Chapter 2: The Man Who Doesn't Blink
The bathroom door clicked shut behind them, and Vivi stood in the center of a room that felt like it had been carved out of a cave. Mirrors everywhere, fogged at the edges with the ghost of a thousand showers. A sunken tub lined in black marble, water still glowing faintly blue from some hidden LED source. The air smelled like cedar and something clean and expensive, the kind of scent that probably cost more than her monthly rent.
Dante moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers as he crossed to a cabinet. He pulled out a towel—white, folded, absurdly thick—and held it out.
"Shower," he said. "I'll find you something to wear."
"I—" She took the towel, her fingers sinking into the plush fabric. "Okay. Yeah. Thanks."
He didn't leave immediately. Just stood there, watching her with those blue eyes that seemed to see everything, catalog everything, file it away for later. She shifted her weight, suddenly aware of how the wet lace clung to her skin, how her hair was probably a disaster, how she was standing in a mafia boss's bathroom holding a towel like it was a lifeline.
"Marco's not in trouble," Dante said.
Vivi blinked. "What?"
"Earlier. You looked concerned. He's not in trouble." He paused, his jaw working like he was choosing his words carefully. "He was watching you the whole night. Making sure you were okay. He's good at his job."
"His job is watching me?"
"His job is whatever I tell him it is. Tonight, I told him to make sure you got a beer and didn't wander into anything you shouldn't."
She frowned, processing. "Wait. So when I walked into you the first time—"
"I was coming to find you. Marco told me there was someone interesting in my house. Someone who didn't know who I was." His mouth curved, just slightly. "He was right."
"So the whole—" She gestured vaguely. "The collision. The 'who are you and who let you in.' That was planned?"
"No." He stepped closer. "That was me being in the wrong place at the right time. Or you being in the right place at the wrong time. I haven't decided which yet."
He was close enough now that she could smell him—something woodsy and dark, mixing with the beer still drying on her skin. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"I should shower," she said.
"You should."
Neither of them moved.
Then Dante reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. The touch was light, almost casual, but it sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the AC.
"I'll be in the bedroom," he said. "Take your time."
He left. The door clicked shut behind him, and Vivi stood there for a long moment, her heart hammering against her ribs, the towel clutched to her chest like armor.
"What the fuck," she whispered to herself. "What the actual fuck."
She kicked off her heels, letting them clatter against the marble floor. The dress came next, peeling away from her beer-sticky skin with a wet sound that made her cringe. She unhooked her bra—black lace, matching the dress—and let it fall. The boy shorts she kept on, because there was a line somewhere, and she was pretty sure she'd already crossed several.
The shower was a monstrosity of glass and chrome, with about six different showerheads pointing at her from various angles. She figured out the controls after a minute of fiddling and stepped under the spray, and—
"Oh my god."
The water was hot. Not just warm. Hot. The kind of hot that sank into her muscles and made her moan out loud before she could stop herself. She pressed her palms against the tile wall and let it beat down on her shoulders, her back, rinsing away the beer and the sweat and the general feeling of being a disaster.
She took her time. Washed her hair with something that smelled like sandalwood, scrubbed her body with soap that probably cost a fortune, stood under the spray until the water ran cold and she had to turn it off. When she stepped out, the mirror had fogged completely, and she had to wipe a circle clear with her hand to see herself.
Damp hair curling at the ends. Flushed cheeks. Eyes that looked a little wild, a little drunk, a little turned on.
"This is a terrible idea," she told her reflection.
Her reflection didn't argue.
She dried off with the towel, and god, it was soft. Softer than anything she owned. She rubbed it against her cheek without thinking, the way she did with her cat's fur when she was half-asleep, and then caught herself and felt ridiculous.
The boy shorts were still damp from earlier. She wrung them out in the sink, pulled them back on, and stared at the door.
No bra. No dress. Just black lace and a towel she was supposed to leave behind.
"Fuck it," she said, and walked out.
The bedroom was a fortress of silence. The bed dominated the space—massive, with sheets so crisp they looked like they could cut glass, starched so tight they seemed to hold their breath. Dark wood. Dark walls. Dark everything, except for the lamp on the nightstand and the man sitting on the edge of the mattress.
