It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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【 19.
Nineteen
Nisf-Shab 】
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[ Nisf-shab • midnight ]
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HER PALMS ARE cosy, snug and warm around the steaming Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate, the small opening on its lid allowing the strong aroma of cocoa and hazelnut essence to tickle her nostrils. It compels Rosaline to bring the cup closer to her nose and her eyes flutter shut, inhaling the rich enticing smell of the liquid goodness that makes her feel fuzzy all over.
“Don’t judge,” she murmurs with shut eyes, feeling his gaze on her.
“Never,” Zachary’s smile is evident in his voice. “There’s more to eating and drinking than just eating and drinking. I can respect someone who appreciates that fact.”
Her eyes fly open and she swivels around to face him, her elbow accidentally knocking into the jar of cookies on display at the counter of the quaint little shop. Zachary instantly moves forward, cupping her elbow and pulling her away from anything else she might knock into.
“You’re very clumsy,” he observes. “Very unbecoming for a surgeon.”
“I don’t take in hot chocolate when entering operating theatres,” Rosaline tells him seriously. “So there’s very little risk of me being distracted by the flavour.”
Zachary sighs, and shakes his head in defeat, before stepping away from the counter as he picks up his own cup and lets the person next in line to step up to the cashier instead.
“On another note, I was actually surprised about the whole appreciating food and drink thing you mentioned just a moment ago,” Rosaline explains, not knowing where this easy camaraderie between both of them comes from. Especially when she’s positive she wanted to sink into the earth and never deal with living again just a few hours ago.
“Oh,” he nods in understanding, and then his eyes flicker to something behind her, on the array of snacks that she knows is there. “Look at those.”
Rosaline turns around, frowning in confusion, not really sure what he’s referring to. And then he steps up from behind her, his chest grazing her back as he leans forward and taps on one particular jar of biscuits.
“What?” she asks, still not getting it.
“Gingersnaps,” he laughs lightly, the sound blowing past her ear in an airy breeze.
“What about—oh,” she pauses, getting the joke. And then she turns back to face him with a flat expression. “Hilarious, honestly.”
Rosaline cannot count how many times she’s heard ginger jokes back during her schooling years. Maybe if she grew up here in the States, it would have been less frequent. But having grown up in a European country, it was a rare thing to live through a day where at least one person didn’t attempt to crack some immature redhead joke in her presence.
