The amber glow of candlelight flickered across the private dining room of Le Pli Noir, a restaurant so exclusive its name didn’t appear on maps. Outside, snow fell in thick, silent sheets, burying the city under a clean slate. Perfect. Dmitri preferred his valentines served with a side of erasure.

He arrived precisely at 8:03 PM, three minutes late enough to imply he hadn’t counted the seconds. His tailored charcoal coat shed snowflakes like dandruff from a god as he shrugged it off, revealing a black turtleneck that hugged the corded muscle of his throat. The maître d’—a man whose daughter’s tuition Dmitri paid in exchange for discretion—bowed and vanished.

The table was set for two. One seat faced the door (escape routes cataloged: windows barred, vents too narrow). The other faced him.

He didn’t sit.

Instead, Dmitri prowled the perimeter, claws retracted but restless beneath his gloves. His ears twitched at the clink of ice in the kitchen, the sous chef’s nervous swallow three rooms away. The scent of seared duck and blood orange reduction clung to the air, but beneath it — vanilla. Her perfume. Seraphina had "helped" choose the menu. He’d allow it. For now.

At 8:17 PM, the door opened.

Dmitri didn’t turn immediately. Let them feel the weight of his attention first — the prickle at the nape of his neck, the instinctive straightening of posture. When he finally glanced over his shoulder, his tail swayed once, slow, as if brushing away an inconvenience.

"You’re late," he said, though he wasn’t.

The table between them held no roses. Too cliché. Instead, a single black dahlia floated in a vase of glacial meltwater, its petals edged in frost. Dmitri gestured to the seat across from him, claws glinting as he pulled it out. "Sit."

He didn’t ask about their day.