it to your face, letting small drops slide down your skin and soothe the heat that was crushing you.
Behind you, Abel stays close, one hand resting on the small of your back. His gesture is light, almost absent, but it anchors you in the present moment. His fingers make reassuring little movements, as if to remind you that he's there and won't let go until you're better.
As you sit up slightly, letting the water drip from your fingers, Abel tilts his head towards you.
“Do you need anything?”
You look at him through the mirror, still a little pale but more lucid.
"What about you? How are you feeling?"
He blinks, surprised by the question.
“Me?”
A shadow of confusion crosses his gaze, as if he doesn't understand why you're diverting attention from yourself to him. His fingers stop moving over your back for a moment, frozen in astonishment.
You straighten up completely, inhaling a little more deeply. The butterflies in your stomach, instead of calming down, seem to have intensified when your eyes met, mingling with the heat and that slight dizziness that persists.
Without saying a word, you move away from the sink and towards a large cabin at the back, spacious enough to comfortably accommodate two people. It's more a precaution than an immediate necessity, but the idea of isolating yourself for a few moments reassures you.
Abel, noticing your condition and remembering that you've been drinking, doesn't let you go alone. He closes the door behind you, making sure you have enough space, and stays close to you. His eyes discreetly scan your reactions, and his posture betrays that he's ready to intervene if you falter.
"I'll stay here, just in case.”
His voice is low and poised, almost an anchor against the agitation still beating in your chest.
You lean back gently against the smooth wall of the cabin, feeling the coolness of the material contrast with the heat rising inside you. Your gaze falls on Abel, who is standing a few steps away, but whose attention is entirely fixed on you.
Heat rises to your cheeks, and the butterflies in your stomach seem to have turned into a veritable whirlwind. Every beat of your heart becomes faster, stronger, as if it wants to fill all the silent space between you.
Your eyes catch his, and even though you could look away, you don't. It's as if, in that silent space between you, you're in awe. It's as if, in this small, isolated space, the noise of the casino no longer exists, just him, and that frantic rhythm pulsing in your chest.
“Abel...”
You pronounce his name softly, almost breathlessly, but enough for him to raise his head slightly. A flicker of concern crosses his eyes, replacing the usual amusement.
"What's the matter? Do you need something?"
His voice is low, poised, but you sense he's ready to react at the slightest sign that something's wrong. His shoulders have tensed slightly, his eyebrows a little furrowed, and his body leans imperceptibly towards you, as if he's standing ready to bridge the distance in an instant.
You lower your head, unable to hold his gaze for a moment.
“I'm... I'm disappointed to have to tell you this here, in this situation... It's not ideal.”
Your fingers tighten slightly on the fabric of your dress, and you inhale before resuming, in a lower, almost trembling voice.
"But... I can't keep this to myself any longer. To be honest, whenever I see you, my heart beats hard... fast... and I can't get enough of your presence."
Your words fall into the hushed silence of the cabin, punctuated only by the faint echo of the casino's distant noise, as if the outside world were holding its breath with you.
You inhale softly, raising your eyes slightly to his.
“I've been waiting for this outing for... a long time.”
You pose for a moment, looking into the blue of his eyes, searching for any answer.
“And... it feels good to be near you.”
Your words float through the air, simple but heavy with everything you've never dared to say. The warmth in your chest mingles with the warmth in your cheeks, and despite the place, despite the situation, everything seems clearer, truer, as if you've just laid down a weight you've carried for too long.
There's a long silence. You feel your heart beating wildly in this suspended void, every second seeming to stretch.
“I... sorry, I-”
You don't have time to finish. Abel takes a step across the distance, his hands coming to rest confidently on either side of you. With a firm but measured gesture, he arrives in front of you while you’re pressed against the wall, his gaze locked on yours. And before you can say another word, his lips find yours.
The kiss is immediate, charged, almost burning. There's this restrained urgency, this mixture of assurance and passion that sweeps away the rest of the world. Your hands instinctively come to cling to him, and the heat that invaded you earlier turns into a vibrant fire that rises even higher. The sound of the casino disappears completely, replaced by the rapid pounding of your heart and the feel of his mouth against yours.
His lips move against yours with an intensity that almost takes your breath away. It's not a hesitant kiss, but confident, assertive, as if he's been waiting for this moment as much as you have.
You feel the warmth of his hand sliding over your waist, his fingers following the curve of your body to draw you even closer. The other hand stays close to your face, palm open against the wall, creating a bubble around you where nothing else exists.
Your own lips respond to his with the same fervor, and every movement seems to send a shiver down your spine. The subtle scent of his woody perfume, with a hint of citrus, mingles with your short breath, while the light whiskey taste of his Old Fashioned mingles with the sweeter taste of your Bellini.
Time loses all importance. There's only the gentle but insistent pressure of his mouth, the shared rhythm of your breaths, and that certainty that grows with every second that you didn't dream, he felt the same way.
Abel steps back slightly, just enough to break the contact but not the closeness. His breath is still mingled with yours, and his hands stay where they are, as if he's not ready to let go.
His eyes catch yours with an almost palpable intensity, the kind that makes you feel he can read everything you're thinking.
“I love you.”
The words fall, simple and direct, but carried by a force that makes your heart beat even faster. Heat rises to your cheeks, and you feel yourself blushing in spite of yourself.
“I love you too.”
Your gazes remain locked, as if neither of you wants to break the invisible thread that has just been woven even stronger between you.
