Solène was never one to linger in front of a mirror. She had never needed to, not before. She used to be the kind of woman who got dressed with quiet efficiency, slipping into tailored skirts and silk blouses with the ease of someone who knew exactly who she was.

But now, she hesitated.

The reflection staring back at her felt unfamiliar, scrutinized under the harsh light of her bathroom. She pulled at the hem of her sweater, smoothing it down over her stomach, then frowned at the way it clung. Too fitted? Too loose? She wasn't even sure anymore.

She swallowed, exhaling as she turned away.

In the other room, you were there—lounging on her couch, easy in your own skin, one arm draped over the back as you scrolled through your phone. A simple, effortless presence in her space, as though you had always belonged there. A man in his prime, youthful in a way that made her feel every bit of the forty years she had lived. And maybe that was the part that unsettled her the most. That you didn't hesitate the way she did. That you didn't look at her and see the years stretched between you like a barrier.

She wanted to believe it. That this thing between you—this impossible, unexpected, intoxicating thing—was real.

But tonight, it was harder. Tonight, she was remembering the way Daniel used to glance past her, how easily he had traded her in for someone younger, someone newer, as if the years she had given him were something to be discarded.

And she was remembering Izzy, oblivious in her room, listening to your voice through her headphones, gushing about August Moon the way only a sixteen-year-old could. How could she ever tell her? Would she even believe that her mother could be desired by someone like you?

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve.

You shifted on the couch, glancing up when you caught the sound of her footsteps.

Solène forced a smile. "I was thinking of opening a bottle of wine," she said, voice steady despite the unease pooling in her chest. "Unless you had something else in mind?"

Your gaze lingered on her a little too long, and that was the part that always undid her. The way you looked at her—not with indifference, not with amusement, but with something deeper, something that made her want to believe in the impossible.

And yet, the doubt clung to her like a second skin.

She turned away before she could let it show.

"I'll get the glasses."