There stands Neva, dumbfounded.
What... what did he just say?
He leans in, those dark pupils swelling as a mysterious glint dances in them.
She doesn't remember a scene, wherein someone had stormed her heart, or frozen the breathings.
He's so... so close, the faint woody scent of him stirring in the air around them.
A crisp crunch of dry leaves beneath a step casts her out of her daydream.
A stranger, a man, walks past them.
He briefly glances at them both: standing motionless in the middle of the sidewalk.
Neva takes a step back. "I have to—I have to go."
He straightens, a pleased serenity etched upon his face.
"Excuse me."
She steels her heart, summoning the concealed strength within her 169 cm frame, before turning.
And so, she walks on, feverish... her cheeks and ears probably the colour of burning red.
Neva hasn't the faintest idea what just happened.
Wherever her feet leads, she follows, until she realises the residential street has given way to quaint shops, bookshops, boutiques, cafés, and bakeries painted in orange-red, pastel yellow, and blue.
Hadn't she come here for some baked goods?
And, especially, to pick up a few groceries at the convenience store further down the path.
She bites her lip, her thoughts spiralling around the mysterious man, a phantom with
wings, slicing straight through her musings.
A teenage boy parks his bicycle beside the Victorian lamp post, near terracotta pots overflowing
with pink, white, and violet chrysanthemums, when a quiet ache blooms within her chest.
Her heart agape... out of nowhere, without any sensible reason she can assure herself with.
She wouldn't admit it, but she secretly... secretly hopes she might see the mysterious man again.
Yet, the bakery café with its neutral, cream-colored hedges and green vines draping around a wooden signboard that reads, Bournville Bakery & Café, makes her nerves tingle with renewed excitement.
As she opens the door, the bell above her chimes, and the rich aroma of sweet pastries mingling with the strong scent of coffee envelops her senses.
The young man behind the counter notices her, a kind smile lighting up his face as he welcomes her.
Neva returns his smile before her eyes wander across the space, where scarcely a customer is in sight, save for an old man at the back, sipping his coffee as he gazes out the window.
Neva strolls along the display case,
enchanted by the array of treats behind the glass, each a burst of colour, texture, and flavour, tempting her with the impossible urge to taste them all.
Yet, she leans forward, her gaze settling on a particular dessert: a three-layered pastry crowned with white frosting and sliced strawberries, a single, bright red strawberry gleaming at its peak.
Her mouth waters, and she swallows, battling the irresistible urge to devour every last one of them.
"You like shortcakes?" a voice asks.
Her lips part in unguarded delight.
She always has had a notoriously sweet tooth, and strawberry shortcakes are her ultimate weakness.
"Yes!" she exclaims, almost childlike in her glee.
A smile dances on her lips as she turns to glance at the man behind the voice.
She blinks once. Twice.
A veil of trance lifts, only to pull her deeper into another, into the beautiful, handsome face inches from hers.
It's not a dream.
He's real... he's truly here.
Her mysterious man.
He offers her a soft smile.
And her knees weaken.
A delicate chime of the the bell announces a new customer's arrival.
Neva straightens at once, staring ahead at the menu written in the board beside the shelves of potted greens and sourdough breads, her thoughts reeling.
Just what in the world is happening!
Her thoughts hazy. Always hazy.
And who else to blame? The mysterious man.
Amusement flickers across the cashier's face as he glances between her and the mysterious man.
"Please..." Neva whispers. "Please pack four pieces of strawberry shortcakes and a loaf of brioche."
The cashier nods, the keys clattering softly as he types into the register. "That'll be twenty-one eighty-two. Anything else, ma'am?"
"No," Neva murmurs, shaking her head.
The cashier moves away to prepare her order, while she can only pray to her Father to help her regain her senses, apparently melting away beneath the fierce gravity of the man standing beside her.
"Cash or credit?" the cashier asks, returning with a paper bag.
