I try to keep my frown intact, but it wobbles. I take theflowers carefully, burying my nose in the petals. They smell like spring.
“You didn’t have to do this…” I murmur, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. No one’s ever given me flowers before.
“I did,” he says quietly. “The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable around me. When you thought I was mad after what happened in the kitchen… that didn’t sit right with me. You didn’t do anything wrong. If anyone crossed a line, it was me.”
He exhales like he’s debating whether to say more. Then seems to think better of it.
I glance over at him, studying the hard lines of his profile, surprisingly softened now by something like regret.
“What do you mean?” I ask, wanting to know, needing to know.
“It doesn’t matter. I know I’ve already said it, but the omelet was superb,” he praises and I beam.
“Thank you. And… thank you for the flowers. I love them,” I say softly, unable to look away from him.
The bouquet sits in my lap. My fingers brush the edge of a petal as silence stretches taut between us again.
Calvin shifts slightly in his seat. There’s still plenty of space between us; the car is big enough to feel like a lounge, but somehow, I feel him right next to me. Like gravity’s playing tricks.
“Let me guess,” he says finally, “your favorite color’s pink.” He is clearly trying to break the silence and ease the awkwardness between us since the kitchen incident, so I let him.
Glancing over at him, I let a cautious smile slip through. “What gave me away?”
He leans in just slightly, his voice low and deliberate. “You wear it like armor.”
That cuts through me. “What makes you say that?”
He studies me for a heartbeat, eyes narrowing just enough to make the moment electric. “Because it’s soft. But there’s something sharp beneath it, something that tells me you wield it like a weapon.”
My fingers tighten around the tulip stem, tracing its fragile curves almost absentmindedly, but my pulse flares under his gaze.
“And?” I press, breath catching.
“And people always underestimate choices like that,” he says. “Until they learn the hard way not to.”
I shouldn’t feel this: exposed, seen, somehow naked under his stare. Not when he’s supposed to be off-limits.
But I do.
A crooked, dangerous smile flickers over my lips. “So… do you analyze everyone’s wardrobe? Or just the women your fiancée’s related to?”
His mouth twitches, just the barest hint of a smirk. “Only the ones who nearly burned down my kitchen.”
I laugh, the sound light but genuine. “I did not,” I snap playfully, chest rising, “and you know it; I’m an excellent cook.”
“That you are.”
Our eyes lock and the world slows, stretching and bending until it feels like time itself is fragile glass ready to shatter.
His gaze sharpens a fraction. “You should stop looking at me like that.”
I swallow hard, heart thudding against my ribs. “Like what?”
“Like you want to ask a question you already know the answer to.”
His words hit me like electricity, leaving me raw and exposed.
I blink. My throat tightens. “Oh.”
