In the meantime, I'm going to make Sophia my official fiancée. I don't like the thought of our upcoming marriage being just a done deal. Something that was decided out of politics and convenience, no matter how much we love each other. Or probably because of it. I need to do something special, make her feel special. God knows she deserves it after what she's been through, and I have just the right plan in mind.
The next night…
The hardcover in my hands is a prop, its title meaningless, its pages turned by rote, my eyes skip over words without soaking them in. I’m curled up on the edge of the bed, knees hugged to my chest, socked feet digging into the duvet. My stomach is rumbling, and it's late. Raffael has been working hard this last week, and I don't pretend I'm not missing him. I've gone a few times with Lexy to the shelter, and I’ve shopped with Violet for her upcoming wedding in Vegas, but seeing Raffael only in the evenings and mornings is taking its toll on my sanity. I miss him.
The house is quiet enough to hear the clock in the hall ticking down the minutes until dinner, which isn’t helping the gnawing in my stomach. I’m filled with a restlessness I can’t name, but that has something to do with Raffael's absence.
I don’t see the door open, only feel the change in the air: the ambient warmth deepens, shifts, like a weather front rolling in from the ocean. Raffael’s silhouette fills the doorway, his broad shoulders outlined in gold from the hall sconces, his posture so confidently at ease it loops my pulse into a double-knot. He watches me for a moment, the corner of his mouth quirks upward, and his eyes roam my body without restraint.
"Let’s go for a walk," he says, not asking but inviting. His voice is low and teasing, as if he’s challenging me to a game that only he knows the rules to.
I put on a full show of exasperation for him: a groan and a dramatic head-toss, the book pressed to my face to hide my smile. "A walk? Now? It’s pitch dark and freezing out there, and I’m already dying of starvation." The words sound like whining, but the undertone, the little warble of laughter I can’t suppress, gives me away.
He steps into the room, leans on the doorframe with that cocksure elegance, and shrugs. "What if I promise to feed you after?" His voice slides over the word feed, and I can’t decide if he means dinner, or if he’s about to eatmewhole.
I lower the book, squinting at him over the hardback. "Feed me what? You, or something with actual calories?" My tone is biting, but my heart is beating so hard it blurs the edge of my vision. Every moment with him is a negotiation, sometimes for power, sometimes for play, sometimes for the simple pleasure of seeing who will blink first.
He walks to the foot of the bed, cocking his head like he’s weighing the question. "Both," he finally says, and the word is a promise that tastes like yes in my mouth.
I sigh, close the book with a snap, and toss it onto the nightstand. "That’s not fair, and you know it." But I’m already reaching for the hoodie at the end of the bed, shoving my arms into the sleeves, pretending I’m in control of any of this. "If I step on something slimy, or if there’s a bat, or if I get murdered in the woods, I’m haunting you forever."
He grins, white teeth flashing in the dim light. "Like I would allow anything to hurt you," he says, and holds out his hand.
We slip out the back entrance, through a kitchen thick with the smells of roasting garlic and yeasty bread, and out into air that's not as crisp as I feared. But the world outside is dense with night: a velvet blanket of darkness, alive with the sounds of the woods. Several crickets chime, something rustles in the bushes, and a bird startles in a tree. Further away, the shrill cry of some predator calls out. The moon is a thin gold coin, tossed high and nearly spent, but lanterns flicker along the garden path like breadcrumbs for the lost.
Lanterns, I note, that weren’t there before.
We walk in silence at first, side by side, his hand in mine. The early part of the path is familiar now, crushed gravel, the sharp crunch underfoot, boxwoods clippedinto geometric hedges that catch the moonlight and shimmer with leftover dew. But tonight feels different. It’s not just the way the wind is less biting, or the way we both move with intent instead of aimlessness. It’s the weight of anticipation, an electric charge in the air, the slow tightening of a thread I didn’t know was pulling at me.
Every so often, I catch him looking at me. Not the way men look when they think you’re pretty, but the way you look at a puzzle you can’t solve, or a song you can’t get out of your head. I stare straight ahead, pretending not to notice the way his thumb rubs lazy circles on the back of my hand, the way his eyes soften whenever I shiver.
The further we get from the house, the more it feels like we’re stepping into another world. The path narrows, lined with old oaks and black pines, their branches arching overhead to form a tunnel. Lanterns have been hung at regular intervals here, too, their glass panes inlaid with colored filters that cast red, gold, and blue light onto the ground, creating overlapping pools of color that shift with our movement, making the world seem less real and more painted.
I want to ask if he planned this, if he came out here earlier to light each one, but the thought makes my heart stutter, so I bite it back. The silence between us is comfortable, thick as a weighted blanket, and I don’t want to break it with something trivial.
We reach the creek, the one that runs down from the edge of the property and disappears into the woods. Thewater is black glass, reflecting lantern light and the distant glint of stars. A blanket is spread out near the bank, lined with pillows, actual pillows, not the cheap throw kind, but the ones from the guest suite upstairs that I know he stole for this, because they still have the faint citrus-and-lavender scent of the laundry. There are huge throws, thick and soft, arranged in a nest around the blanket. Torches are planted around the clearing, their flames wavering in the breeze, and a fire pit has been set up with dry logs and kindling already burning low and steady.
At the center of the blanket is a tray: silver domes cover plates, a bottle of something sparkling on ice, and beside it, a single glass bowl filled with the tiny strawberries I told him, weeks ago, were my favorite.
My legs almost give out.
He sees it, the way I waver, and he steadies me with a hand at my elbow.
"Oh," is all I manage. My voice is tiny, half a gasp and half a prayer.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just guides me to the blanket, to the place where the throws are thickest and the fire gives off the most heat. I sink into the nest, overwhelmed by the softness, the texture, the sheer effort it must have taken to make this happen. He kneels beside me, pulls the tray closer, and whisks the dome off the first plate.
Beneath it: grilled bread with melted cheese and tomato, perfect and simple, fragrant and still steaming. Food that I told him I missed the first time we talked about home.
He opens the next dome: roasted vegetables, caramelized at the edges, glistening with olive oil and flecks of salt. And then the last: a tiny, perfect cake, layered with cream, topped with the strawberries from the bowl.
My throat tightens while I take all this in. He glances at me, a little sheepish now, his bravado slipping. "I know it’s not what you’re used to," he says quietly. "But I thought, I wanted to make something that reminded you of before. Something that's not filled with people, chandeliers, and crystal."
I can’t speak. I’m afraid that if I try, I’ll start crying and never stop.
He sits cross-legged beside me, picks up a piece of bread, and holds it out. "Eat," he says, the word is soft and insistent, as if he can sense my hunger isn’t just for food.
I break off a piece and put it in my mouth, then another for him. When I finally look at him, really look, I see how nervous he is. The way his knee bounces, the way his hands fidget with the edge of the blanket. He’s never nervous. I reach for his hand, squeeze it tight, and whisper, "Thank you."
