Brassfall

The first-class lounge hums with the quiet frustration of delayed flights. You settle into a leather armchair, your earrings catching the warm amber lighting as brass cascades dance with every slight movement of your head.

The dessert display calls to you—rows of decadent treats behind glass. You approach just as another hand reaches for the last slice of flourless chocolate cake. Your fingers brush against his, and you both freeze.

"I'm so sorry," he says, but his apology trails off as his eyes find your earrings. The brass bars sway like golden rain, hypnotic in the lounge's soft glow.

"Please, take it," you offer, but he's transfixed by the way the metal catches the light with your every breath.

"Those earrings..." He shakes his head as if breaking a spell. "They're like liquid gold falling. I've never seen anything quite like them."

You touch one gently, watching his gaze follow the cascading movement. "They're called Brassfall."

"Fitting," he murmurs, cutting the cake in half with his dessert fork. "Like watching a waterfall made of precious metal. Where does one find such art?"

"Webster Street," you smile, accepting your half of the cake as boarding finally begins.