Afternoon sun spills through the window in soft, molten rays, drenching her kitchen in a warm, dreamy gold.
The brightest beam drapes itself across the wooden dining table—floral cloth, lacy rims, open books—and glimmers in her eyes as the laptop screen reflects softly back at her.
A pen lingers between her lips, her teeth lightly nibbling at it as her gaze glides over the paragraph on objective beliefs,
studying the weave of sentences, measuring whether they'll hold up for the assignment due next week.
She sets the pen aside, the cap faintly scarred with her teeth, and her fingers glide over the keys with familiar grace. Sentences dissolve and re-form on the glowing screen, each quiet click folding into the birdsong rising from the woods beyond.
Just then, the sharp chime of the doorbell breaks through the apartment's quiet, a bright note ringing against the hush she'd been wrapped in.
Neva's heart leaps, the chair giving a soft scrape against the tiles as she pushes to her feet. She forces her legs steady and weaves through the living room, moving toward the entrance with a breath caught somewhere between curiosity and quiet excitement.
And does this... oh, does this foolish heart flutter like a lovestruck maiden when the door opens to reveal her mystery man,
standing there with that familiar light dancing in his eyes, as though he's been carrying her in his thoughts all day.
"Good afternoon, Angel," he murmurs, daylight gathering at his lips in a smile so warm her heart melts like rich chocolate giving way under a touch.
"I brought you something," he says, bringing forward a bouquet of crimson roses,
their lush blooms wrapped in delicate black gauze, as though darkness itself holds 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, their velvet petals brushing her skin, coaxing a tender, blooming red—like a secret she cannot hide.
"You didn't have to," she adds, lifting her gaze to his—eyes shining through the fragile hush between them.
"Of course I have to," he replies, leaning in until his breath stirs her loose curls and grazes the delicate curve of her ear.
"It's the least I can do… to win the woman of my dreams."
Her breath catches, a delicate 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.
Behind her, his footsteps follow—quiet, certain—blending with the delicate click of the door as it closes.
"Are you baking something?" he asks, halting near the couch, as she lays the bouquet upon the coffee table with gentle caress.
"Mm-hm," she answers, glancing up—only to find his slow, unyielding gaze threading through her.
"Hot chocolate cookies," she says, her footsteps soft against the floor as she drifts toward the kitchen. He moves after her, unhurried, and his warmth gathers at her back—seeping through the airy fabric of her coquette blouse.
"How is your wound?" Neva asks, sweeping the scattered books into a neat stack.
"I feel better than ever," Rhett answers, slipping into the chair she's been warming a moment ago.
He props his cheek against his palm, watching her with an intensity wrapped in mischief and something far gentler.
Just as she eases the laptop shut, a soft ding from the oven cuts through the quiet, stilling her hands mid-motion.
She reaches for the oven mitts hanging by the counter, slips them on, and turns the oven off with a quiet click.
A wave of heat unfurls from within—molten, chocolate-sweet, curling through the air.
The scent tingles through her senses, stirring a small, nostalgic joy that blooms bright and tender in her chest.
"Can I eat them?" he asks, a boyish lilt in his voice as she coaxes the cookies off the tray and onto the steel cooling rack, steam rising in soft, sweet ribbons between them.
"Of course," she whispers, "but let them cool a little."
"Will you feed them to me, then?" he asks, eyes shimmering with a playful glint, innocence draped over something heartier.
"I won't," Neva says, firm in tone, yet so teasingly gentle.
Rhett's lips shape a soft pout, nudging, teasing, slowly unspooling her.
She playfully 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.
He rests his head on his folded arms, gaze tethered to her face.
Amber beams of the waning sun paint her skin in molten gold—and heavens... he almost imagines a pair of delicate fairy wings shimmering into being.
His breath catches, trapped in his chest by this foolish, aching fear that she might take flight—far away—leaving him alone, hollow, empty in the echo of himself.
"Tea… or coffee?" she whispers, voice laced in candy sweetness and the softness of velvet rose petals, melting over him like love song.
"Whichever you prefer," he breathes, eyes lingering on her as she moves through the kitchen, light and effortless, like a butterfly weaving through sunlight—entirely... utterly mesmerizing.
"Let me take you out to dinner tonight, Angel," he says, as she sets the half-filled, glass kettle of milk on the stove.
She glances at him, her lush pink lips pressed together, caught in a moment of thought.
The frown tugging between his brows does so little justice to the rose-thorned ache wrapped around his heart as she shakes her head, a mere surface of the tangled depths of feeling hidden beneath for her to glimpse.
"You shouldn't be moving around," she murmurs, turning her back to him as she returns to the tea. "Let me take care of dinner tonight… if that's alright."
"You'll be the death of me," he whispers, barely more than a breath.
"You said something?" she murmurs, her eyes rounded like a doe's, filled with such unguarded curiosity.
"Nothing, gorgeous," he says, a teasing smile tugging at his lips as he pushes back from the seat.
"But… will you help feed this wounded man the dinner you're making tonight?"
"Never!" she exclaims, tossing an oven glove at him.
He catches it effortlessly, and her cheeks heat, puffed with exasperated frustration.
"Oh… my poor heart," he gasps, sinking against the counter, the oven glove pressed over his chest like a wounded emblem.
"No cookies for you," she scolds, carrying two footed porcelain dessert plates to the table. And he remains, suspended between heaven and earth, a warmth spreading through his chest, her scent—sweet wildflowers—entwining with him, pulling at his soul, claiming him completely.