Edward stood there, calm and magnetic, as she opened the door. He wore a dark, tailored suit that hugged his tall frame just right. His hair was dark, smooth, and well-kept—intentionally casual and good looking. Hands tucked into his pockets, he smiled.
Tina smiled back, a little shy, and led him into the living room. They sat down. Or rather, she flopped down awkwardly like she didn't know what to do with her body. She felt clumsy. Of course she did—he looked like he stepped out of a GQ cover shoot.
"Your friend's not in?" he asked, glancing around the space.
"Nope, but she's fine."
He took his time looking at her, from the crown of her dark curls to her silver heels. She looked wonderful, and he wanted her to know it.
"You look gorgeous," he said.
"Thank you. For the dress too... it's perfect."
"My pleasure. So—where to before we hit the studio?"
"Anywhere."
He paused, about to make a suggestion.
"You remember that garden where you saw me the first time?" she interrupted, eyes hopeful.
"Of course. I do."
"We can just go there. I don't know, social anxiety stuff. We'll save the bougie spots for next time."
He smiled. "If that's fine with you, then it's perfect."
They both stood. She grabbed her keys off the dining table, and soon enough, the lock clicked behind them.
---
Ed's car pulled up in front of the garden. It was just as charming as she remembered—lush, peaceful, almost like something out of a movie. The flowers bloomed with attitude, the trees swayed gently, and the breeze danced like it knew secrets. A wooden bench sat beneath the largest tree, and from a nearby bar, Atif Aslam's Tere Sang Yaara floated through the air like a spell.
Tina's stomach fluttered, hard. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was him.
He came around, opened her door like a gentleman. She stepped out, and when she looked up at him—it hit again. That dizzy wave. That silly, girlish ache in her chest. He smiled, slid a hand around her waist, and they walked to the bench.
"You look beautiful," he said softly.
She laughed. "You said that already."
"I know. Still true. Still kinda... breathtaking."
"Thank you. Again."
Silence fell between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It made the music feel louder, more alive.
"I actually don't know much about you, Tina," he said, breaking the quiet.
"It depends on what you wanna know. I'm just a simple girl, you know."
"Maybe give me a short autobiography. For example—Edward Morgan. Chicago native. Harvard alum..."
"Wait—Harvard? The brain college?!"
He laughed. "Guilty."
"Then why are you in New York?"
"My dad got me a spot at City Hospital before I even graduated."
"Aww. Sweet daddy."
He chuckled. "I like it here though. But I'd move to London in a heartbeat."
"Mmm. Paris is my dream. The countryside, really."
"I thought as much," he said, raising an eyebrow.
"Why?"
"You give off soft French girl energy."
She giggled. "Well, my mom's from Luxembourg."
"The land of riches? And you still want France?"
"I just love France, Mr. Edward."
"My lady, your wish is my command." He grinned. "Anyway, I ended up telling you about me when I was supposed to be learning about you."
"Ouch. Fine, Ed, I'll share. Let's see... I'm Tina Smith. My parents divorced when I was little. Mom raised me and my sister, Sally. We're not super close."
He leaned in, eyes soft. "And the love life?"
She hesitated. "It always crashes. Mostly... when it gets sexual. That's where everything falls apart."
"You mean, you haven't...?"
"I have. But—ugh. Never mind."
"No, talk to me. Let's figure it out together."
"Why do you care?"
"Because I do," he said simply.
She looked away, blinking back sudden tears. She hated this. Hated feeling weak. Hated that his kindness made her crumble.
"It's not something you'd understand... And I don't wanna explain it. I don't know how. I don't want to care anymore. I'm tired. I just want to go to a Computing school, get my degrees, and build my damn tech career—"
"Tina," he interrupted gently. "Don't bury the pain under work."
"I am the one who needs attention, Edward. My father left early. My mom worked her soul out. It was just me and Sally—and we weren't close…"
He lifted her chin, made her look at him. She felt his breath against her lips. She wanted to close her eyes. Wanted to fall into him. But she couldn't.
"You'll be okay, Tina," he said, voice low. "Let the past stay in the past."
"You don't get it…" she whispered.
"I do. Even if you didn't explain it in full—I see you."
That broke something inside her. She leaned into him, tears wetting his shoulder. He kissed her forehead and held her tighter, like he was trying to squeeze out the pain.
"I think we should head to the studio," he whispered.
She nodded.
---
Ed's studio was a bungalow. Small but luxurious in all the right ways. There was a sparkling pool out back, a cute garden with hanging lights, and a sleek bar tucked into the corner. Tina was already obsessed.
"My friend designed it. He's an architectural engineer," Ed said as she stared around like she'd found Narnia.
'Frank?' She thought within.
"You're yet to see the inside." He said and led her in.
Inside was even more of a vibe. The living room was spacious and tastefully decorated. On the wall hung paintings—some modern, some ethereal. One, in particular, caught her eye: an older woman with long blonde hair, green eyes, and wine-colored lips.
"That's my mother," Ed said, walking up behind her. "She's English. My dad's from Chicago. I got most of his genes, clearly."
"She's stunning. But yeah—you're very Black for someone mixed."
He chuckled. "My sister came out totally different. I got the dominant gene package."
"You're lucky. You turned out... you know. Fine." She bit her lip.
He laughed. "Thanks, Miss Smith."
They kept walking. She admired more paintings—tropical rainforests, eerie lakes, wildflower meadows that looked both poisonous and poetic.
"You're an exceptional painter, Morgan."
He turned around—and she was way too close. Her face tilted up. His lips hovered just above her forehead. The air between them grew thick.
"I know," he whispered, a little shaky.
"The main studio?" she said, pretending to ignore the magnetic pull.
"Right. There's also a kitchen, a couple bathrooms, and, well... bedrooms."
"What do you even need those for?" she asked with mock suspicion.
"In case I pull an all-nighter or crash here," he grinned. "There are three bedrooms, actually."
"Well-planned, Doctor Morgan."
They were still standing there. Too close. Her eyes fluttered, sleepy, sultry. He brushed against her shoulder and something in her nearly snapped.
He looked down at her. She looked... irresistible.
He held her waist.
She clutched his arms.
She wanted him to kiss her. Bad. She was ovulating—ugh, of course she was. Her body was about to commit treason. She closed her eyes.
But he pulled away.
"The studio room," he said suddenly.
Her heart sank. She looked at the floor.
"After you," she said quietly.
He took her hand and led her in.