“No, I meanin the car,idiot,” she says, laughing, swatting my arm.
I grin. “Then we’ll say I offered you a lift. Or better yet, I’ll drop you near the coffee shop, and you can walk in like normal — keep up appearances.”
“Okay, that could work.” Her eyes brighten. “Mine tonight then. Oh! I’ll cook for you. It can be our firstofficialdate.”
“I thought last night was our first date,” I tease.
She laughs and hides her face, but I tilt her chin back. “Don’t hide that smile from me.”
“Well, I don’t normally do that on first dates,” she murmurs.
The thought of her on dates with anyone else makes my stomach twist, but before I can dwell on it, she’s shoving a forkful of French toast in her mouth, humming her approval.
“Okay, dinner at yours tonight,” I say, leaning back. “So what do we do until then?”
She grins — that playful, dangerous grin — then bolts for the bedroom. She wants a chase. Always.
I arrive at her flat just before six. She left mine around two to prep, and somehow, four hours apart feels like too long.
The moment the door opens, I’m hit by the scent of spices. Soft jazz hums in the background, candles flicker across the room, and there she is — wearing a floaty pink dress, her hair half up, half tumbling down in loose curls.
She’s breathtaking.
“Evening, Mr. Chase,” she says with mock formality. “Please, come in.”
“Why thank you, Miss Green.” I hold up my overnight bag. “Where shall I put this?”
“Bedroom’s fine. I’m sure you remember where it is.” She flashes me a cheeky smile. “Wine’s open — Sauvignon Blanc okay?”
“Perfect.”
Her flat is everything mine isn’t — warm, colourful, and lived-in. It feels likeher.There’s laughter painted into the walls, personality in every corner. And for the first time in years, I realise I don’t want to leave a place.
“I can’t believe you did all this,” I say, stepping behind her as she stirs something on the hob.
“Well, I wanted to thank you properly for last night.”
“It really was beautiful,” I say, wrapping my arms around her waist.
She smiles. “It’s lamb biryani.”
“My favourite,” I blurt, grinning like an idiot.
“I know,” she says simply, offering me a spoonful. The flavour hits and I groan. “How did you know?”
“Because it’s the only takeaway menu you’ve ever kept, and you always order the same thing,” she says with a smirk.
I laugh. “You notice everything.”
She shrugs. “Organisation is the key to unlocking chaos.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I read it on a poster in a stationery shop,” she admits, giggling.
Dinner is perfect — the food, the laughter, the easy rhythm of conversation. I find myself lowering every wall I’ve spent years building. She makes me forget the noise, the expectations, the weight of it all.
Afterwards, when she stands to clear the table, I take the plates from her hands. “No. Sit. You’ve done enough.”