Without taking his eyes off you, Abel returns to kiss you, deeper, even more intense than the first time. His hands leave your waist and run down your hips, then he slides his fingers firmly under your thighs.
In one sure movement, he lifts you up, drawing you against him. Your back meets the wall as your legs wrap naturally around his waist, as if that's where they belong.
The pressure of his hands holds you effortlessly, and the new closeness makes each kiss hotter, more urgent. You feel his quick breath against your skin, the warmth of his body against yours, and your heart beats so fast you almost feel as if he could hear it.
In this small space, there's no more noise or crowd, just the sensation of him, his lips, and his hands holding you as if he never intended to let you fall again.
After a moment's pause, Abel slows the kiss, letting your breaths mingle for a few more seconds. His hands remain under your thighs, holding you with the same ease, but his gaze settles on you, intense and attentive.
“Do you want us to leave?”
It takes you a second to understand what he's saying, his voice almost covered by the pounding of your heart.
He doesn't look away, waiting for your answer as if it decides the rest of the whole evening. You stare at him, still panting a little, your arms around his neck.
“To go where?”
A light, low laugh escapes his throat, a sound that echoes close to your ear.
"We could already go in the limo... and go to my place, to a bed.... Or a couch if you don't have the patience to go upstairs."
His words are whispered with a mixture of mischief and sincerity, like a promise as clear as the gleam in his eyes.
A burst of laughter escapes you, clear and uncontrollable, and you nod without the slightest hesitation. Abel smiles, then rests you gently on the floor, his hands carefully leaving your thighs. He places a tender kiss on your lips, much softer than the previous ones, before slipping his fingers between yours.
"Let's go then. Come on."
Hand in hand, he leads you out of the cabin. You grab your bag from the sink as you pass, then leave the fragrant quiet of the bathroom behind you.
Outside, the noise and light of the casino return to assail you, but this time you pay almost no attention to them. You take one last look around the room, at the machines, the tables, the imposing chandeliers above, before the gentle but insistent pressure of his hand brings you back to him.
Abel almost guides you with a quick step, happily kidnapping you through the crowd, a knowing smile on his face, until the exit doors are in sight.
As you pass through the heavy glass doors, the night air immediately envelops your faces. Cool, but not cold, it carries the smell of salt from the beach next door. Your lungs fill more easily, and the tension built up in your chest relaxes a little.
Abel doesn't really give you time to savor the sensation. His hand remains firmly entwined with yours, and your quick steps echo on the stone flagstones leading to the forecourt. The illuminated facade of the casino recedes behind you, its bright lights and swinging doors contrasting with the calm outside.
The glossy black silhouette of the limousine awaits you, imposing, just off the curb. Abel opens the door and ushers you in first, closing behind him in a fluid gesture. The interior is warm, comfortable, a bubble of its own after the tumult you've just left behind.
Giuseppe is seated in the front, comfortably leaning against the armrest where a window is supposed to separate him from you.
With a tablet in his hands, he's absorbed in his reading, his glasses reflecting the soft light of the cabin. The sudden entrance of you and Abel breaks the silence, and the driver jolts slightly, looking up with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.
Without dwelling on his reaction, Abel calmly gives him an address, his voice betraying a confident, decisive tone. Giuseppe nods in agreement, setting his tablet down beside him, a blush marking his cheeks probably due to what he was reading.
“Yes sir.”
Then he presses a button to start the engine. The limousine glides smoothly out of the parking lot, leaving behind the bright lights of the casino and heading towards a certain residence.
Abel pulls you gently against him as soon as the car starts moving, his arm going around your shoulders to anchor you against his side. The warmth of his body contrasts pleasantly with the freshness of the air still filtering a little from outside. You feel the light vibration of the engine beneath your legs, punctuated by the discreet hum of the road.
He leans slightly towards you, his voice low, almost knowing.
"You know... Giuseppe, he sometimes reads some pretty... freaky stuff. You can't even imagine what he's got on his tablet."
His tone oscillates between feigned seriousness and teasing, and you can feel in the way his shoulders move that he's barely holding back a smile.
His words make you smile in spite of yourself, and a memory immediately rises to the surface.
You think back to that moment some time ago, when you had stayed behind to look after Cain. The evening had been calm, almost silent, until your gaze fell on the tablet left unattended on the coffee table. Curiosity got the better of you. You turned it on, thinking you'd stumbled across some mundane books.
But you weren't. As soon as you hit the home screen, you were struck by some surprising dialogue. In just a few lines, the style and content had made you raise an eyebrow, then laugh lightly with Cain. This discovery remained engraved in a corner of your memory.
So, when Abel slips in this remark about Giuseppe's freaky reading, you understand exactly what he means, and you know he's probably not exaggerating.
Without warning, Abel leans in and captures your lips again in a slow but intent kiss. His hand rises to embrace the curve of your cheek, his fingers warm against your skin.
Your cheeks blaze almost instantly under the heat of the kiss. The closeness, the gentleness of his hand on your cheek and the quiet intensity of his gaze send a blush spreading to your ears. You feel your heart beating faster, and despite yourself, a faint smile forms on your lips, unable to hide the effect he's having on you.
When he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, the limousine's subdued light accentuates the intensity of his gaze. His voice drops again, becoming almost a whisper, as if the words were meant only for you.
“Tonight... I'm going to make sure you know how much I love you.”
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