The Things She Gives Away
Aubrey's Pov
This entire evening felt like a dangerous game.
Not the kind anyone around us would notice—not loud, not reckless—but something quieter, more fragile. The kind that lived in lingering glances and pauses that stretched just a little too long. The kind where one misstep could unravel everything we had so carefully maintained.
I should have been focused on the meal. The restaurant. The conversation was unfolding between us.
Instead, I found myself watching her.
More than I should have.
More than I intended to.
The food in front of me cooled gradually, left untouched for longer than it should have been, because my attention kept returning to her as if it had nowhere else to rest. I noticed the smallest things without meaning to—the way her fingers hovered for a moment before picking up her fork, the way she paused before answering, as though she measured not just her words, but how much of herself she was willing to reveal.
Even the slightest shifts in her expression didn't escape me. A softening here, a guarded flicker there. Subtle changes that most would miss—but I didn't.
And without realizing it, I began adjusting myself around her.
When I ordered, it wasn't simply ordering.
It was deliberate.
Careful.
I had asked about her allergies earlier, keeping my tone light enough to disguise the concern beneath it. Then her preferences. The things she liked, the things she avoided. Every answer she gave felt like something I needed to hold onto, to understand, to piece together.
And still, it wasn't enough.
There were too many things I didn't know about her.
Too many things she wasn't saying.
A hundred questions lingered at the edge of my mind.
Perhaps more.
Then something caught my attention.
She hadn't ordered any meat.
It was a small detail. Insignificant, to anyone else.
But I had been paying attention.
So I noticed.
"You don't eat meat?" I asked, watching her carefully—not just for the answer, but for the way she would give it.
She looked up at me, calm as ever.
"I do."
That pause—brief, almost imperceptible—was enough to sharpen my curiosity.
"Then why didn't you order any?"
The question was simple, but it felt like I was stepping closer to something I didn't fully understand yet.
"Well," she said, almost casually, "I prefer halal meat."
I stilled slightly.
"But you're not Muslim?"
There was no accusation in my tone. No judgment.
Only curiosity.
She tilted her head, a faint smile touching her lips.
"Do you need a reason to eat something healthier?"
I studied her for a moment longer than necessary.
It wasn't a complete answer.
But it wasn't entirely an evasion either.
"How is it healthier?" I asked, my voice quieter now, more deliberate. "I'm not trying to be ignorant. I just want to understand why you prefer it."
For a brief moment, she simply looked at me.
As if she were deciding something.
Then she smiled.
And something shifted.
It wasn't the polite distance she usually carried, nor the quiet restraint that seemed to define her.
It was softer.
Gentler.
As though she had chosen—just for this moment—to let me in.
And then she began to explain.
Slowly. Thoughtfully. Each word was placed with care, as if she wanted to ensure I understood not just what she was saying, but why it mattered. There was patience in her tone, a quiet attentiveness that felt... deliberate.
I found myself leaning in slightly.
Not because I couldn't hear her—
But because I didn't want to miss anything.
The way she spoke.
The way she thought.
The way she shaped something simple into something meaningful.
And somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn't listening to the explanation anymore.
Not entirely.
I was watching her.
The movement of her lips as she spoke. The subtle shift in her brows when she tried to clarify a point. The way her tone adjusted instinctively, as though she cared about being understood.
As though I mattered enough for her to explain things properly.
And that—
That stayed with me more than anything she said.
Because in that moment, she wasn't distant.
She wasn't guarded.
She wasn't performing.
She was simply... there.
With me.
And I found myself wondering, dangerously, if she even realized what she was giving away.
Because whatever it was—
I wanted more of it.
Far more than I should have.
"I'll keep that in mind... for the next occasion," I said, lifting my glass and taking a measured sip of champagne, my gaze lingering on her longer than necessary.
She stilled, just for a moment—then leaned forward slightly, something unguarded slipping through her composure.
"There will be a next time?" she asked, a note of eagerness threading through her voice before she could restrain it.
I allowed the question to settle.
Raised a brow, faintly amused.
"Well," I replied, setting my glass down with quiet precision, "our arrangement was for a week, was it not?"
She hummed, tilting her head, her smile returning—playful, almost provoking.
"You do realize I could withdraw at any time," she said lightly. "We never formalized anything."
A soft breath left me, something close to a restrained laugh.
Of course.
Always testing the boundaries.
