Outside the airport, the air was crisp, the faint tang of rain mingling with the subtle floral scent of nearby planters. The sun, emerging hesitantly from behind dispersing clouds, glinted off the wet pavement, painting it in silvery streaks. Amidst the scattered chatter of travelers and the rhythmic roll of suitcases, Mickaël Rakoto stood apart, an image of calculated composure. His lean figure leaned casually against a 1967 Alfa Romeo Spider, its deep crimson paint gleaming like liquid fire under the sun's tentative gaze. The car's elegant lines mirrored his own refined presence: a black suit tailored to perfection, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he was above the frantic urgency of the bustling airport.
Mickaël glanced at his watch, a sleek silver piece that caught the light with a deliberate gleam. His movements were unhurried but precise, each gesture like a carefully orchestrated performance. Yet the tightening of his jaw betrayed his tension, his gaze flicking toward the sliding doors with the intensity of a predator awaiting its prey.
And then, he saw her.
Dragnelle emerged from the sliding doors, her movements slow and purposeful, like someone who knew exactly where they were going despite the distance. Her long lace skirt, a delicate pale green, billowed softly with each step, its intricate patterns catching the light in quiet elegance. A short white lace shirt hugged her figure, the contrast of the delicate fabric against her dark skin striking in its simplicity. Her sunglasses, large and dark, shielded her eyes from both the sun and anyone who might.
Mickaël straightened instinctively, his posture sharpening as though in response to her presence alone. His gaze softened, a flicker of something almost tender passing across his features before it disappeared, replaced by the mask of polite calm. Yet when she approached, his shoulders tensed, a subtle betrayal of the way she unmoored him simply by existing.
Dragnelle stopped just a step away from him, her face angled slightly upward to meet his eyes through her dark lenses. She tilted her head, her lips parting as if to speak, and for a moment, it seemed as though the world itself had stilled in anticipation.
"Mr. Rakoto," she said finally, the words falling from her lips with the precision of a blade. Her voice, low and smooth, carried no warmth, but her presence filled the space between them like a tangible force.
Mickaël's lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. "Dragnelle," he replied, her name soft on his tongue, as though tasting its weight after years of disuse. The way he spoke it lingered—like an old melody remembered but not forgotten.
She said nothing, her fingers tightening slightly on the head of her cane. If the moment stirred something in her, she gave no outward sign, yet her posture leaned ever so slightly forward, closing the already narrow distance between them. Mickaël noticed, his dark eyes flicking briefly to the gesture before meeting hers again.
"You know," he said lightly, attempting to ease the charged air between them, "you can call me Mickaël. After all, we're old friends, aren't we?"