CHAPTER 2: "Whiskey & Cider"

Me dibuja un paisaje y me lo hace vivir, en un bosque de lápiz se apodera de mi, la quiero a morir.

La Quiero A Morir by DLG ( Daniele’s playlist)

*Camille*

I stared at my reflection, smoothing the painted sleeve of my custom jacket. Midnight blue silk. Abstract swirls mimicking soundwaves. Gold-threaded lyrics from Je l’aime à mourir stitched into the cuff.

Thirty minutes until I’d meet him. This wasn’t supposed to matter so much, but my stomach swarmed with sixteen-year-old nerves. I shook it off.

Soho Café Bar glowed amber through rain-streaked windows. I slipped inside and found a corner booth where shadows softened everything. The barista glanced at my jacket—not admiration, but curiosity. Close enough.

Then the door opened.

Daniele entered like the storm had followed him in. Leather jacket, black hair, and eyes that scanned until they landed on me.

"You're staring," he said, sliding into the booth.

I wasn’t prepared for how he looked in real life. His photo hadn’t captured the way his dark hair swept past his jaw in heavy, liquid waves,or how the ink on his neck peeked above his collar. There it was—the phrase that had first caught my eye, looking bolder and more real than it did in his profile.

“Just memorizing details for my sketch,” I said, aiming for casual.

But the truth was, I was already noticing things I shouldn’t—how his lips curved when he smiled, the tilt of his jaw, the way he carried himself.

 “You’re late.”

“Late? Nah,” he said, clearing his throat with a small laugh. “Technically, you’re early—I just got stuck taking twenty selfies to escape.”

I blinked. “The perils of being handsome?”

He smirked. “Apparently."

He ordered a whiskey, neat. I stuck to cider. The café’s playlist switched to The Kooks. We sat in silence, his knee bouncing a frantic rhythm under the table.

"Relax," I said. "I don’t bite."

He grinned. "Rapid fire. Current favorite song ?"

"Love Like Ghosts, Lord Huron. You?"

"Zombie"

He traced his tattoo. Mon premier amour.

"Why fashion over music?" he asked.

I ran my finger along the golden lyrics stitched inside my sleeve. "Because music disappears. It fades. But fabric? Fabric keeps shape. You wear it, you carry it. Fashion is the body music haunts."

He narrowed his eyes. "Explain."

"When my father left, he took his records. But he forgot a shirt draped over my chair. I slept in it for months. The seams held his shape longer than his voice held the notes."

He stared at me with a sudden, raw intensity, as if I’d just reached across the table and gutted him.
A silence settled. Not awkward—charged. We had both said too much without saying enough.

Daniele leaned back, jaw flexing once. His fingers tapped the table—once, twice—measuring a rhythm only he could hear

His eyes dropped to my jacket sleeve. “You really stitched the lyrics right into the fabric?”

I shrugged. “I like my ghosts close.”

He smiled—slow and sideways. “You always talk like that?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress mysterious men in leather jackets.”

His laugh broke the tension, low and warm. He held my gaze a second too long. “You’re doing great, by the way.”

*Daniele*

She leaned back, legs crossed, one boot grazing mine under the table like she didn’t notice.
But I did.
I noticed everything.

She smelled incredible. Vanilla, maybe. Or whatever perfume French girls wear when they’re about to wreck your concentration.

“Mon premier amour,” she read aloud, gaze dragging over the ink above my collarbone. Her accent curled around the r —soft, but with bite. She didn’t bother to hide her accent.

Fuck, I liked that.

“What’s it mean?” she asked.

I smirked. “My first love.”

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Did you miss the part where I’m French?”

I laughed. “Yeah. My bad.” I scratched the back of my neck, feeling like a total rookie.

She gave me a look—the kind that said, try again.

“I meant,” she added, “Why did you choose those words? What do they mean to you?”

I rubbed at my collar, wishing the fabric might save me, then shrugged as if it were nothing. “Got it at seventeen. Thought it looked cool.”

She arched a brow. “So… no thought whatsoever?”

“It’s a print of my mom’s lips,” I said, my voice dropping. “She used to kiss me goodnight and say how much she loved me. I guess she was my first love, in a way. I got it the year she died.” 

Her face didn’t shift the way most people’s do—no flinch, no pity. She just looked at me.
Open. Steady.

I liked that even more.

“Why in French?” she asked after a beat.

I sat back, letting my leg stretch until my knee pressed against hers again— on purpose.
“My mom used to say French was the real love language. Said everything sounded prettier in it. Thought the tattoo might help me, you know… seduce someone.” I raised a brow, slow. “Preferably French.”

She laughed under her breath. “Kill two birds with one tattoo?”

“Exactly. A romantic and an opportunist.”

She glanced at the ink again. “You really thought that’d work?”

“I didn’t know you were French,” I lied, smoothly.

She leaned in, elbows on the table now, smile sharp. “You didn’t read my profile?"

“I don’t read captions,” I said. “I just look at the pictures.”

She rolled her eyes. “Typical.”

I grinned. “Still got you here though.”

“That’s just because I have terrible instincts.”

“You’ll survive,” I said, my voice dropping an octave as I leaned in—close enough to catch another drift of her perfume. My knee brushed hers again. This time, she pressed back.

Her lips curled into a smile that promised to ruin me. “And here I thought European men were the flirty ones.”

“I’m Colombian-Italian,” I said. “Comes with a little chaos and a lot of flavor.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Colombian-Italian? Which parent?”

“Mom’s Colombian, dad’s Italian,” I said, smirking. “Mix well, serve with a side of drama.”

She laughed softly, clinking her glass against mine. “Santé. To bad instincts.”

“And worse decisions,” I replied.

But the way she looked at me—
The heat rising in my chest—
Didn’t feel like a mistake.