Dante looked up when she entered. His eyes swept over her, slow and deliberate, taking in the damp hair, the bare breasts, the boy shorts that barely covered anything. The nipples that were hard from the AC, or maybe from something else. He didn't smile. Didn't react. Just looked, like he was memorizing her.
Vivi crossed her arms over her chest, then immediately dropped them because it felt stupid. "So," she said. "Your carpets are really soft."
"Are they."
"Like, really soft. And the towels. And probably the sheets, though I haven't tested those yet." She laughed, the sound too loud in the quiet room. "Rich people thing, right? Having things that feel good?"
He didn't answer. Just watched her.
"Okay, this is weird." She gestured at herself, at the room, at him. "This is—I'm half naked in your bedroom. I don't even know you. I don't know your last name. I don't know what you do. I don't know why you're looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like—" She struggled for words. "Like I'm interesting. Like I'm not just some drunk girl who crashed your party."
"You are interesting." He stood, and the movement was fluid, controlled, the kind of grace that came from years of knowing exactly where his body was in space. "And you're not just some drunk girl."
"I'm pretty drunk."
"And high."
"Also that." She laughed again, but it came out breathless. "So you're saying you're into this? The whole mess? Because I'm a lot. I'm aware of that. Jules tells me constantly."
"Jules sounds smart."
"She's a nightmare. But she's my nightmare." Vivi paused. "What are we doing here?"
Dante closed the distance between them in three steps. His hand came up, fingers hooking under her chin, tilting her face toward his.
"I've never seen yours," he said.
She blinked. "Seen my what?"
"Your tits." His voice was low, matter-of-fact. "You said earlier that I've probably seen so many. And you're right. I have. But not yours. And I intend to fix that."
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "That's—that's a very direct way of putting it."
"I'm a direct person."
"Clearly."
He let go of her chin, but his hand didn't go far. It drifted down, fingertips brushing her collarbone, where a faint trace of beer still lingered if you knew where to look. He found it. Traced it. Then he dipped his head and licked it off her skin, slow and deliberate, his tongue warm against the hollow of her throat.
Vivi made a sound she didn't recognize. Something between a gasp and a whimper, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders for balance.
"You taste like beer," he said against her skin.
"I warned you."
"You taste like beer and something else. Something sweet." He kissed the spot he'd licked, then kissed lower, following the curve of her shoulder. "Something I want to taste more of."
Before she could respond, he sat back down on the edge of the bed, and his hands found her hips, pulling her between his knees. She stood there, looking down at him, his face level with her stomach, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.
"Your dress," he said. "Where'd you put it?"
"Bathroom. Floor. Probably ruined."
"I'll buy you a new one."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." His fingers hooked into the waistband of her boy shorts. "I want to buy you a lot of things. But right now, I want these off."
He didn't wait for permission. Just dragged them down her legs, the lace catching on her hips for a second before giving way. She stepped out of them, kicked them aside, and then she was standing there, completely bare, the AC making goosebumps rise on her skin.
Dante leaned forward, his lips pressing to her stomach, just below her navel. She felt the heat of his breath, the wetness of his tongue tracing a slow circle on her skin. Her hands found his hair—dark, thick, soft—and she gripped it without meaning to, holding him there.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm cold."
"You're nervous."
"I'm—" She didn't finish the sentence because his mouth had moved lower, his hands sliding up the backs of her thighs, gently guiding her legs apart. "Oh. Oh, fuck."
"Tell me if you want me to stop."
"I don't—that's not—"
"Tell me."
"I don't want you to stop."
He didn't. His tongue found her, and she nearly buckled. His hands held her steady, one on her hip, one on her ass, and he ate her out like he had all the time in the world, slow and thorough and absolutely relentless. She was wet, slick from more than just the shower, and he didn't seem to mind. He spread her with his fingers and licked up the length of her, flat and broad, then focused on her clit with a precision that made her knees go weak.
"Oh my god," she gasped. "Oh shit. Oh fuck. Dante—"
He hummed against her, and the vibration nearly undid her. She was close, embarrassingly close, her body coiling tight like a spring. She tried to pull away, to catch her breath, but his grip tightened.
