"What?" she whispers, the word barely a sound.
"I said," he replies, tilting his head just a little. "I'd like some sugar."
Heat immediately floods Neva's cheeks—rising, ripening, as scarlet as the deepest shade of rose.
"W—why mine?" she stammers, forcing herself to meet his gaze,
even as her aunt's teasing voice echoes against the pale walls of her mind, seeping out to colour her skin scarlet.
"If a man asks for some sugar, dear, it means he wishes a kiss—from the girl he desires."
"I—I mean, go get some from the store or something," she mumbles, tearing her gaze away in an attempt to drift her thoughts—fixing them on anything else, just to escape the burn of her own embarrassment.
"It has to be yours," he says softly, a faint, innocent smile curving his lips—so guileless, of course, he truly means only sugar, nothing more.
And Neva resents herself most for letting that memory resurface at all—
as if she had any say in what her mind chose to remember.
"Angel, it's cold outside," he says, rubbing his palms together,
gesturing toward the faint whoosh of the evening wind threading through the trees that border the apartment compound.
"Won't you let me in?" he asks softly, turning to her—that boyish hope flickering in his eyes like a slow, steady flame... melting her heart like wax made of sweet honey.
"No," she says, steady and sure. "And my name's not Angel."
She needs to reach for the doorknob, curl her fingers around the cold steel, and close the door in his face.
No—she can't let herself be fooled.
Not by a stranger who keeps trespassing the edges of her space, who could so easily threaten her safety.
Then... why does she hesitate? Her body stills, fists tightening,
as she catches on the pale puffs of his breath fading into the cold air—on the faint redness at the tip of his nose.
"Anyone can call you by your name," he murmurs, that sweet, sugary smile soft on his lips. "But Angel—that's mine alone."
She glares at him, her composure wavering. Her lips part, ready to unleash something sharp enough to drive him off—but he turns aside and sneezes. Loud, sudden.
And for a moment, her eyes soften—mirroring the quiet thaw in her heart—as he sniffles and rubs at the damp beneath his nose with one finger.
"Come in," she murmurs, turning away without another glance.
For her heart is a pink cotton candy—fluffy, soft, and warm.
She saunters toward the open kitchen adjoining the living room, the hushed rhythm of her steps soon joined by softer ones behind her—after the faint creak of the door closing, sealing the chill outside.
She reaches up to the top cabinet and pulls it open, retrieving an empty glass jar.
With a small, crisp clink, she sets it down on the counter, the sound echoing softly through the warm, quiet room.
She fetches another jar, heavy and filled with sugar, one hand steady on the cool glass while the other idly rolls the metal lid between her fingers, the faint scrape of it breaking the hush between them.
She doesn't glance at him—at the mystery man leaning a shoulder against the wooden-framed entryway that mimics a doorjamb without an actual door.
His arms are folded loosely across his chest, his gaze warm and unhurried,
lingering on the soft fall of her curls tracing the ethereal curve of her face.
Her own eyes stay fixed on her task—carefully pouring the sweetness of sugar from the brimmed jar into the empty one meant for him.
Just as her fingers twist the lid shut on the once-empty jar—now filled to the brim with sugar—her ears catch the soft sound of approaching footsteps, each one drawing closer, faint yet unmistakble.
She whirls around instinctively—
only to find his hands catching her by the shoulders, steadying her before she can stumble forward, almost colliding into the solid warmth of his chest.
"Be careful," he murmurs.
Her gaze threads with his—before she jerks her eyes away and steps back.
She reaches for the jar, cradling it close, trying to soothe the burn flaring across her cheeks… trying to slow the rapid, breathless beating of her heart.
"S—sorry," she whispers away.
He only smiles as she extends the jar toward him.
She blinks as his fingers brush against her skin—
cold, almost freezing, the chill biting through her warmth.
Where had he been?
"Thank you," he says softly—and then pauses. A flicker of hesitation crosses his eyes, brief but revealing, so unlike the man she thought she knew.
"Can I—" he begins, then stops himself, his hold on the jar tightening ever so slightly.
She looks up at him—silent, waiting, expectant for him to go on.
But then, a faint frown creases her brow as her gaze lingers on his face—pale, unnaturally so, as though the color had been drained from beneath his skin.
"See you later, Angel," he whispers, turning away.
She stands there, rooted to the spot, watching him tread toward the door.
The thought rises unbidden—should she ask if he's all right? If he's sick?
But why should she? For the fact that their relationship is nameless, undefined. And he's a grown man—an annoying one at that. Surely, he can take care of himself.
Hurried footsteps patter against the cold marble tiles, muffled by the warmth of her red socks—her heart racing faster than her thoughts.
