The fading sunlight spilling a warm glow across Ken's apartment.
I leaned against the counter, watching him move around the kitchen with that quiet, effortless precision, chopping vegetables, arranging plates, pouring a glass of water.
It was strange, almost disorienting, how normal this felt.
Just us, sharing the quiet intimacy of preparing a simple dinner.
"You know," I said, voice flat but eyes sharp, "you're… too calm for someone like you."
He glanced at me, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Too calm?"
"Yes," I replied, arms crossed. "You move through life like nothing rattles you. Nothing fazes you. And yet… you care. You notice. You respond. It's annoying."
He chuckled softly, the sound warm, grounding, tugging faintly at something I didn't want to name. "Maybe I'm just… used to the world being complicated. Or maybe I just don't make it complicated for myself."
I raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at my lips despite my cold exterior. "You make it complicated for me."
Ken laughed lightly, that gentle, melodic sound. "Is that so?"
"Yes," I admitted softly, though I looked away, pretending my heart wasn't betraying me.
Dinner was simple.
Pasta, lightly seasoned vegetables, fresh bread.
Nothing extravagant, but it was enough.
Ken set the plates on the table, and we sat across from each other, a subtle tension lingering in the quiet air.
I studied him carefully, noticing the way his eyes softened when he spoke, the gentle curve of his lips, the subtle strength in his posture.
Every detail seemed magnified, sharper, more vivid.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "Ken," I said finally, leaning forward slightly. "I asked you before… about Keisha. But I need to ask again. Honestly. Do you… like her?"
His eyes met mine immediately, calm, unwavering, grounding. "No," he said simply, voice soft but firm.
I let out a quiet breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
My chest loosened slightly, though I kept my expression neutral, cold, distant. "Good," I muttered softly, almost to myself.
We ate quietly after that, small smiles exchanged across the table, subtle glances, soft gestures.
Every word felt deliberate, every movement charged with unspoken meaning.
The meal finished, and he stood to clear the plates.
I remained seated, leaning forward slightly, studying him.
The warmth in the apartment, the calm of the evening, the quiet intimacy, it was overwhelming, almost too much.
I stood slowly, stepping closer, careful, deliberate.
His head tilted slightly, curiosity and amusement flickering in his eyes.
And then I moved forward, closing the small distance between us, letting the moment stretch.
Without hesitation, I pressed my lips to his.
It was brief at first, tentative, testing the waters.
But when he didn't pull away, when he responded with the same careful intensity I carried the moment deepened, subtle warmth spreading through me.
His hands rested lightly at my sides, not pushing, not pulling, just present.
Just grounding.
I pulled back slightly, enough to see his eyes, searching, questioning, calm but alert.
"Ysabelle…" he whispered softly, voice low, almost reverent.
I smirked faintly, cold exterior returning, though my heart raced. "I don't… make promises," I said, voice steady but layered. "But I can't ignore… this."
He smiled softly, that gentle, patient smile that made the walls around my heart tremble. "You don't have to," he said quietly. "I don't need promises. Just… you."
The rest of the evening passed quietly after that, subtle glances, small touches, comfortable silences.
The air between us had shifted, charged but unspoken, intimate yet restrained.
I knew this was only the beginning.
But I felt… unguarded.
And it was terrifying.
And exhilarating.