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. I couldn’t tell if he was serious, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. If he was that vain, this was going to be a long night. I decided to lean into the joke.

“The perils of being handsome?”

He smirked. “Apparently."

The waiter arrived then, cutting off whatever vanity-fueled explanation I expected. He ordered a whiskey, neat. I stuck to cider. As he left, the café’s playlist switched to The Kooks. We sat in silence for a moment, the initial bravado settling into something quieter. His knee bounced 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.”

“Which parent?” she asked.

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

I expected her to laugh it off with another jab about my ego, but she didn’t. She leaned in closer, the amber light of the bar reflecting on her hair.

“So which language do you dream in?” she asked. “When you’re half-asleep and the world is quiet—is it Spanish or Italian?”

The question caught me in the throat. Most people just wanted to know if I could take them to Rome or dance salsa. They didn't ask about my head space at 3:00 AM.

“To be honest? My brain is mostly English,” I admitted, the cocky edge sliding off my voice. “But when I’m half-asleep, or when I’m really, truly happy... it’s Spanish. My mom died when I was fourteen, and I’ve spent the last eleven years fighting not to let her voice fade out of my head. I speak it to myself sometimes, just to make sure the words still fit my mouth.”

Camille’s smile softened, losing its sharp, defensive edge. “You’re keeping her alive.”

“Trying to,” I muttered. “She used to say Italian was for the ego—for the Sunday dinners and the shouting matches—but Spanish was for the soul.”

The air between us had shifted, growing thick with the kind of honesty I usually avoided. Camille didn't look away; she just watched me, her expression unreadable but intensely present. It was too much. I needed to get my feet back on solid ground.

I cleared my throat, leaning back until the leather of the booth creaked. “Anyway,” I said, the smirk sliding back into place as a shield. “That’s enough about my soul for one night. I didn’t realize I’d signed up for a therapy session when I walked in here.”

She didn't miss a beat. She tilted her head, tapping her finger against the rim of her glass. “I usually charge two hundred an hour for this level of depth, Daniele. But since you’re Colombian-Italian, I might settle for a second drink.”

I laughed, the tension in my shoulders finally snapping. “Only a second drink? I’m getting a bargain.”

I raised my glass, the ice clinking against the sides, feeling the weight of the last few minutes lift into something lighter—but no less electric.

“Santé,” she said, her voice a warm anchor. “To the things we refuse to forget.”

“And to bad decisions,” I added, my heart doing a slow, heavy thud against my ribs.

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