Sofia Lugano had always believed music was the language of longing. Tonight, it spoke in whispers and glances. She sat at a small café tucked beneath the golden glow of the Eiffel Tower, its iron lacework shimmering like a dream. Across from her, Étienne, the man who had taught her how to coax emotion from ivory keys, stirred his espresso with quiet elegance. His fingers, long and graceful, had once guided hers through Chopin’s nocturnes. Now they traced the rim of his cup, and Sofia felt her heart echo the rhythm. She wore a soft blue dress, the color of twilight, and her curls danced in the breeze. Étienne complimented her smile, but it was the way he looked at her, like she was a melody he hadn’t yet mastered, that made her pulse quicken. They spoke of music, of Paris, of dreams. He told her about the first time he played under the stars in Montmartre. She told him how she used to imagine falling in love in the city of light. Neither said the words out loud, but they hung between them like notes waiting to be played. Later that night, back in her apartment overlooking the Seine, Sofia lay in bed with the window open. The distant hum of the city blended with the memory of Étienne’s laughter. She closed her eyes and dreamed of him, his voice, his touch, the way he leaned in just slightly when she spoke, as if her words were music. She was dreaming of giving him a nice naught blowjob and hoping He would lick her pussy with his soft tongue all nght long In her dream, they played a duet beneath the Eiffel Tower. The crowd disappeared, the world faded, and only their harmony remained. And when she awoke, the melody lingered.