When I think back to that evening at my house, I still feel ashamed at how bold I was to tell Petr that I wanted to be alone with him. My cheeks warm every time the memory resurfaces. What if he had laughed? What if he had politely refused and walked away? I didn't even think that far ahead. Luckily, that didn't happen—and I'm glad, more than I can admit out loud.
Weeks have passed since then, but it feels like yesterday. Petr and I call each other every day. We squeeze in stolen hours whenever our demanding schedules allow, even if sometimes it's just a hurried coffee before work or a quick call between meetings. Somehow, those small moments have become the best parts of my days.
Today is different. I can't wait for five o'clock to strike so I can leave the office behind and head straight to Petr's. He invited me for dinner, saying with a grin that he'd be the one cooking tonight. A playful jab, no doubt, since he knows my skills in the kitchen are laughable. But secretly, I'm curious to see what he's prepared.
When the door opens, he greets me with that warm, disarming smile that always unravels me. "Hello, love," he says, pulling me into a hug, his lips brushing against mine.
"Hello," I murmur back, though my voice carries the weariness of the day. Deliveries delayed, clients complaining—it was one of those days where nothing seemed to align. I don't want to unload it on him, so I swallow the frustration and try to tuck it away.
Only then do I notice the air in his apartment. Something smells wonderful—savory, rich, and comforting. I lift my head, eyes wide. "So it seems you really are a better cook than me." I force a smile, though this time, it comes easier.
"I've always said that," he teases lightly. "But you never wanted to believe me. Come on, don't stand there in the hallway."
He takes my hand, his fingers warm against mine, and leads me into the kitchen. The table is already set with candles flickering softly, casting golden shadows on the walls. It's intimate, thoughtful—everything about it screams that he planned this carefully.
"Do you need help with something?" I ask, hoping to be useful, to show him I'm not completely hopeless in domestic matters.
He shakes his head, smiling. "No need. Everything's ready. Sit."
He brings over two plates, setting one in front of me before sitting beside me. I take my first bite and let out a surprised hum. "Mmm… this tastes delicious."
"Thanks," he says, pride in his voice. "And I even have dessert ready. Chocolate muffins. Your favorite."
I groan dramatically, though a smile tugs at my lips. "Oh no, I've had so many sweets lately. I'm going to get fat."
"Then we'll work it off together," he counters smoothly, his eyes glinting.
I laugh, shaking my head, but before I can tease him back, he suddenly straightens as if remembering something. "Actually, that reminds me—I have something for you. Wait here."
He leaves the room quickly, and I stare after him, curiosity prickling. When he returns, he's holding a neat stack of papers. For a moment, I assume they're flyers, maybe something for work. But then he slides one into my hand.
I look down. My breath catches. It's a plane ticket.
"The Alps?" My voice cracks as I stare at the bold letters, then back at him. He's grinning like a schoolboy with a secret.
"Sure," he says casually, though his eyes are alight with excitement. "We'll fly out and cool off. You said you didn't like summer, remember?"
He winks at me, but my stomach knots. We've only been dating a few weeks, and already—a vacation? A ski trip, of all things? It's not what I expected when he promised a surprise.
"I don't know…" I begin cautiously, running my fingers over the ticket. "I have so much work. I can't just fly off and ski in the Alps. And I don't even own ski gear."
"We'll buy everything you need," he says firmly, leaning closer. "And work will survive without you for a few days. Besides…" His voice drops slightly, almost conspiratorial. "There's no way to cancel anyway. I'm flying out in two days."
I blink, stunned. "So you've given me a done deal, huh?" My tone is mock-serious, but my lips curve into a mischievous smile.
"Maybe," he admits, eyes gleaming. "But when I see that smile, I already know your answer."
I tilt my head, pretending to consider, though the butterflies in my stomach are already giving me away. Finally, I lean in, my lips brushing his. "I'll go. And I'd love to."
He lets out a breath, relief and triumph mixing, before kissing me again. The ticket slips forgotten onto the table.
We're both so giddy, so wrapped up in each other, that the chocolate muffins stay untouched. The candles burn lower as laughter fills the room, and by the time we move from the table, dinner is only a memory, replaced by something sweeter, more dangerous, and far more addictive.