"You heard me. Court her. Date her. Like a normal person. Bring her flowers. Leave her little gifts. Show her that you can be the kind of man she deserves."
I frown at him. "I don't know how to do that."
"Then learn." Luca's expression softens slightly. "Romeo, you're one of the smartest people I know. You can plan a complex operation, you can read people like books, you can manipulate situations to your advantage. Surely you can figure out how to romance a girl."
"This is different."
"Why? Because you actually care about the outcome?"
I don't answer, but he knows he's right.
"Think about what she likes," Luca says. "What makes her happy. What would make her feel seen, appreciated, valued. And then do those things. Not because you're trying to manipulate her, but because you genuinely want to make her happy."
It's such a foreign concept that I almost laugh. I've never done anything without an ulterior motive. I've never given a gift without expecting something in return. I've never cared about making someone happy just for the sake of their happiness.
But for Savannah?—
For Savannah, I think I could learn.
The next morning, I'm at the coffee shop again. But this time, I don't sit and wait for her. Instead, I leave her coffee at the counter with a note:For Savannah. Enjoy your day. —R
I watch from across the street as she arrives and the barista hands her the cup and the note. I watch her read it, and I see the conflict play across her face.
She looks around, searching for me, but I'm already gone.
The next day, I leave a book in her library carrel. It's a first edition of a text on Minoan archaeology that I know she's been trying to find. The note inside reads:Thought you might find this useful for your research. —R
The day after, I send her an article I found about new excavations on Crete. The email is brief:Saw this and thought of you. Might be relevant to your thesis. —R
I make sure there are flowers waiting at her building's front desk when she comes home from class. Nothing ostentatious—just a simple bouquet of daisies and yellow roses that remind me of the sundress she was wearing that first day I saw her, with a card that says:Because you deserve beautiful things. —R
I don't approach her. I don't try to talk to her. I don't show up at her usual spots. Instead, I let the gifts speak for themselves. I let her see that I'm thinking about her, that I notice what she likes, that I care about her happiness.
And slowly, I see her start to soften.
The day after the flowers, she texts me,Thank you for the book. It's perfect.
It's the first time she's initiated contact in over a week, and the relief I feel is almost overwhelming.
You're welcome,I text back.I'm glad you like it.
A pause. Then:And the flowers were beautiful.
Romeo:Not as beautiful as you.
I send it before I can second-guess myself, and then I wait, my heart pounding in a way that's completely unfamiliar.
Her response takes several minutes.Romeo…
Romeo:I know. I'm sorry. Too much.
Savannah:No. It's just—this is complicated.
Romeo:I know. But that doesn't make it less true.
Another long pause. Then:We should talk. About the project. We still need to finish the presentation.
It's not an invitation to anything more than academic collaboration. But it's something. It's a crack in the wall she's been building between us.