I leaned back slightly, studying her for a moment—deliberate, unhurried—before inclining forward again, closing the distance just enough to shift the atmosphere between us.
"When it comes to you," I said, my voice lowered, steadier now, "I find contracts... unnecessary."
Her eyes met mine, searching, as though trying to decipher where the truth ended and the teasing began.
"Your word holds more weight than any document I could draft," I continued, quieter still. "That is the extent of my trust in you."
I let the silence stretch—not empty, but charged—before allowing a trace of something more dangerous to return.
"But," I added, my tone shifting ever so slightly, "if there were something I desired your signature on..."
A pause.
Measured.
Intentional.
My gaze did not waver.
"It would not be an agreement."
Another breath.
Softer.
More deliberate.
"It would be our marriage papers... bearing both our names."
I leaned back then, as though the words carried no consequence, a faint, knowing smile touching my lips.
Light.
Composed.
As if I had merely indulged in a passing remark—
and not revealed something far more serious beneath it.
For a moment—
She said nothing.
But I didn't need her to.
Because I saw it.
The change was slight. Almost imperceptible to anyone who wasn't looking for it. A faint stillness settled over her, as though my words had reached further than she intended to let them.
Then—
The colour came.
Slowly.
Softly.
Rising from the delicate line of her neck, brushing upward until it settled across her cheeks like something uninvited. Something she hadn't prepared for.
A blush.
Real.
Uncontrolled.
I felt something tighten in my chest.
She turned her face, just slightly—subtle enough to pass as nothing, but deliberate enough for me to understand exactly what she was doing.
Hiding it.
From me.
From this.
From whatever it was that had stirred beneath her composure.
I watched her reach for her glass, her fingers not as steady as they had been moments ago. The movement was small, but I noticed. I always noticed.
The rim touched her lips, but she didn't drink immediately.
Buying time.
Regaining control.
Or trying to.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, uninvited, but I didn't let it fully form. Not yet.
Not while she was still pretending.
"You speak far too easily of things you shouldn't," she said softly.
I didn't respond.
I simply watched.
Because her voice—quieter now, less certain—told me more than her words ever could.
When she finally looked at me again, her expression had been carefully arranged, composed, controlled.
But the warmth hadn't left her cheeks.
And that—
That was mine.
Not claimed.
Not spoken.
But there, nonetheless.
"You'll find that I'm not so easily persuaded," she added, attempting to recover.
A quiet breath left me, something close to amusement, though I kept it contained.
Of course, she would say that.
Of course, she would retreat.
But I had already seen enough.
"You don't have to be," I said calmly, my gaze holding hers just long enough to let the meaning settle. "I find that... you reveal far more than you intend to."
A pause.
Measured.
Deliberate.
My eyes flickered, just briefly, to the lingering colour on her cheeks before returning to her gaze.
"And I prefer it that way."
I leaned back then, as though nothing had happened—as though I hadn't just witnessed something rare, something unguarded.
But the truth lingered, quiet and certain.
She had reacted.
And no matter how carefully she tried to conceal it—
I had seen it.
And now that I had—
I wouldn't forget it.
One of the many things I had come to learn about Emma—
was her fondness for sweetness.
Not just a preference.
A quiet indulgence.
A kind of unguarded joy, she didn't seem to realize she revealed so easily.
So I ordered accordingly.
More than necessary.
Far more than reasonable.
And yet—
She didn't hesitate.
Dish after dish, she tasted, finished, returned for more—completely unaware of how absurdly endearing it was to watch. There was no pretense in it. No restraint shaped by expectation.
Just... enjoyment.
Pure.
Unfiltered.
And when she heard I had ordered dessert—
Her eyes lit up.
Truly lit up.
Like something rare had been placed before her, something she hadn't expected but had wanted all along. The shift was immediate, almost childlike in its sincerity.
I found myself stilling.
Watching.
Memorizing.
Because that—
That was the most beautiful thing I had seen all evening.
Perhaps the most beautiful thing I had seen in a long time.
I rested my head lightly against my hand, my gaze fixed on her as she reached for the chocolate cake. She didn't savour it slowly, didn't pretend to be delicate about it.
She enjoyed it.
Fully.
And I let my own slice sit untouched.
Again.
"You're not eating," she said suddenly, her brows drawing together as she glanced at my plate. "You barely touched your dinner either."
I exhaled softly, almost amused at the way her attention shifted so quickly from herself to me.