"Don't," he said against her. "I want you to come on my mouth."
"That's—you can't just—"
"I can."
He could. He did. She came with a broken cry, her fingers twisted in his hair, her legs shaking so hard she would have fallen if he wasn't holding her up. He worked her through it, gentle now, until she was pushing at his head and whining from oversensitivity.
Then he stood, lifted her like she weighed nothing, and set her on his lap.
She straddled him, her knees digging into the mattress on either side of his thighs, her hands braced on his shoulders. He was still fully dressed. Dark trousers, dark shirt, belt burning cold against her bare skin where she pressed against him. She could feel him through the fabric, hard and thick, and her body clenched with want.
"Your clothes," she said.
"Later."
"I want them off."
"Later." He reached between them, unzipped his fly, pulled himself out. She looked down. Long, thick, leaking at the tip. Her mouth watered. "Right now, I want you on my cock."
"I've only come once. You said twice."
"Did I?"
"You said—" She stopped because he was guiding her hips, positioning her, the head of him pressing against her entrance. "You said until I've come on you at least twice."
"I remember." He pushed up, just the tip, and she gasped. "We'll get there."
He didn't thrust. Didn't move. Just let her take him inch by inch, letting gravity do the work, letting her sink down onto him at her own pace. It was too much. He was too much. She felt impossibly full, stretched in a way that bordered on painful, and yet she kept going, kept taking him, until her hips met his and she couldn't breathe.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"That's it."
"I can't—you're too—"
"You can." His hands settled on her hips, fingers digging into the soft skin just above her ass. "You are. Now ride me."
She started slow. Tentative. Rolling her hips, getting used to the feel of him inside her, the stretch and drag of it. He leaned back, watching her, his eyes hooded and hot, his jaw tight. One hand slid up her back, following the curve of her spine, then tracing the lines of her phoenix tattoo.
"This is beautiful," he said. "When did you get it?"
"Years ago. College. Bad decision."
"Good decision."
"Really? You like it?"
He answered by gripping her hair, pulling her head back, exposing her throat. His mouth found her pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. She whimpered, clenching around him, and he groaned against her skin.
"Fuck yourself on me," he said. "Move."
She moved. Lifting her hips, slamming back down, the wet sound of their bodies meeting filling the quiet room. She found a rhythm, a brutal, punishing rhythm, and he met her thrust for thrust, his hips driving up as she came down. Her breasts bounced, her nipples hard and sensitive, and he caught one in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth.
"Shit," she breathed. "Oh shit, that's—"
"You're going to come again," he said, pulling off her nipple with a wet pop. "On my cock this time."
"I can't—I already—"
"You can. I can feel it." His hand found her clit, thumb pressing tight circles against it. "You're close. I can feel you fluttering. Give it to me."
"No, I—"
"Give it."
The command in his voice was like a trigger. Her body obeyed before her brain could catch up, a second orgasm ripping through her with a violence that left her sobbing. She rode it out, shaking and crying, while he kept moving beneath her, his own control finally fracturing.
"That's my girl," he growled. "That's it. Not leaving this room until you're dripping."
She felt him tense, felt his cock swell inside her, and then he was coming, spilling into her with a series of grunts that sounded almost pained. His fingers dug into the phoenix on her back, holding her in place, and she felt every pulse, every twitch, every bit of him marking her from the inside out.
They stayed like that for a long moment. Her on his lap, him still inside her, both of them breathing hard. The AC hummed. The lamp flickered. Somewhere in the house, the party continued, muffled by walls and distance.
Vivi lifted her head. Looked at him.
"We ruined your pants," she said.
"Worth it."
"I don't even know your last name."
"Moretti." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Dante Moretti."
"Vivi."
"I know."
She laughed, the sound cracked and exhausted. "You know everything, don't you?"
"Not everything." His hand came up, brushing damp hair from her face. "But I'd like to."
She looked at him. At this man who had just fucked her within an inch of her life, who had licked beer off her collarbone like it was a delicacy, who was still inside her, still holding her like she mattered.
"This is insane," she said.
"Probably."
"I should go home."
"You should stay."
"My cat's going to be pissed."
"I'll buy you a new cat."
