***
La Jardin Rouge smells like butter, garlic, and money. Three things that have no business being in the same room with me. The place is all low lights, white tablecloths, and waiters who glide like they’re on rails. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen rain. Every surface is polished to a mirror shine. I feel like a stray cat someone dragged in off the street.
Maksim sits across from me, looking exactly as out of place as I feel, but for different reasons. He’s too big for the delicate chair, too sharp for the soft jazz humming in the background. His forearms rest on the table like he’s claiming territory, and every time the waiter approaches, the poor guy flinches just a fraction before remembering his lines.
I would’ve been happier with drive-thru burgers in the front seat of his car, grease on my fingers, windows cracked, city noise drowning out everything else. That would’ve made sense.
This?
This feels like he’s trying to prove something.
To me. To himself.
He said he’s trying to do normal. I still don’t getwhy.
The waiter sets down my plate—some kind of seared scallop thing with a sauce that looks like liquid gold and tiny green dots I’m pretty sure are edible. I poke at it with the fork. It’s beautiful. I’m not sure I trust beautiful.
Maksim’s already cut into whatever steak they brought him.
He nods at the dandelions I insisted on keeping. They’re sitting in a water glass between us.
“So,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear it over the room. “You wanted the dead ones.”
I shrug and take a small bite of scallop. It’s stupid good—warm and buttery and unfair.
“I’ve never really gotten flowers before,” I say, not looking at him. “But there was this field my mom and I used to walk by when I was little.”
The memory opens quiet. Tall grass. Sun heat. Her hand in mine. White puffs everywhere.
My chest pinches—sharp, dumb.
I swallow it.
I glance up. He’s watching me like he’s waiting for the knife part.
“There were fluffy white dandelions,” I say. “I’d blow them. Make wishes. Kid stuff.”
“What did you wish for?”
The question lands too soft. It makes my shoulders tense.
I give him a short laugh and stare at my plate like it has answers. “Random things.”
His eyes don’t move. They stay on me. Patient. Like a predator that knows eventually the animal slips.
I poke at the scallops just to do something with my hands. “I just… never realized the yellow ones were dandelions too. I’ve seen them growing through cracks in the sidewalk and never connected it.”
“Because they’re weeds,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Okay. I get it. I don’t know flowers.”
Something in his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Like the idea of me admitting I don’t know something is… new.
He lifts his glass, takes a slow sip, and keeps watching me while he does it like he’s daring me to get uncomfortable.
“So,” I say, because silence with him always turns into a trap. “This is a date with Maksim Korsakov?”
“Maksim Korsakov doesn’t date.”
