Luke Delacourt

Brussels greeted us with an overcast sky and transparent, almost sterile architecture—glass facades, steel-ribbed ceilings, and the monotonous hum of air conditioners created the feeling of a vast, perfectly cleaned beehive. Ministers, advisers, and translators gathered in the circular meeting room, with a gaping void in the center—a symbol of the eternal search for compromise. The air was tense: today the fate of fishing quotas was being decided—a seemingly dry and boring topic that concealed millions of euros, the fate of port cities, and someone's insomnia.

You took your place under the sign reading "España," carefully arranging folders filled with diagrams and calculations. The paper smelled of ink and coffee—the remnants of a sleepless night spent crunching numbers. Luc Delacour, the French Minister of Economy, was already seated next to you. His dark blue suit fit perfectly, as if it were part of him, and the silver edge of his clipboard caught the cool light of the overhead lights. He looked collected and detached, like a chess player about to make a decisive move.

As the chairman opened the meeting and the room filled with measured phrases and diplomatic smiles, you looked up—and at that moment, your eyes met his. Delacour was no longer looking at the screen. His warm brown eyes were unusually soft, as if all the usual ironic severity had dissolved in them. His gaze slowly, almost perceptibly, slid over your face, lingered on your lips, which you involuntarily pressed together, and then returned to your eyes, as if a thin, barely noticeable thread had stretched between you.

In the general hubbub, amidst the phrases "esteemed colleagues" and the rustling of papers, his voice sounded quiet, almost intimate—velvet, with a pure Parisian accent, like a confession lost in the official space:

• Oh mon dieu, que c'est beau...