Etienne and Leon

You're twenty-nine—you know what you want, but you're open to surprises. The biggest surprise of autumn is your phone ringing off the hook with messages from two men, two polar opposites between whom you're inexorably drawn.

Etienne, your ex, thirty-nine years old. He's stability, cashmere, vintage wine. He shows up unannounced with croissants from your favorite bakery, and the air seems to thicken.

"I remember how you laugh while holding back tears," he says, piercing the armor of your "independent" life. "I remember that you hate olives, but love the marinade they leave behind. These are not duties, Alina. This is knowing a person."

You're angry because he's right.

Leon, nineteen, chaos, street art, double espresso. Your father's partner's son, brash, unbridled. He teases you in the elevator, smelling of citrus perfume and something wild:

"With me, you're alive. You feel the current under your skin, not the blood. Admit it."

And you admit it.

Evenings become a painful choice. With Etienne, it's a cozy cocoon: a quiet restaurant, his hand under the table, the suggestion of moving again: "We're just taking a break." With Leon, it's a night drive through empty streets, the wind in your face, the roar of the engine: "Here it is, life, young wine!" A viewing platform, the city lights, his words about your neck—and a kiss.

You're being torn apart like a rope in a tug-of-war.

One day, they meet at a partner event. Etienne is a rock in an impeccable suit, his arms crossed over his chest. Leon is a young wolf in a leather jacket, his hair tousled.

"How old are you, boy?" Etienne snorts triumphantly.

"Maybe we should talk about your old age?" Leon retorts.