My eyes widened. “Chess sets? Like, the whole thing? Pieces and board?”
He nodded, a hint of pride in his expression. “I find the precision satisfying.”
“I’d love to see them sometime,” I said, genuinely fascinated. “Do you play as well?”
“When I have an opponent.” Something flickered in his eyes. “It’s been some time.”
“I play,” I offered. “Not well, but enthusiastically. My dad taught me when I was little.”
“Perhaps we could…” He hesitated, as if uncertain how to phrase the invitation.
“Play together?” I finished for him. “I’d like that. Fair warning, though—I’m terribly competitive despite my mediocre skills.”
The small smile returned. “I’ll remember that.”
The conversation flowed more easily after that, winding through topics serious and trivial. I learned that Rion enjoyed classical music but harbored a secret appreciation for 80s rock bands. He preferred history books to fiction, though he’d developed a grudging respect for Hemingway. He couldn’t stand cilantro (“Tastes like soap”) but loved spicy food.
In turn, I told him about my childhood dream of becoming an archaeologist before books won out, my disastrous attempt at learning guitar in college, my tendency to cry at commercialsinvolving animals. With each exchange, the space between us seemed to shrink, the connection deepen.
As we finished eating, I realized we’d gone through both the pasta and an entire loaf of bread. The wine bottle stood empty, and the candles I’d lit were burning low. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d so completely lost track of time in conversation.
“That was delicious,” Rion said, setting down his napkin. “Thank you.”
“For overcooked pasta and near-disasters? The bar is low,” I joked.
“For the meal,” he said seriously. “And the conversation.”
I smiled, warmed by his sincerity. “Even with the wine spill?”
“Especially with the wine spill.” Was that teasing in his tone? “It was… authentically you.”
“Clumsy and chaotic?”
“Resilient,” he corrected. “You don’t let small setbacks deter you.”
I blinked, touched by his perspective. “That’s… possibly the nicest spin anyone’s ever put on my klutziness.”
“Not spin. Observation.” He rose from the table, his head nearly brushing my ceiling. “Let me help clean up.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” he said simply.
So we cleared the table together, falling back into that same careful dance in my small kitchen. I washed while he dried,his large hands handling my plates and glasses with surprising delicacy. The domesticity of the moment struck me—how natural it felt to have him in my space, how easily we’d found a rhythm together.
As I handed him the last wine glass, our fingers brushed again, lingering this time. I looked up to find his eyes already on me, dark and intent. The air between us seemed to thicken, charged with all the things we hadn’t said.
“Clara,” he said, my name a low rumble that I felt as much as heard.
“Yes?” My voice came out barely above a whisper.
He set the wine glass down carefully, his movements deliberate. Then his eyes found mine again, and what I saw there made my heart race—longing, hesitation, and something deeper, more intense.
“Thank you,” he said finally. “For seeing me.”
The simple statement held such weight, such vulnerability, that I felt my throat tighten with emotion. I understood what he meant—thank you for seeing beyond the horns and fur, beyond the myths and monsters, to the person beneath.
“I like what I see,” I said softly.
