"I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."
— Pablo Neruda
~~~~~~~~
Zaya stood in front of the mirror, the faint sound of the city pressing against her windows, muffled and distant. The zipper whispered up her spine as she pulled the dress into place, deep wine red, soft against her skin, with a satin sheen that shifted slightly with every breath she took. The back dipped low, baring the delicate curve of her spine, while the front offered nothing but suggestion, a high neckline that skimmed the collarbone and turned modesty into seduction.
She stepped back, her bare feet cold against the hardwood floor.
She'd chosen the same lace beneath, those wine-colored panties she'd worn the night she took the photo. Not for nostalgia, but for continuity. They felt like part of the story now.
Her perfume was subtle, warm: amber, vanilla, and something darker underneath. She pressed it gently at her neck, behind each ear, the inside of her wrists. Not too much. Just enough to linger in memory.
In the mirror, her reflection didn't look eager.
She looked ready. Her lipstick was red and her eyes held a quiet tension that made her look like a woman in control of her own unraveling.
She walked out the door. Every step felt deliberate. Not like she was headed to dinner but toward a page she hadn't read yet and already suspected would stay with her.
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
v𝖊𝘭v𝖊𝘵 𝚙𝔯𝖊𝓼𝓼𝗎𝔯𝖊
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
The car arrived, sleek and silent. She didn't speak to the driver. She didn't check her phone. The city rolled past her window in gold streaks and shadows. Somewhere between her thigh and her ribs, tension pulsed: sow, steady, welcome.
The restaurant stood at the corner of an old stone building downtown. The host greeted her with a nod and stepped aside and gestured her toward the far end of the room.
She saw him before she reached the table.
Cael sat in a dark, corner booth, one arm resting across the back of the seat, the other wrapped casually around a glass of still water. He wore black. He looked like he'd been waiting without urgency. Like the time between her message and this moment had been spent anticipating, not preparing.
When their eyes met, he didn't smile.
His gaze moved slowly from her lips to her collarbone, then lower. He looked at her like she had sent him something carefully wrapped, and he was taking his time with the ribbon.
He rose and approched her. He pulled out her chair with the same calm he always carried, as if she hadn't just entered the room like a secret only he had been told.
Zaya sat, her heart steady but alive.
The candlelight on the table flickered between them like a third pulse, and when she picked up the wine menu, her hands didn't shake. But her fingertips tingled where the heat of his gaze lingered.
When he finally leaned forward, his voice stayed low, just enough for her.
~ Cael: "You wore that for me."
Her lips curved slightly. She didn't drop her eyes.
~ Zaya: "You told me to dress like the memory I gave you."
She reached for her glass, her fingers brushing the rim.
~ Zaya: "I wanted to see if it matched the real thing."
~ Cael: "It does."
He let the pause stretch for a beat.
~ Cael: "And it's not even unwrapped yet."
The young woman exhaled slowly, the edge of her wineglass hovering near her mouth.
~ Zaya: "Then maybe I'll let you unwrap it… slowly."
Their knees touched beneath the table. She didn't move. Neither did he. The next course hadn't arrived yet. But the heat between them had already begun to rise.
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
v𝖊𝘭v𝖊𝘵 𝚙𝔯𝖊𝓼𝓼𝗎𝔯𝖊
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
Their glasses clinked once, quietly. Zaya took a small sip of the burgundy wine, rolling the flavor on her tongue before swallowing. Cael watched her, eyes steady, his hand resting near the base of his glass but not lifting it. She noticed it.
~ Zaya: "You're not drinking?"
He tilted his head slightly, a small curve forming at the corner of his mouth.
~ Cael: "Not tonight."
~ Zaya: "Why not?"
He met her gaze without hesitation.
~ Cael: "Because I need to stay clear."
Her eyebrows lifted, just a little. He didn't say it in a loaded way. There was no heat behind it, no implication she was being tested. It sounded more like a promise.
~ Cael: "I'd rather we both remember everything."
She blinked slowly, then nodded.
~ Zaya: "Fair enough."
She set her glass down, untouched since that first sip. The gesture didn't feel performative. It felt intentional. It mirrored his. It joined the quiet rhythm of how they were beginning to move in step, not with rules, but with recognition.
Their food arrived moments later, simple dishes, elegant and unpretentious: grilled sea bass in saffron butter, a side of seasonal vegetables that tasted like they were grown for moments like this. Nothing overwhelmed. Everything was focused.
She took her time, chewing slowly, letting herself taste. She was aware of how her body moved in the dress, the way the silk followed the bend of her arm as she lifted her fork, the way the light shifted on her shoulder.
~ Cael: "How's your hand?"
She glanced down at it, flexing her fingers with unconscious ease.
~ Zaya: "Good. Steady."
Her gaze returned to his.
~ Zaya: "I've been working more. Not because I have to. Because I want to. That hasn't happened in a while."
He nodded once, eyes resting on hers.
~ Cael: "That matters more than any sketch ever will."
She smiled, but it was quiet, like something unfolding beneath the surface rather than above it.
~ Zaya: "What about you? The project by the coast. Still keeping you buried?"
He leaned back slightly, resting one elbow on the edge of the table.
~ Cael: "It's entering a new phase. The frame's sound. It can hold its own now."
She tilted her head, sensing the weight of the metaphor.
~ Zaya: "You talk about buildings like they're people."
~ Cael: "That's because people fall apart for the same reasons."
She didn't smile at that, not right away. She let the words sit inside her for a few seconds first.
He didn't press. He simply picked up his water, sipped once, and set it down with precision. Like every movement had intention.
The candlelight danced against the polished wood of the table. Their shadows flickered in golden fragments against the low wall behind them. In this light, Cael looked carved: sharp, sure, but calm in the center. Like a man who didn't raise his voice because he never needed to.
Zaya rested her forearm against the table, her fingers trailing lightly along the napkin edge.
~ Zaya: "Can I ask something?"
~ Cael: "Anything."
~ Zaya: "Do you always plan this far ahead?"
He gave her the smallest smile. The kind that barely moved his lips but said everything.
~ Cael: "Only when it matters."
Her lashes lowered slightly, but her eyes stayed on his.
~ Zaya: "You're hard to read."
~ Cael: "That's on purpose."
~ Zaya: "I figured."
A beat passed. She expected him to leave it there. But he didn't.
~ Cael: "But I don't hide."
~ Zaya: "No. You don't."
Their voices had lowered, not from secrecy, but from intimacy. The conversation was private in the truest sense. They were speaking in tones made for each other, not the room.
The waiter returned and cleared their plates without interrupting the current. He moved like someone trained not just to serve, but to disappear. Zaya barely noticed him. Her attention stayed on the man across from her: the way his jaw tightened slightly when he was thinking, the way his thumb tapped once against his glass, and then stilled.
They didn't ask for dessert. It didn't feel necessary. The air between them already tasted like something they'd earned.
Cael stood slowly, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt. Zaya watched the way he moved, every gesture deliberate but unforced. He didn't offer his arm like a cliché. He extended his hand.
She placed hers in his palm, and the contact sent something quiet and electric through her.
His fingers curled around hers, not too tight. Just enough to remind her that connection didn't have to speak loudly to be felt.
They stepped out into the night.
The city met them with quiet gold and the hush of late evening streets. Streetlights bled against the pavement in soft halos. The breeze teased the hem of her dress and cooled the heat still coiled in her chest.
He didn't tell her where they were going. And she didn't need to ask.
She followed, her hand still in his, every step echoing the same thought she hadn't spoken aloud all evening.
She was ready.