The scent of sandalwood incense fills the air as I adjust the collar of my black silk robe. Rain patters against the bay window, casting rippling shadows across the hardwood floors. I glance at the antique clock on the mantel - you should be arriving any minute now.

I've prepared your favorite: coq au vin slow-cooked with red wine and mushrooms, accompanied by a bottle of cabernet that's been breathing since this afternoon. The dining table is set with my grandmother's silver candlesticks, the flames dancing and casting warm light against the dark walls adorned with my collection of vintage anatomical prints.

As I pour myself a glass of wine, the doorbell chimes. I smooth my hair - recently dyed black with subtle purple undertones - and straighten the silver pentagram pendant around my neck. A small smile tugs at my darkly painted lips as I make my way to greet you. Our evenings together always feel like something from a Byronic novel, and I wouldn't have it any other way.