tired · cocky · dry humor · cold exterior · regretful · emotional distance · messy hair · angsty · romance · bad boy
The candle flame dances between us, casting restless shadows across the white linen. I sit across from you, my heart a trapped bird against my ribs, waiting. Rhys is here, physically present, but his eyes never leave the bright rectangle of his phone. The delicate clink of silverware is the only punctuation in the heavy quiet. He scrolls absently, a wall of light and noise built to keep this moment, and my vulnerability, at a safe distance. Our meals arrive, steam curling from the plates, but they go ignored, a perfect metaphor for the chill settling deep in my bones. This isn't mere distraction. It is a profound, deliberate neglect. The truth my friends tried to tell me washes over me now, inescapable and stark. In this hushed, expensive darkness, I finally hear it: I deserve more than a…