꧁꧂

ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ʜᴀᴅ ғɪʀsᴛ sᴀᴡ ʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴀ ʟᴏᴡʟʏ ʟɪᴛ ᴘᴜʙ.

She was captivating in every sense. From the soft harshness of the curve of her dress to the way her hair followed as she swayed from side to side. The feeling of finally being free flowed through her, moving her instinctively to the loud jazz that played like a personal backing track, being added to in rhythm by the clicking of her sharp heels.

It was only a short time before he had noticed her. It was as if he was the last one, as everyone else in the Carlson had as soon as she stepped over the threshold.

The pub was notoriously bad. It couldn't be described as anything other. It was where anyone under the age of forty in Birmingham, would go to forget their miserable lives by drinking their body weight in alcohol. The bar was unkept and both the people and drinks were cheap. But Valentine didn't care.

She was almost sprawled against the bar as she waited for her drink, her arms crossed as she leaned her shin against them, her legs together against the stool. Ignoring the shadow of men behind her, she smiled, feeling a new presence beside her. One that she had been interested by all night.

"So the little boy has finally worked up the courage to talk to me." Valentine coaxed, her voice sounding giddy from the high she received from her burst of recklessness in leaving the house.

Michael snorted slightly at her comment, raising a brow as his drink was placed in front of him. She was staring at him with dark eyes, daring him to come closer. It was obvious that she was the type of woman that would entangle anyone worthy who came near, and Michael had felt like she had worked an enchantment on him as soon as he sat down.

Valentine knew he was no different. He held an air of arrogance that convinced her to talk to him, without speaking a word. She recognised the trait often, but never had it worked as well as it didn't with him. Wine-stained lips were parted willingly, letting her words slips from between them with little effort.

"Valentine." She said, staring him down and waiting for any sign of a reaction that always came with her first name- he had definitely heard the french delicacy behind her speech.

There was no look of recognition or horror or surprised or even added lust. Michael didn't know who she was, didn't want her because of the difficulty of her name and didn't fear her because of it either.

"Michael." He said, watching as she picked her glass up, tipping the rest of the dark liquid down her neck as she stood up.

Valentine sauntered off to the middle of the floor once again, looking back only to see Michael sitting and watching her. There was common intrigue, a mutual interest that Valentine had never felt before. It was new, in comparison to the artificial lust that followed her around each corner.

"Aren't you coming?" She asked, her voice carrying over to the bar.

Michael met her easily, wrapping his arms around her waist, letting her pull him closer with her hands around his neck. They were similar in height, yet Valentine found the usual dominance that she held slipping from her grasp at the mere touch of his tough hands.

All eyes were on the pair. It was addictive, and Michael craved the attention. It was what he had wanted ever since he had grown into himself: the feeling of desire, of other's envy and of passion. The new Michael craved nothing else- and that was the man he had grown into.

"Why don't I know you?" She asked him, staring up at his eyes, searching for something that told her he was lying, like every other person in her life. Her hunt came back with no clue.

"I was going to ask the same thing about you." Michael answered.

The elevation of their names were something that both held in common. It was both a curse and gift. Something they both rejoiced and hid from. Had they recognised their names for what they were, things would have been different, without a doubt.

"Let's go somewhere." She whispered in his ear, her hot breath tickling against his prominent jawline.

Within second he was following her, hand gripped by her soft but assertive fingers, and pulling him out of the pub. He had not expected her to lead him smoothly toward the tunnels by the canal, leading him easily in the dark shadows of the weak moonlight that drifted down through thick and permanent clouds. But she pushed him against the wall, letting her arms slip down his side, feeling his heart pound anxiously against his chest.

She slipped her hand into his pocket, pulling out the pocket watch that Polly had given him only a week ago- it had been his father's. At the sight of three o'clock, her heart dipped and she pushed it gently back into his pocket. Valentine held him by the face, talking into his ear.

"Meet me here tomorrow night."

Michael watched as she hurried away, memorising the arch of her hips and lightness of her step, as if she had years stepping around on the tips of her toes. It was only when the shine of her porcelain skin had disappeared into the blackness of her surroundings, that Michael breathed again.

The woman was like no other. The fact was undeniable. She was a diamond, though roughly cut, that was somehow lost among the grit and coal of Small Heath. They had barely spoken, but he felt that no words needed to be said. Their looks, touched, feelings, said more than their meagre speech ever could. Within a single night, he felt like he knew this stranger more than anyone else in his life.

It was only as he had turned in his heels, ready to walk home, that he realised that she hadn't given him a time.

꧁꧂