A bluish hue drapes over the world as evening falls, the wind rustling through the trees beyond her private balcony at the rear of her apartment building.
Strands of curls brush against her cheeks, her lips curving into a contented smile as she breathes in the scent of the hot chocolate warming her hands.
Her fingers reach for The Blue Castle lying open upon the coffee table, its pages fluttering gently in the breeze.
Taking a sip of the hot chocolate, she tries to sink into the words, but it's often harder to get through the
first few pages of a book, and she has only just picked it up this afternoon from a cozy library nearby, which she visited with Emma after their lectures.
Also, her thoughts keep straying once to her mysterious man.
She'd finally learned his name five days ago.
Rhett... His surname still escapes her though.
He appears once a week, tails her around like a shadow, only to dissapear just as quickly.
Maybe he was just busy with work?
Well, her friend had told her he owned a car workshop. But what could possibly
keep him so busy that she hadn't caught even a glimpse of him, despite being his neighbour.
"Tsk. Talk about pursuing me." The words slip without her knowledge, and she flicks her forehead with the edge of her book.
With a soft huff, she shuffles into her great cushioned armchair, curling deeper into the cozy little nest.
She raises the mug, her gaze gliding back to the page when something like a little disappointment stings her chest.
It's so absurd, she has so much to think about, her God, her family, her studies, and her dreams, but him, who repeatedly confesses his feelings but makes no real, gentlemanly move to court her, except to invade her space and vanish into thin air.
She might be an amateur in romance, but she knows enough to know that it all starts with a date, and surely with an exchange of names and numbers. Isn't she right?
Not that she would agree to a date with him, or desire his name or number.
But what bothers her most is that he calls himself a believer, and if he is really, only playing with her, he's not doing a good job of presenting himself as one.
A sigh escapes her as she places the mug of hot chocolate on her coffee table with a quiet clink, her appetite gone.
Now, why is she ruining her mood because of him?
Her doorbell chimes through the hush of her apartment.
Who is it at this time? Is it the landlord?
She sets the book beside the mug on the coffee table, removing the blanket, her cozy little nest tugging at her immediately after she leaves it.
Half-heartedly, she steps through the balcony door, another chime echoing as she crosses the living room to the threshold, before reaching for the knob.
She twists the knob and pulls the door open.
Her heart stutters for a best, and she almost loses herself at the sight.
At the sight of the mysterious man. ...Rhett.
"Good evening, Angel," Rhett says, that familiar, teasing smile playing upon his lips.
What does he want at this hour?
She crosses her arms. "What do you want?"
He leans against the doorframe, the sheepish grin ever lingering upon his lips. "I want some... sugar."
Her lips part to protest when something terrible happens, and only one word escapes her. "What?"
"I said..." He tilts his head just a little. "I want some sugar."
Heat floods across her cheeks.
"W—why mine?" She cringes at her own stutter even as her aunt's teasing voice echoes through her mind.
Her aunt once said, "If a man asks for some sugar, my dear, it means he wishes for a kiss from the girl he desires."
"I—I mean, go get some from the store or something." Unable to hold his gaze, she looks away, fixing instead on the intricate iron railings behind him.
"It has to be yours," he says gently.
Of course... he means literal sugar.
Nothing else.
Perhaps the belief isn't a custom in Erriador.
And she resents herself most for letting the memory resurface at all.
As if she has any say against her treacherous mind.
"Angel, it's cold outside." He rubs his hands together, blowing breath into them.
His gaze drifts toward the wind rustling through the trees that border the apartment compound,
before looking back at her. "Won't you let me in?"
"No!" she says. "And my name's not Angel."
She needs to reach for the doorknob, and shut the door in his face.
Because she can't let herself be fooled. Not by a stranger who could so easily threaten her safety.
Then... then why does she hesitate? Her heart softening at the wisps of breath misting in the cold air as he exhales,
at the faint flush tinting the tip of his nose.
"Anyone can call you by your name." A small smile rests upon his lips. "But Angel... that's mine alone."
She glares at him, when he turns his head aside and sneezes loudly.
He sniffles, rubbing beneath his nose with the back of his finger.
"Come in," she murmurs with a quiet sigh, stepping back inside without another glance at him.
Walking toward the kitchen, she soon senses the hushed rhythm of his footsteps trailing behind her.
She reaches up to the top cabinet and pulls it open, retrieving an empty glass jar.