Before she can think better of it, her fingers clutch the hem of his sweater-shirt, halting him mid-motion—his hand frozen in the air, just inches from the doorknob.
"Wait," she breathes—soft, steady—the word drifting between them like the warm mist rising from a mug of sweet hot chocolate on a cold winter evening.
He glances back over his shoulder, a questioning hum escaping him. "Hmm?"
She says nothing, only reaches out—her fingers brushing the side of his neck. He stiffens at the touch, but she thinks nothing of it.
Her hand lingers there, a frown knitting her brows as she feels the rapid, uneven flutter of his pulse beneath her fingertips.
He does have a fever.
She tugs gently at the hem of his sleeve, guiding him toward the couch waiting in the living room—
and, to her surprise and relief, he follows without a word, quiet and compliant.
"Sit," she whispers, already turning toward her room. "I'll get you some medicine."
"Why?" he asks, confusion threading through his voice.
She stops mid-step, turns to face him—arms crossing over her chest, eyes void and unreadable. "Because you have a fever?" she says, her tone caught somewhere between disbelief and exasperation.
"Do I?" he blinks, genuine puzzlement clouding his eyes.
Neva presses her lips into a thin line, and turns on her heel, heading for her room.
To Rhett, this moment stretch endlessly—her vanishing into the room, the quiet that follows, the faint rustle beyond the door.
And then she reappears, a small square box in her hands—unmistakably a first-aid kit.
It is as though a century has passed, not a breath escaping him, before her presence warms the space again, even as she sits at a distance on the couch across from him, wordlessly handing him a thermometer.
He takes it, their fingers brushing—just barely—but enough. Enough for her warmth to spark against his skin, a fleeting touch that sends heat flickering through him, thawing the frosted corners of his heart.
"Put it—under your tongue," she murmurs, sitting upright, every inch taut as if ready to strike should he dare cross into her space, palms resting neatly in her lap.
He obeys without a word.
After a long, winding minute—awkward, almost painfully so—
the thermometer finally beeps, breaking the tense silence that had settled between them. A faint sigh of relief escapes her lips.
She extends her palm, and he gently sets the thermometer into her hand.
She squints, focusing on the small display. 104°F.
"It's not so bad," she murmurs,
flicking open the first-aid box and rifling through its contents.
"But… still not good."
She rises, and heads toward the open kitchen.
She returns after a moment, a warm glass of water cradled in her hands,
her gaze settling on the unusually still, well-behaved man seated on the couch.
With effort, does she suppresses the smile threatening to bloom across her lips,
caught by the light dancing in his eyes as they meet hers.
She leans toward him across the table, extending the glass of warm water along with the pills she's carefully unwrapped from their foil.
She watches quietly as he sips the water, then swallows the pills.
Amused at the way he takes medicine—the same as she does,
the same method her aunt always called "weird" and "unusual," because the normal ritual was water after the pill.
"Do you have any symptoms—like coughing, or pain?" she asks, the words spilling out smoothly as he sets the empty glass on the coffee table with a soft clink.
But when his gaze meets hers, she shifts in her seat and clears her throat.
Suddenly, she feels awkward—questioning a stranger in her home, unguarded, and worried her concern might send the wrong, really weird message.
"Thank you, Neva," he says, a soft, genuine smile tugging at his lips. "And no, I don't have cough or any pain."
She only nods, eyes lowered, fingers tapping lightly against one another in hushed rhythm.
"I haven't told you my name, have I?" he asks, his voice gentle.
Her fingers fall still.
She doesn't answer—of course he hadn't, but she already knew.
But she would not reveal it to him.
"It's Rhett," he says, the familiar teasing lacing his tone like silk. "And I—genuinely, more than ever—wish to be your lover."
There he goes again.
So much for the meek, feverish version of him she'd just seen—
she'd almost believed it might rein in his reckless, shameless flirting.
Her eyes flick up, sharp and uncertain.
"Please stop with that," she says, pushing the remaining tablets she'd picked out toward him across the table—her voice coming out harsher, sharper than she intends.
"Just take them. And stop bothering me."
Pain flickers in his eyes—so vivid, unguarded—for the briefest moment before he smothers it beneath a practiced void.
The air between them suddenly grows colder, and in this cutting stillness,
she clearly hears him swallow, thick and deliberate.
Her stomach twists with a stinging regret,
and she winces at her own words, wishing she could take them back.
"It's fine," he whispers, too soft, too careful—like a breeze skimming over swirling dry rose petals.
Without another word, he rises. And she can't bring herself to look at him, even as his faint footsteps fade toward the door.
Then the door swings open,
a biting chill sweeping in, before it clicks shut behind him.