"What?"
"I asked for some sugar." With a tilt of his head, he appears so innocent.
"W-why mine? I mean, go get it from the store or something." Neva squeezes her eyes shut, cringing at herself.
Inside her heart, she prays to tear her brain out as a startling memory flashes by.
Her aunt once said: ''If a guy asks for some sugar, it means he wishes a kiss from the girl he desires.''
"It has to be yours, of course," he murmurs, an innocent smile tugging at his lips, as if he purely, fair–mindedlyneeds sugar.
Neva narrows her eyes, unclear of his intentions.
"Angel, it's cold outside.
Won't you let me in?" he pleads, rubbing his hands as he gazes through the chilly air, breath ghosting in small puffs.
He almost comes off like a pitiful man.
"No. And my name's not Angel!" she snaps.
If glares could bore holes, his head would soon be a sunlit spiderweb.
But he only smiles, calm—maddening.
"Anyone else can call you Neva. But Angel—that's mine alone."
Her glare sharpens, but her composure slightly wavers.
She draws in a deep breath—and exhales sharply, trying not to let him ablaze her cool.
Her precious peace is now ruined by this donkey!
And then—he sneezes. Loud and sudden.
He sniffles, rubbing his reddened nose with a finger.
Neva's eyes soften, sympathy catching her off guard.
"Come in," she murmurs, turning to walk back inside. Her heart is a pink cotton candy—fluffy and warm.
Rhett beams and follows her in, closing the door behind him like a loyal puppy.
Neva's home is warm.
He watches her as she moves to the kitchen—his cocoa eyes longing.
"You could've asked any other neighbor. Why me?" Neva says, pulling a jar of sugar from the cabinet.
"They're not you, Angel," he says, voice soft, almost reverent.
At this, Neva's fingers freeze, heart thawing gently.
She glances over her shoulder—and there he stands, leaning against the kitchen doorframe.
Arms loosely crossed over his chest. Eyes burning. Watching her. Watching only her.
Her heart lurches into a quicker pace—out of nowhere.
She turns quickly, hiding the heat creeping up her cheeks.
Something's seriously wrong with her.
Neva's ears perk up at the hush of his nearing steps.
Her body stiffens.
But then she whirls around to rebuke him—almost crashing into him.
"Hey, careful," Rhett murmurs, steadying her with his hands on her shoulders.
She looks up at him, cheeks burning, shame swirling in her deep cocoa orbs.
Neva hurriedly backs away, almost aching Rhett with her abruptness.
"S–sorry," she says, blinking up.
He just smiles.
She twists the silver lid shut and extends the heavy glass container to him with both hands. "Here."
Rhett glances at the clear jar, filled to the brim with sugar.
"Thank you." He pauses, hesitation flickering across his face. "Can I—" He stops himself.
Neva raises her brows. "You wanted to say something?"
Rhett shakes his head. "Nothing."
As he takes the jar from her, his fingers brushes against her hand.
She flinches at the touch.
His skin is ice-cold.
Her gaze flickers to his face.
She studies him more closely now. Pale. Too pale.
"See you later, Angel," he says, snapping her line of thoughts.
Neva's heart wavers quietly as he turns to walk away.
She stands alone in the kitchen, pondering whether to stop him. Then again, he's just a stranger.
And an annoying one at that!
She won't bother.
But... she cannot feign ignorance of this tug inside her.
.
.
.
Her betraying feet move faster than her thoughts can catch up.
Just as he's about to open the door, she grabs the hem of his hoodie.
"Wait."
He freezes. And turns, confusion etched across his face. "Hmm?"
She doesn't say anything, simply grabbing his arms and turning him around.
Her palm rests gently on his forehead.
He's burning up.
Rhett doesn't move.
He stares at her, stunned—his heart pounding wildly as her warm, gentle fingers brush against his neck to check the pulse.
Without another word, Neva tugs on the hem of his hoodie, pulling him to the living room.
"Sit."
He obeys, sinking onto the couch.
"You have a fever," she announces, arms crossed over her chest.
"Do I?" he blinks, dazed.
"What do you think?!" she snaps, sarcasm dripping from her tone.
"I think I do," he admits softly, as though realising it now.
Neva sighs at his pitiful state.
Dumb as a donkey!
"Sit still. And don't move," she instructs, vanishing into her room and returning almost immediately with a first-aid kit.
She hands him a thermometer. "Put it under your tongue."
He obeys.
Minutes pass. The thermometer beeps. Neva, who's settled far beside him asks him to hand it to her.
He does so. She takes it—100.4°F.
"It's not terrible. But still not good," she sets the thermometer on the coffee table and rises, heading to the kitchen.
She returns with a glass of warm water. Squinting at the words on the tablets, she takes two tablets and tears open their wrappers.
Her fingers brush his palm as she places the medicines in it.
He looks from the meds to her face.
His eyes at all times in awe of her, his heart quietly warming at her care.
He puts the pill in his mouth and swallows it with a long gulp of water, repeating the action with the other pill.
"You didn't notice your fever?" Neva asks, settling on the other end of the couch while he sets the half–drunk glass of water on the table.
"No," he replies, rubbing his nap with a sheepish grin.
"You really are of a different breed," she declares, so casually cruel.
"Is that a bad thing?" he asks, clueless.
She eyes him sideways and simply shrugs. "Dunno."
"Thank you, Neva," he says, his tone gentle, sincere. Perhaps... he's really sick. His heart refuses to slow down the beatings.
"I haven't told you my name, have I?"
She stays silent. Of course he hasn't.
But she already knows—as if she'll let him know that.
"It's Rhett. And I more genuinely than ever... desire to be your lover," he says, cocoa eyes glittering with honesty.
And the mystery man pursues her still.
"No! You go and rest. I'm giving you these medicines for free—so take them and stop troubling me!" Her words burst out harsher than she intends as she fails to spare them a second thought.
His face falls, the light in his eyes dimming.
His heart aching quietly at Neva's cutting dismissal.
"No need. I've troubled you enough." His voice is low—fragile, wavering like dry grass brushes by the autumn breeze.
"Thank you... Neva."
He rises slowly, barely glancing at her—or the jar of sugar and the tablets left waiting on the table.