She laughed again, harder this time, her forehead dropping to his shoulder. "That's not how cats work."
"I'll learn."
She stayed. Curled into him, boneless and spent, the party a distant memory. She didn't know what came next. Didn't know if this was a one-time thing or the start of something she couldn't name. But she stayed. And for now, that was enough.
The room settled into a silence that felt different from before. Not the heavy quiet of the house itself, but something smaller. Something that belonged just to them.
Vivi shifted on his lap, and he slipped out of her with a wet sound that made her wince. She felt the mess of it—his come and hers, slicking her thighs, cooling on her skin.
"So," she said, her voice hoarse. "That happened."
"Twice."
"Three times, actually. If you're counting." She laughed, but it came out shaky. "I'm not usually—I mean, I don't normally—"
"Don't." His hand found her hip, thumb tracing the edge of her octopus tattoo. "Don't do that. Don't apologize for wanting something."
"I wasn't apologizing."
"You were about to."
She looked at him. His hair was mussed, his shirt wrinkled where she'd gripped it, and there was a smear of her lip gloss on his collar. He looked less like a man who controlled the room and more like a man who'd just been thoroughly wrecked.
It was a good look on him.
"Okay," she said. "Fine. I wasn't going to apologize. But I should probably clean up."
"Bathroom's through there."
"I know. I just came from there." She didn't move. Neither did he. "You're going to have to let go of me at some point."
"At some point."
He was still holding her, one hand on her hip, the other flat against her back. His fingers were warm and steady, and she could feel the calluses on his palm—the hands of someone who worked with them, who wasn't afraid of getting dirty.
"What do you do?" she asked. "For work, I mean."
"What do you think I do?"
"I think you do something illegal." She said it flat, no judgment, just observation. "The house, the men who don't make eye contact with you, the fact that everyone at that party was dressed like they were attending a funeral for someone they hated."
Dante's mouth twitched. "That's a lot of analysis for someone who was wasted."
"I'm observant. It's a curse." She finally climbed off him, and her legs wobbled. "Also I'm pretty sure I saw a guy with a gun holster under his jacket. So."
"He's security."
"Uh-huh." She found her boy shorts on the floor and pulled them on. The lace was cold now, stiff with dried fluid, but she didn't have anything else. "And what are you securing? Besides the beer supply?"
Dante stood. His fly was still open, and he didn't bother hiding it, just tucked himself away and zipped up. The casualness of it made her face hot.
"You're not scared," he said.
"Should I be?"
"Most people are."
"I'm not most people."
"No." He crossed to the window, pulled back the curtain a fraction, let it fall. Outside was dark, the kind of deep, oppressive dark of a property with no neighbors within shouting distance. "You're definitely not."
"So are you going to answer the question?"
"It's not a simple answer."
"It's a simple question."
He turned to face her. The lamp caught his eyes, made them look almost luminous. "I run things. I make sure people pay their debts. I solve problems that other people can't solve."
"That's a fancy way of saying 'criminal.'"
"It's an accurate way of saying 'businessman.' But yes. If you want the crude version."
"So I'm in a mob boss's bedroom."
"You're in my bedroom."
"That's not a denial."
He crossed back to her, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head. "I'm not going to deny what I am. I'm not ashamed of it. But I also don't discuss it. Not with people I just met."
"Ah." She nodded slowly. "So we're at the 'get to know you' phase. What do you want to know?"
"How'd you end up here?"
"My friend Jules and her boyfriend Marco." She gestured vaguely. "They dragged me out. Said I needed to get laid. Which—"
"Which you did."
"Which I did. Thanks for that, by the way. Very hospitable."
"You're welcome."
"Would you have done it for just anyone?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "No."
"So I'm special."
"You're interesting."
"That's not the same as special."
"It's better." He reached up, caught a curl of her hair, wound it around his finger. "Special is what people call you when they want to be polite. Interesting is what I call someone I want to keep talking to."
"And do you? Want to keep talking to me?"
"I want you to stay."
She looked at the bed. The ruined sheets, the indent where they'd been. Looked at the door that led back to the hallway, back to the party, back to Jules and Marco and the normal world.
