The Little Dove #2 ✔️

07. Written Confession

CHAPTER 7: Written Confession

"Oh, it wasn't an offer. I'm making you dinner."

As I turn to his large form, my eyes bulge out of their sockets. He stands stoically, with an equally stoic expression, as if he had just discussed the weather. He was nonchalant and bland, "What? No, you are not." I let out a little laugh, gesturing he turns away. He doesn't. He just looks at me, waiting.

"Lemon, it's just dinner." He says to me, merely blinking. I raise an eyebrow his way, overly confused and severely hesitant in allowing him in. He waits patiently next to me, and I glance down at the bag.

I sigh in defeat, using my finger to gesture. He turns around and gives me a bizarre look, "Turn around. You're not learning my keypad." I tell him.

"You have a fingerprint scanner with it." He mutters under his breath but indulges me and slowly turns around. I quickly type in the code and open the door, flicking the lights on. I look around the room before opening the door wider. He steps in, looking far too big for his current surroundings as he places his hand under mine on the door he closes for me.

Before he looks around, one eyebrow goes up, "You must have wanted a private room." He mutters, glancing at the television.

I scoff, "Did you not get one? I know you had the money to do so." I murmur, turning towards my room for a moment.

"Just because I have the money doesn't mean I'm willing to spend it, lemon." He says from behind me.

"You mean you wouldn't spend it on this? Look, the kitchen is on your right. I'm only putting my things away. I won't be a moment." I mutter while typing in my code and quickly open my door, flicking the light on. I place my laptop back under my pillow, pottering with my hair before stepping back out.

He's placing the food on the kitchen table before looking at me. I flick the kitchen light on as he asks, "Do you have any pots?" I point to the correct cabinet, the one I knew I couldn't reach, and he turns to open it as I glance at the contents.

"What are we making?" I ask him. He turns around with the pot in one hand, raising my eyebrow.

"There's no 'we.' I'll be making dinner." He says to me. I narrow my eyes and point casually at him.

"Dominating."

"I am not," he retorts, opening the bag before he says, "-I'm merely making you dinner." He whispers, eyes on the contents of the food, as he washes a few vegetables he had taken out of my fridge and grabs a large cutting knife that I stare at warily.

"I'm not going to poison the food, lemon." He says to me, side-glancing me.

I purse my lips, "Then, why the sudden need to make me dinner?" I ask him. My tone may have been monotonic, but he slows his cutting to a stop at the coldness in my voice. I wasn't hungry, yet he stepped in here, insisting he makes me dinner.

"You think Professor Forthright is too intuitive in his work, don't you?"

I blink, and he looks closely at me, "I'm not a fool. You loathed me the first day here, yet when you finished speaking with Professor Forthright that day...you stepped closer to me, I was the only male with you, but I have a greater advantage against Forthright. You seemed to have recognized that. I knew something may have been off with how he interacted with you...unless he backs right off when he knows I'm around, especially with you...why is that?" He asks me inquisitively.