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He hands me a cup, warmth immediately seeping into my fingers. Steam curls lazily, carrying that soft, comforting smell of chocolate.

He pops open a small bottle of vodka for himself, taking a long, slow sip like it doesn’t burn.

I glance at him, how does he know I don’t drink?

Why is he paying so much attention to every minuscule detail about me? Why?

Why?

“Elara, eat.” He orders, setting his bottle down, he wraps his jacket around me, his breath hitting my face, spreading all over me like a warm blanket.

“Eat, baby.” He nudges, his voice soft. And I do.

I basically chug down the food, all the while noticing him watching me with odd fascination. His entire focus is on me, forcing me to squirm under his gaze.

I lick the delicious sauce from the corner of my lips and his eyes track the movement. Heat blooms within my body, lightening every fibre as his gaze devours my lips the same way I devoured the pasta.

“You’re staring.” I whisper slowly and his mouth tilts up with a knowing smirk.

“I am.” He doesn’t deny it. “Told you, you’re prettier than the view.”

“Did you cook this?” I ask, ignoring him.

He shrugs slightly mumbling something to himself I couldn’t quite catch.

“You cooked this.” Not a question. “Mostly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He sighs dramatically. “I followed a recipe.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it, warmth blooming across my cheeks.

“It was really good.”

I turn away before he notices the sting behind my eyes, swallowing hard as I fight the ridiculous urge to cry.

God, I’m so pathetic. I’m about to cry just because he cooked a meal for me.

For me.

“Good, I’d hate for my cooking to sabotage our date.”

“Oh, this is a date now?” The pounding of my heart is too loud; it’s reaching his ears because he just twitched his lips and I cannot stop looking at them.

He’s so beautiful.

He leans back on his elbows, smirking at the sky. “I cooked for you, drove you out here, and let you sit on my car. That’s premium treatment.”

I slap his chest lightly, my breath hitches when he holds my hand and keeps it there.

My fingers twirls around his tie as I speak, my voice soft. “Your standards are concerningly low.”

“I don’t know. They look pretty perfect from where I’m sitting.”

My hand stills on his red tie, my gaze slowly travelling upwards as I dive into the brown irises, so deep, I’m consumed by him.

A soft breeze passes and he reaches over, brushing a strand of hair from my face without thinking.