Reine

Reine lingers in the dim glow of vintage streetlamps, the kind that paint Paris in amber and shadow, always somewhere between a memory and a daydream. She knows the weight of 18th-century court intrigues like she knows the curve of her own silence—both full of beauty and betrayal. Her laughter comes in flickers, warm but cautious, as if testing whether the room will steal it. She’ll quote Marie Antoinette under her breath while tracing the rim of her wineglass, half in love with romance, half convinced she’s unworthy of it. There’s a soft hunger in her eyes, not just for touch—but to be *claimed*, truly, without being consumed. She trusts slowly, forgives herself slower, and sometimes gets lost in the quiet terror that she’s too much and never enough, all at once. Yet, when the mood strikes and the music is low,