The late morning's sun spills through the window in molten rays, drenching her kitchen in a dreamy gold.
But Neva's eyes grows distant, reflected in the laptop screen, the words before her jumbled and incoherent, which is hardly ideal with the assignment due just next week on Thursday.
A pen rests between her lips, her teeth nibbling at it as she considers having breakfast to help her mind function properly. Though, at this point, it would be brunch, since it's already past ten o'clock, and there's still no sign of the man she's been waiting for.
She sets the pen aside, its cap scarred by her teeth, and her fingers glide over the keys with quiet, rhythmic clicks. Perhaps, if she'd rested well during the night, her head would be clearer, but a certain person had barely allowed her even a wink of sleep.
After she disappeared into her room, the impact of her bold reply to his confession finally came crashing down on her.
She fell onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow as a never-before-felt mingling of emotions swept through her entire body.
She wondered then, what might happen if she went back out, for he was still in her living room.
But she did, her cheeks still burning when he looked up at her with his signature grin, his eyes soft and starry. He'd asked her then if it was alright for him to order takeout from one of the well-known restaurants in Vernellia, and what she'd like to eat, having thought that she must be tired after a day of lectures and domestic labour. She agreed, of course.
He remained in her living room while she went to bathe, and the takeout had already arrived by the time she was clean, warm, and dressed.
He even helped her with the dishes, despite her insistence that he shouldn't.
Then, he bid her goodbye, but not before asking if he could come over the following morning, for it was Saturday, and she had no classes.
She agreed and offered to make breakfast, but not before reminding him that he should get his wound checked at the hospital. He seemed reluctant to leave, but finally did, while she lingered with her back pressed against the door and her heart swelling with giddiness and gratitude for her dear Father.
She'd almost thought that whatever strange thing they had between them was broken beyond repair.
But after their reconciliation last night, she realised just how much she'd missed him, so much so that everything she'd done this past week had been weighed down by a deep emptiness.
And he'd said he'd never felt like this before, that he didn't really know what to do. So, he really hadn't been fooling her. Gosh! And the way he wielded words, sweet and cunning, luring her in and melting her heart! Shakespeare-inspired, truly.
Neva raises her head from her folded arms, her cheeks still heated. She should gather herself. He still hasn't won her over, anyway!
A chime from the doorbell breaks through the quiet of her apartment,
and she goes still for a moment before her chair gives a faint scrape as she pushes herself up.
She fixes the messy strands of hair curtaining
her face, forcing herself to steady her nerves as she weaves her way towards the door.
And does this... Oh, does this foolish heart flutter like a lovestruck maiden's when the door opens to reveal Rhett. The mysterious man. Not so mysterious now.
At the sight of her, a familiar light dances in his eyes, as though he's been carrying her in his thoughts, too.
"Good morning, Angel." Daylight gathers in
his face as he smiles, so warm that her heart melts like rich chocolate giving way under a touch.
"I brought you something." He reveals a bouquet of scarlet roses from behind him,
their lush blooms wrapped in delicate black gauze, its darkness itself holding the light of them.
"Thank you," she breathes, her fingertips grazing the warmth of his skin as she accepts the bouquet.
The roses rise to her cheeks, coaxing a gentle warmth, like a secret she cannot hide. "It"s beautiful."
"But you didn't have to." She lifts her gaze to his, awe blooming in her chest.
"Of course I have to." He leans in until his breath brushes her face. "It's the least I can do… to win the woman of my dreams."
Her breath catches, a mild tremor beneath his nearness.
And before his deep, musky scent can fully sweep her under, she takes a small, steadying step back.
A teasing smile lifts the corners of his lips, familiar enough to soothe her trembling pulse… yet shadowed with a mystery that leaves her breathless.
She turns and says, "Come in."
His footsteps follow behind her, blending with the click of the door as it closes.
"Did you bake something?" he asks as she lays the bouquet on the coffee table with a gentle caress.
"I did," she replies. "The apple pie is ready, but the hot chocolate cookies are yet to be done."
"You like baking?" he asks, his footsteps quiet as he moves after her, his warmth gathering at her back.
"I do," she replies, shutting the laptop and stacking the books and the Bible beside it. "I didn't know what you prefer, but I thought you might like something sweet. So I made pancakes and some pies."
"Angel."
"Yes?"
"Are you trying to win me over, or am I?"
She glances at him, only to find his unwavering gaze on her.
"I don't know what you're talking about." She feigns ignorance, not wishing to deal with the emotions rising within her,
just as the oven chimes like a song of mercy.
He chuckles softly while she grabs the oven mitts hanging by the counter and slips them on.
"Did you visit a doctor?" she asks, turning off the oven with a light click.
"Just came back from the visit," he says. "It was just a scratch. It would've healed well on its own."
"It was not a scratch at all!" she protests. "You were bleeding so much."
He grins, slipping into the chair she'd been warming just minutes ago.
"Then maybe you could've healed it?"
"I'm not a healer." She places the tray onto the steel cooling rack,
steam rising in sweet ribbons between them.
"Are you sure?" He props his cheek against his palm, before asking. "Can I eat them?"
"Of course," she says, breathing in the molten, chocolate sweetness curling through the air. "But let them cool a little."
"Will you feed them to me, then?" he asks, a boyish lilt colouring his voice.
"I won't," she says, firm in tone, yet teasingly gentle.
His lips curl into a small pout, nudging, teasing, slowly unspooling her.
She rolls her eyes, though a quiet smile ghosts across her lips anyway, because this unbelievable, unavoidable man keeps brushing against the fragile bubble of her resolve until it trembles and bursts.
"Tea... or coffee?" she asks, setting the half-filled heat resistant glass kettle of milk on the stove.
"Whichever you prefer," he murmurs. "Let me take you out to dinner tonight, Angel."
"You shouldn't be moving around," she says, adjusting the temperature of the induction stove. "I'll take care of dinner tonight… if that's alright."
"You'll be the death of me," he whispers, and pauses.
She pretends she didn't hear him.
But then he speaks again. "Angel?"
She glances at him.
A soft smile touches his lips.
"You wouldn't have to worry about me disappearing for over a month," he declares.
"I knew I had to make it up to you, so I had a month's worth of work done this past week."
Neva's heart softens. He'd done a month's worth of work in a week? For her? Why?
And she'd thought he didn't want anything to do with her anymore.
"You would've approached me again, even if I hadn't approached you first?" she asks quietly.
A small frown creases his brow. "Why would you think I wouldn't? Giving you up never even crossed my mind."
"But now I've done my research on how to properly court someone," he continues. "I can guarantee that I'll steal your heart in less than a month."
"You're too confident." She brushes him off, diverting her attention to placing the container of pancakes in the oven,
hoping to escape the trap he's setting for her.
"Maybe I am," he says teasingly, followed by the quiet scrape of the chair as he rises.
"So, will you help feed this wounded man the pancakes you're warming?"
"Never!" she exclaims, tossing an oven glove at him.
He catches it effortlessly, while overwhelming emotions surge within her, her composure nearing its breaking point.
"Oh… my poor heart," he gasps, sinking against the table, the oven glove pressed over his chest like a wounded emblem.
"No pancakes for you," she scolds, carrying two pretty china porcelain plates to the table, anyway.
Her heart, perhaps, already half-stolen...