"I don't have much of an appetite."
Her expression changed immediately.
Concern.
Clear. Unfiltered.
"Why?" she asked, her tone no longer light. "When was the last time you ate properly?"
I considered the question for a moment, more out of habit than necessity.
"If I recall correctly..." I said, almost thoughtfully, "Perhaps breakfast. Two days ago."
She stilled.
Then her eyes widened, disbelief settling in before it gave way to something else.
Disappointment.
A quiet frustration that wasn't meant to wound—but to correct.
"And why is that?" she asked, her voice sharpening just slightly. "What could possibly keep you so occupied that you can't even eat properly?"
There it was.
That edge.
That irritation laced with concern.
And I felt it—
unreasonably, unexpectedly—
like something I had been waiting for.
I let out a small breath, offering the simplest answer.
"Work."
A single word.
But it was enough to deepen the crease between her brows.
"Then eat," she said, nudging the plate toward me, her tone firm now. "At least have the cake."
I looked at the slice.
Then back at her.
And something—perhaps the way she said it, perhaps the way she looked at me—made me lean in slightly, lowering my voice just enough to shift the moment again.
"If you insist," I murmured, my gaze holding hers, "then I would prefer a more... persuasive approach."
A pause.
Deliberate.
"And I find," I added, softer now, "that you are particularly convincing when you do it yourself."
The implication settled between us.
Quiet.
Intentional.
"If you feed me..." I finished, the faintest trace of a smile touching my lips, "I might be inclined to comply."
I leaned back then, composed once more, as though I hadn't just said something entirely unnecessary—
and entirely deliberate.
I hadn't thought she would actually do it.
It had been nothing more than a passing indulgence—something lightly spoken, designed to unsettle her just enough to observe how she might respond. A suggestion, not an expectation.
And yet—
She reached for the fork.
I stilled.
Completely.
My gaze followed her hand as she cut into the cake, the motion unhurried, composed, almost contemplative. There was no trace of hesitation in her movements, no flicker of doubt. As though she had already decided.
As though this—this quiet intimacy—required no deliberation at all.
That alone was enough to unsettle me.
But when she lifted the fork—
and extended it toward me—
something in my chest tightened in a way I did not immediately recognize.
"Eat," she said softly, though the gentleness of her tone did nothing to diminish the quiet authority beneath it. "Before I reconsider."
For a moment—
I did not move.
It was not reluctance.
Nor was it refusal.
It was... recalibration.
Because I had not anticipated this.
Had not anticipated her choosing to meet me here—on this unspoken edge between restraint and something far more dangerous.
My heartbeat shifted, suddenly unsteady, striking against my ribs with a force that felt entirely disproportionate to the moment.
Absurd.
And yet—
undeniably real.
I leaned forward at last, slow, deliberate, my gaze lifting to meet hers just briefly before I allowed myself to accept what she offered.
The sweetness of the cake barely registered.
It was there, of course—rich, indulgent—but it was secondary.
Irrelevant.
Because my attention was not on the taste.
It was on her.
The way she watched me.
Not boldly. Not overtly.
But with a quiet attentiveness that suggested she was waiting—for a reaction, perhaps, or something she could not quite name.
And then—
just as seamlessly as she had offered it—
She withdrew.
No lingering touch.
No unnecessary pause.
She cut another piece for herself and took a bite, her expression softening with a kind of unguarded contentment that seemed entirely detached from what had just transpired between us.
As though it had meant nothing.
As though it had meant everything.
I leaned back slowly, my gaze remaining fixed on her, my thoughts momentarily unstructured—an unfamiliar state I did not particularly enjoy.
My heartbeat had not steadied.
If anything, it only grew more insistent, a quiet reminder that something within me had shifted in a way I could neither ignore nor easily define.
I exhaled slowly, regaining composure by force of habit, though the aftereffect of the moment lingered—subtle, persistent.
"You make a dangerous habit of indulging me," I said at last, my voice low, measured, though the words carried a weight I had not entirely intended to reveal.
A brief pause.
Then, more quietly—
"And I find myself... increasingly unwilling to be denied it."
My gaze remained on her, steady, deliberate.
Because the truth—
the inconvenient, undeniable truth—
It was what I had not expected her to yield.
Not like that.
Not so effortlessly.
And now that she had—
I was no longer certain I possessed the discipline to pretend it had meant nothing.