"Credit, please," Neva breathes, her fingers tingling weirdly as she fishes for her card in her little wallet.
"A cold, latte, medium. And a cheesecake for me," says the new customer standing just to her right.
The cashier nods. "Please wait a moment, sir." He takes Neva's card and swipes it through the reader.
Once the payment is confirmed, the cashier hands her back the credit card along with the paper bag.
"Please visit again, ma'am." The smile ever lingers in his youthful face.
Neva nods, and dares not a single glance at the mysterious man as she slips the card inside her strawberry-printed wallet and turns away.
Her pulse roars in her ears as she finally steps out of the café, and picks up her pace toward the convenience store, only to glance over her shoulder.
The mysterious man steps out from the bakery café, his eyes simultaneously meeting hers.
She quickly averts her gaze, feverish, and a burning mess.
He hadn't purchased anything from the bakery. Or, had she seen it wrong? Should she look again?
No. Of course, not.
But if he didn't purchase anything, that will be a bit odd for someone who'd just visited a bakery café…
Is he following her?
Panic creeps in as the realisation sinks in.
Is he actually a stalker?
Hah! That must be it! Her instincts are rarely wrong!
That would explain the strange reactions of her body.
But... he doesn't look like one.
Why on earth he would follow her anyway?
She presses her lips together, trying to excuse the wild, inexplicable betrayal of her own body.
Whatever!
She will not, will never, give him the satisfaction of seeing her react like this again.
Calm down, she repeats to herself.
She needs to stay alert, be on guard, and ready herself for the worst.
Her aunt warned her about situations just like this.
Spotting the glassed-fronted white building, she hastens toward it.
Going straight home wouldn't be wise, though every part of her wants to run away and stop embarassing herself.
Besides, she needs to pick up a few groceries for dinner.
The store is quiet, with only the cashier at the counter and a few customers wander along the aisles,
their carts half-filled and wheels squeaking faintly.
Grabbing a cart, Neva starts down the aisle, her footsteps light but hurried.
But she casts a quick glance over her shoulder—
There he is, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his gaze drifting casually along the aisles.
Neva presses her lips together and turns away.
She can't remember what she needs, and ends up wandering an isle listlessly.
Eventually, she picks this and that, pretending to be absorbed in her errands, while she feigns ignorance of the stranger's gaze following her every move.
She'll do anything to delay leaving. Anything to keep from revealing where she lives.
Each inhale and exhale to Neva becomes a struggle, a plea for calm.
When she reaches for a pack of cookies, she sneaks another glance at him.
There he stands, arms crossed, leaning against the ice-cream display freezer in the opposite isle, watching her with an unruffled expression.
Neva grabs another box of chocolate cookies.
Her nerves prickle, the urge to confront him simmering hot beneath her skin.
"What's the matter with him?" she mutters under her breath.
Strangely, almost dissapointingly, she doesn't sense any creepy vibes
radiating from him, which only deepens her worry.
Running through a hundred ways to confront him, she takes a slow, steadying breath, clenches her fists, and,before she could change her mind, whips around to face him.
"Why are you following me?" Her voice comes surprisingly steadier than she feels.
He lifts a strong, dark brow.
Silence follows, while the background noise of footsteps,
low murmurs, and squeaking wheels grows sharper.
Her nails dig into her palms as heat floods her face.
What if he wasn't following her?
Oh, no...
She doesn't dare turn now, can't.
If she was wrong, what wouldn't she do to take her words back? And just as she's about to call upon her Almighty Lord—
"I confessed," he says, his voice low and measured.
"Yet you gave me nothing in return." His steps are slow, deliberate.
She swallows hard as the distance between them narrows. "Please… keep your distance from me."
He tilts his head. "Not until you give me an answer."
"I don't owe you any answer." She tries to keep her voice calm, unyielding.
But the telltale flush of heat blooming across her cheeks gives her away to the mysterious man, easily.
"Then I won't keep away," he murmurs, "...not until you compensate for the heart you stole."