so I bought him some.

Over the course of last week, I had called anybody who had the slightest of connections to him—and who was also at arm's length for me, of course—for the sole purpose of what I liked to call birthday research.

Evelyn had told me he liked white roses, which resulted in the bouquet sitting beside me. Previously chocolate, I'd changed the cake flavor to butterscotch, his favourite. I was still so nervous about the gifts I'd gotten him: vinyl records of two of his favourite albums, three books he'd been intrigued by the last time we went to the library, a black knitted turtleneck sweater.

The sweater was an impulsive buy, one I was dreading the most. At the moment it had felt like something I needed to gift him simply because I knew how good it would look on him, but now it made me feel embarrassed because what brands did rich people even wear? Whatever that was, this was certainly not it.

I visited Maria while she worked her shift at Louisa's Diner, and my eyes had widened realizing how they'd still not removed the photo booth pictures alongside the messages customers had left. Heart hammering in my chest, my eyes stumbled upon Evan and I, and then proceeded to drop to the bottom of the polaroid.

It was forgotten to me how I hadn't gotten a chance to see what was written on it until then. In a messy slant, the words read: you look beautiful in lavender.

Maria had laughed at my attempts to not act flustered.

I was wearing a dress the same exact colour today, but knowingly.

Perhaps hoping he would like this gift best.

When I parked Dad's car outside and attempted to balance everything I'd brought on two hands, Evan had already spotted me from the entryway. I focused on his expressions first—how he scrunched his nose whilst watching me struggle, and how he'd jogged to me and taken half the things in his hands, lips twisting in a frown.

It was only when we had stacked everything on the counter table near the doorway of his mansion did I throw my arms over his shoulders, making him topple before he found foothold.

"Happy birthday!" I said with a breathless laugh. His hold was just as comforting as I remembered, and I fought the urge to stay like we were, chests pressed like opposing magnets finally sticking to place.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered into my hair. He was still processing that I'd shown up within ten minutes of my last text. In my defense, I was born ready.

At least today.

I snapped back into my senses, pulling away and pushing the bouquet towards him.

His eyes widened. "You got me flowers?"

"I never knew you liked white roses," I prodded with a smile.

"Oh." He narrowed his eyes, hands clasping around the plastic wrapping. "I'm guessing Evelyn told you that."

"She's pretty helpful in exposing you." My eyes were teasing. "Does the act of receiving flowers hurt your fragile masculinity?

"Oh, absolutely." He rolled his eyes, not missing a beat, but his smile remained intact. "Thank you for these, Laura."

"I made you cupcakes, too." They probably tasted like shit. I shrugged at the carboard box, and heat rose to my cheeks. "I'm not very experienced in baking, so I guess that's your warning." I waved at the gifts that were sitting to his side. "I, uh. . .do you want to open your gifts now? If not, that's okay too because we do need to meet our friends, so maybe then you could—"

He discarded the flowers to the side, eliminated the distance, and kissed me. His hand smoothened on my back, and the other one pressed to cup my cheek. In a mere second everything else was lost on me, and the only thought that prevailed was him, him, him.

But he pulled away, and entirely too soon. "I've been trying to kiss you since you got here, but you won't pause for a moment." He brushed loose hair out of my face and I froze at our proximity in his living room, where his family could walk in anytime.

As if telepathy was real, he said, "No one's home."

My shoulders slumped, still red-faced. "Okay."

He laughed, and because he was so close, it echoed inside of my chest, glowing with warmth. "What's got you so worked up? Birthdays are neither important nor special to me. You being here already surpasses all expectations."

I shuffled in my sandals. "Well, this means a lot to me."

He moved back a couple spaces, gaze not leaving mine. I watched him watch me, the slow movement of his scrutiny dipping to my legs and then rising back up to level with my eyes, as if he was taking sips of his favourite wine.

The sheer time he took made my heart take off, limbs locked into place.

"You are exquisite." He breathed, a grin developing on his face. "And you've got me wondering whether you went to Louisa's Diner and finally found out what I'd written below our picture."

I smiled as if I wasn't floored, melting. "Maybe."

"This is wicked." A pause. "And I love it. This really is your colour."

I folded my arms, pretending to have the upper hand. "So, the gifts are for later," I pushed the stack away, setting my purse on top so I could free my hands and fix my hair. "We've got. . .an hour, but barely—before we go meet the rest of the group."

He was staring intently at me as I pulled my hair up. There were four steps between us, the amount of negative space I would've never, in another circumstance, been ungrateful for.

Yet, with his eyes on me and feet halted mid-step, I wondered if the seconds could pass any quicker. If his closeness could approach any faster.

"There you go," he whispered, voice subdued, fingers wrapping around my wrist. He still stood three steps away, and I wondered if he had always stared at me like this—like I was the centerpiece, no matter who else stood on his quicksilver ground. "Exploiting your power. As always."

I paused with hands in the air, trying to sound reasonable with air knocked out of my lungs. ". . .Excuse me?"

He walked nearer. His hand remained on top of mine, but this time, he pulled at the ribbon I had secured on my head and let my hair cascade down my shoulders. "You know I'd agree to anything you say," he said, letting the ribbon tickle my neck. Goosebumps erupted on my arms at the contact of our skin, searing all over my body. "And you're using that against me."

His mouth met mine without warnings. My hand went over his shoulders to steady my feet better, but he lifted me off the ground and situated me on the tabletop. I watched him pull away, eyes intense, uncertain, touch gentle. His fingers held me by the waist, and beneath his touch, the fabric debauched.

