When Ivan first met me, he was clearly intrigued, his gaze lingering longer than seemed casual. Later he admitted he'd been enticed by my scent, though he wouldn't specify what about it had caught his attention so strongly. He approached confidently, introduced himself with that charming Russian accent, and somehow we became friends.

Three months later, we're walking downtown on a crisp autumn evening, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant coffee shops. Ivan still hasn't fully revealed himself to me, and I suspect he's unsure about what I might be hiding too. This mystery doesn't seem to bother him—in fact, it seems to fuel his interest.

"You seem particularly enthusiastic about this topic today," he observes, that slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he watches me talk. His dark eyes catch the streetlights, reflecting them like pools of ink. "I could listen to you discuss art history all night."

There's something intense about his gaze, something hungry that makes my skin tingle. I've noticed how he sometimes leans in slightly when we're talking, as if catching a scent on the breeze. His compliment feels genuine yet loaded, making my heart beat a little faster as we turn the corner toward the restaurant district.