“That’s a little sexist, don’t you think? Can a man not have candles?”
She’s too good at that, seeing through me. No hiding the hope I’d had, wanting to make her feel more at ease, an attempt at being romantic maybe. That if she gives in to what we both want, it can be framed as somethingintentional, something more than accidental or cheap. More than what Rithy said to make her doubt me.
Her laugh comes again and I step closer, take the candle from her slowly, letting the intent show, and light it. I set it down with a defiant thud that saysyes, candles. I pour the wine and hand her a glass. She takes it, our fingers brushing for a second, the same spark from the car, only stronger now. We stand there for a minute, both pretending to study the color of the wine.
“So,” she says, swirling it lightly, “is this your official move? Bring me home, dim the lights, play soul music,light candles, pour wine?”
“Sometimes I skip the soul music.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “I’m sure it’s hard to remember all the steps in such acarefully practicedroutine of seduction.”
I move closer, just enough to feel her warmth. “You don’t seem the type to fall for moves or routines, Dr. Sawadzka.”
“I’m not.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I don’t have any. I’m barely here. Can’t exactlypracticeout of a suitcase. I swear on my life, this apartment has neverseena lit candle before tonight.”
She shakes her head, laughing, that easy disbelief lighting her face. Then she looks up, and for a second, everything in me stops. The part that jokes, talks, performs—gone.
I reach out and push a strand of hair behind her ear. “No moves or routines. Just this.”
She doesn’t step back. Just studies me, eyes searching mine like she’s trying to decide whether to believe me.
“No moves?” she says, barely a whisper. “Please. That’s one of the oldest moves in the book.”
“Well,” I murmur, “I mean it. All of it. Every way I touch you. I’ve never been more honest about something.”
Something flickers between us, something turning towardslove, maybe. Then she sets her glass down, and before I can say anything else, she leans in and kisses me. It’s slow and sure, a hint of red wine lingers on her lips, followed by the sound of both of us finally giving in. My hands find her hips, her fingers slip around my neck.
When we break apart, she’s still close, eyes half-lidded, voice soft. “Wanted me all to yourself, huh?”
I brush my thumb along her jaw, smiling. “I did warn you.”
For a long moment, I don’t move. Every instinct in me wants to keep going, to lose myself in her completely, but I bite my own lip and draw a breath instead. If I want her to know what this means, I have to give her something first.
The song I’ve been shaping for weeks, that started after Miami, since that dream I had of her. I’ve kept it half finished, waiting for the right moment to let it live outside my head. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how I show her that she isn’t just another verse or a night I’ll write off later. She’s the part I keep building toward.
“I should probably warn you,” I say, still catching my breath, “that every single cell in my body wants to rip your clothes off right now.”
Her mouth tilts into a smile. “Probably not the warning you think it is.”
“Right, well,” I continue, still brushing my thumb over her jaw, “before that happens,and it will happen, I’ve got something to show you. At the piano. Though if you insist on doing that naked, I won’t stop you.”
She laughs, still pressed against my chest, burying her face there for a second before looking up. “Fine. Show away, maestro.”
I take her hand and lead her to the piano. The bench creaks as I sit, and she leans against the side, watching me with that expression that always makes my pulse stumble.
“It’s not finished,” I say, fingers finding the first chord. “But it’s something that’s been living in me since I met you. Turns out, trying to press that into a song is harder than my neurotic thoughts. Nothing feels like it does you justice. Or I’m a perfectionist. Probably both.”
She doesn’t answer, just waits, eyes on my hands.
I play a few chords, a melody that still feels like it’s learning how to breathe. The notes rise and fall, delicate, the kind of line that carries its own confession. Words slip out, almost under my breath:
You were the fruit I was never meant to taste,
The red stain dripped on the mouth I chased.
Silk bound want, the dark unspun,
