This world lies in a soothing hush and bluish hue, a cool autumn breeze whispering through the trees beyond the balcony.
Strands of curls brush against her cheeks, her lips curving into a contented smile
as she breathes in the scent of autumn leaves mingling with the rich aroma of the hot chocolate warming her hands.
Her fingers reach for the novel lying open upon the coffee table, its pages fluttering gently in the breeze. Taking a sip of her hot chocolate, she sinks into the words, another world unfolding before her as she chases wonder and revelation between the lines.
Yet, her gaze drifts toward the shadowed trees again.
For focus eludes her, her thoughts straying once again to her mysterious man.
She'd finally learned his name two days ago.
Rhett...
His surname still escapes her, though.
He appears once a week, tails her around like a shadow,
only to dissapear just as quickly.
Every now and then, whenever she stepped out of her apartment, her gaze would flicker toward his door.
Maybe he was just busy with work?
After all, her friend had told her he owned a car workshop.
But still...
"Tsk. Talk about pursuing me." The words slip without her knowledge, and she flicks her forehead with the edge of her book.
With a soft huff, she shuffles in her cushioned arm chair, curling deeper into her cozy little nest.
She raises the mug to her lips for another sip of for chocolate, her gaze gliding back to the page when the doorbell rings, its chime echoing through the quiet apartment.
How come she has a visitor? Is it the landlord?
With a small shrug, she sets the book and her barely sipped mug of hot chocolate upon the coffee table before rising to her feet.
The warmth of her cozy little nest tugs at her the moment she leaves it, and she half-heartedly walks through the living room, crosses the threshold,
and reaches for the doorknob.
She twists the knob and pulls the door open.
Her heart skips a beat as her eyes meet those familiar chocolate-brown ones.
"Good evening, Angel," says her mysterious man... Rhett.
Warmth blooms across her cheeks at the teasing smile playing upon his lips.
But wait... what does he want at this hour?
And why is she happy to see him—
No, she's not!
Absolutely not!
"What do you want?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest.
Rhett leans casually against the doorframe, the sheepish grin
never leaving his lips. "I want some... sugar."
She parts her lips to protest, when something happens, and only one word escapes her. "What?"
"I said..." He tilts his head just a little. "I want some sugar."
Heat floods Neva's cheeks at once.
"W—why mine?" she asks, forcing herself to hold his gaze even as her aunt's teasing voice echoes through her narrowing mind.
Her aunt once said, "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 tears her gaze away from him, fixating on the balcony railing behind him instead.
"It has to be yours," he says gently.
Of course... he means literal sugar. Nothing else.
And she resents herself most for letting the memory resurface at all. As if she has a say in what her mind chose to remember.
"Angel, it's cold outside." He rubs his hands together and blows warm breath into them, his gaze drifting toward the wind stirring the trees that border the apartment compound.
"Won't you let me in?" He looks back at her, hope flickering in his chocolate-brown eyes.
"No," she says. "And my name's not Angel."
She needs to reach for the doorknob, and shut the door in his face. Because she can't let herself be fooled. Not by a stranger who's keeps trespassing her space, who could do easily threaten her safety.
Then... then why does she hesitate?
Her heart softening at the pale wisps of breath misting in the cold air as he exhales, at the faint flush tinting the tip of his nose.
"Anyone can call you by you name," he says, a smile lingering upon his lips.
"But Angel... that's mine alone."
She glares at him,
her composure wavering, when he suddenly turns his head aside and sneezes loudly.
He sniffles, rubbing beneath his nose with the back of a finger.
With a quiet sigh, she relents. "Come in."
She turns away and steps back inside without another glance at him.
Crossing the living room toward the kitchen, she soon senses the hushed rhythm of his footsteps following behind her.
She reaches up to the top cabinet and pulls it open, retrieving an empty glass jar. With a soft clink, she sets it on the counter before reaching for another jar heavy with sugar.
She doesn't glance at the mysterious man standing somewhere behind her, keeping her attention fixed on the task at hand as she carefully pours sugar
from her own jar into the empty one for him.
As her fingers twist the lid shut on the now brimming jar of sugar, she senses his warmth drawing close behind her.
She whirls around, nearly colliding with his chest before he catches her gently by the shoulders.
"Careful," he murmurs.
Her gaze lifts to meet his gentle eyes, heat blooming within her,
before she takes an abrupt step back.
"S... sorry," she whispers.
He only smiles, and she extends the jar of sugar toward him.