This closeness was new. This closeness was persuasive. Time was a stand-still, and he was compelling in ways I had never been compelled.

It also made me realize how much physical contact had made me wince and withdraw in the past. How I had been insufferable around the mere subject of it, forget the practicality.

But I liked how Evan worked with it. I liked it very much.

He was extremely unhurried and alert, as if treading a foreign line, as his lips moved upward. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to my throat, and I whimpered. The strap of my dress fell off of my right shoulder, and that made him grin.

When he parted to say something and I refused by grabbing him and kissing him instead, I was sure this was no longer me.

Or maybe it had always been me and only he had found the nerve to ignite me.

We worked a rhythm I was overwhelmed yet completely sentient of; a melody that required a language of its own—one that rendered moving hands and bated breaths and glossy eyes and a lifetime of warmth.

He pulled away. I knew he was going to, because he'd seen me lost in my head. Nothing went past by, I realized, and it was frightening if I truly started believing that, so I let it be forgotten in this moment that had fragmented out of a dream.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

I could've mocked around, maybe pulled him into an embrace once more. But I said something I wanted to take back immediately.

I blurted: "I've never been big on physical contact."

Embarrassment settled to my very core. "I mean, I've never been comfortable, you know?" I laughed awkwardly, hoping to God to just end this right here and right now. "Maybe I've had bad experiences, but those are all of my experiences, and. . .oh, my God. I'm so sorry. Forget I said any of that. I'm so...sorry."

"Hey," he said, and I observed Evan for the longest time. I assumed he did the same, before he took a big step away from me and brought me back to a reality I had ruined.

I smiled, cheeks hurting. "I've just been thinking. It's nothing."

"Don't apologize. I want to have this talk with you," he said softly, hands on my arm. His grip was so gentle, I could pull apart and leave anytime. Not that I would've. "Please don't get embarrassed. I'm—maybe we should set some boundaries. Yeah. We should've done that a while ago. I'm sorry. Fuck. I just can never. . .mierda."

"Evan, I. . .wait, what?"

This time the space he created felt forced, so unnatural when it came to us. He was always at arm's length. He was now stood what felt like thirty-feet away. "I'm sorry for making you feel uncomfortable. That was never my intent. I'm only now realizing how important it was for us—me—to be clear—"

I crossed the distance myself. God bless me for never knowing how to communicate. "No, no," I shook my head. "Please, you've never made me feel uncomfortable. Don't go jumping to conclusions, okay? I was talking in general. Before you. I've always been closed off on the idea of physical intimacy before you."

He blinked, arms still in my hold. I continued. "But because I have never before felt how I feel with you," my words jumbled, and I dropped our eye contact which was too intense for me to bare any longer. "Means I lack experience, and so. . ."

He was smiling, now, waiting for me to finish my sentence. I shook off my grip on him and fixated my gaze on the ground, face all crazy shades of red. "I barely know what I'm doing. I think you already know that."

"I don't, actually," he startled me with his sudden response. "Between us, you made the first move."

"I was drunk."

His eyes met mine. "I know. And I'm sorry I encouraged you in a state like that. That was wrong of me," he looked away. "But. . .really. I wouldn't have known."

I realized I still looked disordered. I pulled my dress strap over my shoulder. My mind replicated mush.

When he realized I wasn't going to say anything, he asked, "Have I ever made you uncomfortable?"

"Do you not listen to me when I speak? No."

He held a hand up. "Sorry. I've been nothing but physical with you since the day I told you how I feel about you. If I'm rushing things. . .please let me know. All I want is to take this at your pace."

"Evan," I grabbed his hand, interlacing our fingers. "This is my pace. You did nothing wrong. If I would have felt the slightest bit uneasy, I would've let you know. But I didn't. You know why?"

His eyes swept across my face. What I had never thought I'd say with a grin on my face, I spoke, loud and clear. "Because I like you touching me."

The gravity of my own words hit milliseconds too late.

The two thoughts in my brain were that I had just done something mortifying and Oh God, how do we return to a normal conversation after this?

I planted my face right into his shoulder, humiliation crawling in from beneath the seams. I felt his arm envelope my frame, hand situating itself on the back of my head. I heard a slightly choked sound, and then a restrained laugh rumbling between us.

Confused, I waived my shame and tilted my head to look up, gaze catching up with the sharp line of his jaw and his twisted lips and angular cheekbones.

It caught up to me like a firework—the sight. The sight of him blushing.

My heart had never skipped these many beats before. It was now frolicking in far-off territory and I was unabashed in my staring, eyes fixated on nothing but the slightest of pink dusting his tan skin.

"Oh, my," I pulled back, and then started laughing. "Am I dreaming?"

The heat on his cheeks was long gone, but he knew I wasn't going to live it down. I grinned evilly whilst he lowered his stance to meet me face-to-face, eyes dim. It was a silent warning, whatever he was trying to ensure.

I poked his chest. "Nope. Whatever that look is, it's a no from me." I reiterated, and I saw him visibly cringe. "I have never seen you blush. I feel so powerful right now."

"Laura," he spoke, forlorn look on his face but eyes sincere. "This is exactly what I mean when I say you don't realize your power. Over me."

It was now my cheeks that were turning beet-red. He laughed. "Not that I care, though. I'd let you use it anytime."

: i split this chapter into two parts since it was becoming too lengthy, so the next part should be up in a couple days. this book is literally 80% fluff and at this point idk what to do to make it stop (do y'all want it to stop??)

hope you all are doing good. i love you,

abrial

[ twitter: @/abrialtales]