She sets it on the counter with a soft clink before reaching for another jar, heavy with sugar.
She doesn't glance at the mysterious man standing somewhere behind her, keeping her attention fixed on the task at hand as she carefully scoops sugar from her jar and pours it into the empty one for him.
As her fingers twist the lid shut on his now brimming jar of sugar, she senses him draw close toward her.
She whirls around, gasping as she nearly collides with him.
"Careful." He playfully holds up his hands up.
"S... sorry." She takes an abrupt step back.
He only smiles in response.
She extends the jar toward him,
and as he takes hold of it, his fingers brush against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.
Where had he been? His fingers are ice-cold.
"Thank you," he says, but then pauses.
She waits for whatever he has to say, but he only looks at her.
A frown creases her brow as she notices the paleness of his face, as though he might be sick, when he says. "See you later, Angel."
She gives a small nod, but he continues to look at her... until, finally, he turns and walks away.
She watches him cross the living room, until he
disappears through the threshold.
She places the jar back in its place before closing the cabinet.
Is he sick?
Should she have asked?
But why should she?
He's a grown man. A stranger.
An annoying one at that.
He can take care of himself.
She steps out of the kitchen, her hurried footsteps carrying her across the living room faster than her thoughts can follow.
"Wait!" she calls.
He freezes before the doorway, his back to her.
Before she has a chance to hesitate, she closes the distance between them.
Then she reaches up, placing her palm against his forehead.
He's burning up.
"Come with me."
She tugs at the hem of his hoodie's sleeve before pulling him back toward the living room.
"Sit here," she says. "I'll get you some medicine."
Before he can reply, she heads straight toward her bedroom.
She opens the drawer of her nightstand and retrieves
the square first-aid kit tucked inside.
She returns to the living room to find him seated silently on the couch.
She hands him a thermometer. "Put it... under your tongue."
He obeys.
During the long minute of silence as they wait for the thermometer to beep,
she sits awkwardly across from him.
And she occupies herself instead with the newly discovered shapes and colours of her coffee table.
At last, a quiet beep breaks the silence between them.
She extends her hand, and he gently places the thermometer in her palm.
102°F, the thermometer reads.
"It's not so bad."
She clicks open the first-aid box and shuffles through its contents. "But not so good either," she says, putting the ones he needs on the coffee table.
She stands and makes a beeline toward the kitchen.
Fetching a glass, she pours warm water from the jug into it.
She returns to find him still seated in the same position, the glass of water cradled in his hands.
And she wonders at this quiet side of the mysterious man unfolding before her,
so unlike the person she thought she knew.
She hands him the water, before unwrapping the tablet and placing it in his hands.
She sits across from him on the couch, watching as
he sips the water before swallowing the pill.
She's amused by the way he takes the medicine, just as she does, water before the pill.
Her aunt had always called the habit unusual, since the more common ritual was pill before water.
He drinks the rest of the water before placing the glass on the coffee table with a quiet clink.
Then she asks, "Do you have any symptoms like... coughing or a headache?
He shakes his head. "No," he says. "Thank you, Neva."
She only nods,
lowering her gaze to her hands as she wonders what message her actions might have sent him.
"I haven't told you my name, have I?" he asks.
She doesn't answer. Of course he hasn't. But she already knew.
As if she'd tell him that.
"It's Rhett," he says, before a teasing lilt colors his voice as he adds, "And I...
more genuinely than ever, want to be your lover."
She stiffens.
How can one shift from such innocence to such boldness!
Now again, she had almost forgotten that he probably doesn't have good intentions toward her.
"Please, stop with that." She slides the remaining tablets she'd picked out across the coffee table toward him. "I don't know about you,
but if it's some kind of sick joke you're pulling on me, it's not very nice to do that to a person."
"What are you talking about?" he asks.
Anger rises within her at his pretence. "You can't keep declaring your feelings to me so selfishly in public,
without justifying yourself through your actions, other than by intruding or disappearing without a trace."
There, she said it.
"Angel—" His voice wavers.
"Just take them," she says, her voice coming out sharper than she intends. "And stop bothering me."
Pain flickers across his eyes, vivid for the briefest moment before he smothers it behind a practiced void.
The air between them turns cold and cutting at once, and regret twists her heart at what she'd done.
"It's fine." His voice comes too soft, too careful.
Without another word, he rises.
She can't bring herself to look up as she feels his warmth fading from the room.
A faint hum of the door opening reaches her ears before it clicks shut.