As he takes hold of it, his cold fingers brush against her skin,
sending a shiver down her spine.
Where had he been?
"Thank you," he says, then pauses.
She waits for whatever he has to say, but a flicker of hesitation crosses his eyes.
"Can I," he says, then stops himself.
But then a frown creases her brow as her gaze lingers on his face washed
in the dim light of her kitchen. He looks so pale, as though he might be sick.
A smile curls at his lips. "See you later, Angel."
She gives a small nod, but he continues to hold her gaze... until, finally, he turns away.
She lingers there, watching him step out of her kitchen.
She glances away, placing the jar of sugar back in its place before closing the cabinet.
But... is he sick?
Should she have asked?
But why would she? He's a grown man... a stranger, an annoying one at that. Surely, he can take care of himself.
She steps out of the kitchen, hurried footsteps carrying her across the living room faster than her thoughts can follow, just as he reaches for the doorknob.
"Wait!" she says.
He freezes for a beat before slowly glancing babk over his shoulder. "Hmm?"
She steps toward him, hesitating for a beat at the confusion in his eyes.
Still, she reaches up and rests
her palm against his forehead.
He's burning up.
"Come with me," she says, then turns around.
And as she walks away, she wonders about the strange feelings stirring wildly within her.
She glances at him as he halts a few steps away from the edge of the couch. "Sit," she murmurs. "I'll get you some medicine."
Then she walks toward her bedroom without waiting to see whether he obeys.
She opens the drawer of her nightstand and retrieves
the square first-aid kit tucked inside.
She returns to the living room to find him seated on the couch, calm and compliant.
His gentle gaze lingers on her before she wordlessly hands him a thermometer.
"Put it... under your tongue," she says, lowering herself onto the couch at a careful distance from him.
He obeys.
During the long, winding minute it takes for the thermometer to beep, an awkward silence settles between them, almost painfully so.
And she avoids his presence and occupies herself instead with the newly discovered shapes and shadows of her living room.
At last, a quiet beep breaks the tense silence between them.
She extends her hand, and he gently places the thermometer in her palm.
She studies the display on the thermometer. 104° F, it reads.
"It's not so bad," she murmurs, flicking open the first-aid box and rifling through its contents. "But it's not so good either."
She rises and heads toward the kitchen.
Inside, she fetches a glass and pours warm water from the jug into it.
She returns to find him still seated, the warm glass of water cradled in his hands.
And she can't help the smile that curls at her lips, discovering a softer side of her mysterious man unfolding before her, so unlike the person she thought she knew.
Yet she masks her heart perfectly as his gaze meets hers, and she quietly offers him the water.
She picks up the tablet she had set aside on the coffee table, unwraps it, and places it in his hands.
She sits across from him on the couch, watching as
he sips the water before swallowing the pill.
She's quietly amused by the way he takes the medicine, just as she does, water before the pill. Her aunt had always called the habit unusual, since the
more common ritual was pill before water.
He drinks the rest of the water before placing the glass on the coffee table. Then she asks, "Do you have any symptoms like... coughing or a headache?
He shakes his head. "No." Then a gentle smile curls at his lips. "Thank you, Neva."
She only nods, lowering her gaze to her hands as she wonders what message her actions might have sent him.
"I haven't told you my name, have I?" he says, his voice gentle.
She doesn't answer. Of course he hasn't. But she already knew.
As if she'd tell him that.
"It's Rhett," he says. Then a familiar teasing lilt colors his voice as he adds, "And I... more genuinely than ever, want to be your lover."
She stiffens. How can he shift from such innocence to mischief so quickly?
Is he playing her for a fool?
Otherwise, who in the world declares an interest in someone they'd only just met with such confidence?
Perhaps he flirts with every woman this way. How is she supposed to know? He is still a stranger.
But what in the world does he want with her?
"Please, stop with that," she says, sliding the remaining tablets she'd picked out across the coffee table toward him.
But her voice comes out sharper than she intends.
"Just take them. And stop bothering me."
Pain flickers across his eyes, vivid and unguarded for the briefest moment before he smothers it behind a practiced void.
The air between them turns cold and cutting at once, and regret twists her heart at what she'd done.
"It's fine." His voice comes too soft, too careful.
Without another word, he rises. She can't even bring herself to look up as she senses his warmth fading from the room.
A faint hum of the door opening reaches her ears before it clicks softly shut.
Her gaze falls upon the untouched tablets and the jar of sugar left behind on the
coffee table, and she can only drown in the numbness of self-blame.