"I should find my friend," she said. "She's probably freaking out."
"She's not. Marco's with her."
"You don't know that."
"I do. He would have texted me if there was a problem."
"Oh, so you're checking your phone for updates on me now?"
Dante didn't answer. Just watched her with those eyes that seemed to hold the room steady, like gravity.
"Okay," she said. "I'll stay. For a little while. But I need water. And maybe food. And definitely a shower."
"You already showered."
"I showered before you wrecked me. Now there's—" She gestured at her thighs. "Evidence."
The corner of his mouth lifted. A real smile, small but there. "The bathroom's still there."
"Great." She turned, then stopped. "Hey. Dante."
"Yes?"
"Was any of that planned? Me ending up in here?"
He didn't answer immediately. Just looked at her, his expression unreadable, the light catching hard lines of his jaw.
"No," he said finally. "I don't plan things like this. I don't need to."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you walked into me. It means you were drunk and loud and completely unaware of what kind of house you were in. And I found that interesting."
"Interesting."
"Very."
She frowned. "That sounds like a compliment."
"It is."
"I don't know what to do with that."
"Most people don't." He crossed his arms. "Go shower. I'll find you clothes."
"I don't want to shower in your bathroom again."
"Why?"
"Because it's weird. Being in there, knowing you're out here, knowing what happened. It's like the room remembers."
"It's a room, Vivi."
"It's romanticizing. I'm drunk."
"You're not that drunk."
"I'm high."
"Barely."
She glared at him. He stared back, calm and immovable.
"Fine," she said. "Shower. But then I want to see the rest of the house."
"Why?"
"Because I just fucked a mob boss in his bedroom and I want to see what else he's got going on."
Dante tilted his head. "Most people don't say things like that."
"Most people don't stumble into a mob boss's bedroom and ask about his towels."
He laughed. Actually laughed, a short, surprised sound that cracked his composure. "Towels?"
"They're really soft."
"You mentioned."
"They're the softest towels I've ever used."
"That's your criteria in a house?"
"It's a start."
He shook his head, but his eyes were warm. The armor was slipping, just a little, showing something underneath that wasn't cold control.
"Fine," he said. "Shower. Then a tour. But I'm warning you—it's not a museum."
"What is it?"
"Home."
The word hung between them. Simple. Loaded.
"Okay," she said. "Home. Got it."
She turned toward the bathroom, then stopped in the doorway.
"Hey, Dante?"
"What?"
"Thanks. For not making this weird."
"It's not weird."
"It's a little weird." She gestured between them, naked chests and mussed hair and the smell of sex still hanging in the air. "This. Whatever this is."
"It doesn't have to be anything."
"That's the most reassuring thing you've said all night."
"Then you're easily reassured."
"Says the man who buys towels that cost more than my rent."
She shut the door before he could respond. The mirror was still fogged from earlier, and she wiped it clear with her hand, looked at herself.
Her hair was a disaster. Mascara smudged under her eyes. A red mark blooming on her neck where he'd sucked, undeniable. She looked like someone who'd been fucked by a stranger in a strange house and now had to figure out what came next.
"Get it together," she told her reflection.
Her reflection, as usual, didn't argue.
---
The morning came hard and bright, cutting through the curtains like an accusation. Vivi woke slowly, disoriented, her body sore in places she'd forgotten she had.
The bed was empty beside her. For a second she panicked, felt that familiar drop in her stomach, the one that said you've done it again, you've been stupid again, but then she heard the shower running through the bathroom door.
She sat up. Looked around. The room was the same as last night—dark wood, heavy furniture, that crushing silence. Her boy shorts were folded on the nightstand, next to a glass of water. She didn't remember him doing that.
The shower stopped. The door opened.
Dante stepped out with a towel around his waist, steam curling off his shoulders. His hair was wet, slicked back, and there was a faint scratch on his chest from her nails.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning." Her voice came out rough. "What time is it?"
"Late. Almost noon."
"Shit."
"You need to be somewhere?"
"No. I just—I never sleep this late."
"You were tired."
"That's one word for it."
He crossed to the dresser, pulled out a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. "Here. They'll be big, but they're clean."
She took them. Pulled the shirt over her head. It smelled like him—that woodsy, dark scent that had been on her skin all night.
"Thanks," she said.
"I made coffee. It's in the kitchen."
"I don't think I can face a kitchen."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Feels too normal."
He looked at her. That steady, unblinking gaze that made her feel like she was being read, page by page.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"You're not."
"You don't know me."
"I know enough." He sat on the edge of the bed, not quite close enough to touch. "You're anxious. You're thinking about leaving. You're also thinking about staying, and those two things are fighting each other."
"Who are you, my therapist?"
"I'm observant. Like you."
She pulled her knees to her chest. The shirt was loose, falling off one shoulder, and she didn't bother fixing it.
"Last night was—" She stopped. Started again. "Okay. So. Here's the thing."
"Here's the thing," he echoed.
"I don't do this. I don't hook up with strangers. I don't stay the night. I don't—" She gestured at him, at the room, at everything. "This."
"But you did."
"Because I was drunk. And high. And feeling sorry for myself."
"That's not why."
"It's part of why."
"I'm not going to argue with you." His voice was steady, patient, the tone of someone who had all the time in the world. "But I don't think you came here on accident. I don't think you stayed on accident."
"Then what do you think?"
"I think you were looking for something. And I think you found it."
"That's a big assumption."
"It is."
She looked at him. The scratch on his chest. The way his hands rested on his knees, loose and relaxed. The faint bruise forming on his collarbone, from her mouth.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For last night." Her face burned. "That was—I mean, that was the first time."
He blinked. "The first time for what?"
"That I've ever—" She waved her hand. "You know. Orgasmed. With someone. Like, during. With a person."
The silence that followed was so complete she could hear the clock ticking somewhere in the house.
"That's the first time," he repeated slowly.
"Yeah."
"With anyone."
"With anyone doing that. Fucking or—" She made a vague gesture. "Eating me. What you did. That was the first time anyone's ever—I didn't even know my body could do that."
Dante was very still. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on something he wanted to say but was holding back.
"That's—" He stopped. Started over. "That's a lot to process."
"I know. I'm sorry. That's weird to just—"
"No." He cut her off. "Don't apologize. I'm just—" He exhaled. "Surprised."
"Surprised?"
"That someone hasn't taken the time."
"People aren't usually interested in taking time with me." She laughed, but it wasn't a funny laugh. "I'm a lot. I talk too much. I'm too honest. I make things weird. Guys don't usually stick around long enough to figure out what makes me come."
"That's their loss."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just not built for relationships." She picked at the sleeve of his shirt. "I'm horrible at them. I haven't even been in one in, like, two years. And the last guy—" She stopped, closed her eyes. "The last guy was a piece of shit. He cheated on me constantly. Like, constantly. And I found out because I went through his phone one night and it was just—" She laughed again, hollow. "It was like a zoo. A cougar zoo. There were so many older women. So many. I didn't even know where he found them."
"He sounds like an idiot."
"He was. He is. Whatever." She opened her eyes, looked at him. "I'm just saying. If you're looking for something serious, I'm not—I mean, I'd try. For you, I'd try. But I'm probably going to do shit wrong and say shit wrong a lot. So. Just so you know."
Dante didn't respond right away. He just looked at her, and the looking was its own kind of answer.
"You stayed," he said finally.
"Yeah."
"Through the night. You stayed."
"You told me to."
"I didn't make you."
"No. You didn't." She tilted her head. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I don't care if you're bad at relationships. I'm saying I don't care if you say the wrong thing." He reached out, caught her ankle, pulled her gently across the bed toward him. "I'm saying I want to try. If you do."
"That's—that's a lot. For one night."
"Then we'll take it slow."
"I don't know what that means."
"Neither do I." His thumb traced a circle on her ankle. "But I'm willing to figure it out."
She looked at him. At the man who fucked like he owned her, who looked at her like she was the only thing in the room, who had held her while she slept like she was something to protect.
"Okay," she said. "Let's figure it out."
He pulled her closer. She went willingly.
And somewhere downstairs, the world waited. The party cleanup, the men with guns, the business of being Dante Moretti. But for now, in this room, there was just this—two people who didn't know each other, deciding to try anyway.