"What?"
"I asked for some sugar." With a tilt of his head, he appears so innocent.
"W-why mine? I mean, go get it from the store or something." Neva prays to tear her brain out as a startling memory flashes by.
Her aunt once said: ''If a guy asks for some sugar, it means he wishes a kiss from the girl he desires.''
"It has to be yours, of course." He smiles, as if he purely, fair–mindedly needs sugar.
Neva squints her eyes, unclear of his intentions.
"Angel, it's cold outside. Won't you let me in?" he pleads, rubbing his hands as he gazes through the chilly air, coming off like a piteous man.
"No. And my name's not angel!" she snaps.
If glares could bore holes, his head would soon be a sunlit spiderweb.
He simply looks at her, smiling still.
"Anyone else can call you Neva. But Angel—that's only mine."
Again, he earns a piercing glare.
She exhales deeply, trying to sane herself.
She wishes not to let him ablaze her cool.
Her precious peace is now ruined by this donkey.
Suddenly, he sneezes. Sniffing, he rubs his reddish nose with a finger.
Neva's eyes soften, sympathy catching her off guard.
"Come in," she murmurs, walking back inside. Her heart is a pink cotton candy—fluffy and warm.
Rhett beams and follows her in, closing the door behind him like a loyal puppy.
Neva's home is warm.
He watches her with longing eyes as she heads to the kitchen. She opens a cabinet, grabs a jar of sugar, then another container.
"You could've asked any other neighbour? Why me?" Neva asks.
"They're not you, Angel." His voice is soft, almost reverent.
At this, Neva's heart thaws gently.
She glances over her shoulder—and there he stands, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. Arms crossed. Eyes burning.
Watching only her.
Out of nowhere, her heart races.
He's breathtaking.
Turning quickly, Neva hides her flushed face, faintly shaking her head to gather herself.
Something's seriously wrong with her.
He steps closer. Her body tenses.
She whirls around to rebuke him—almost crashing into him.
"Hey, careful there," Rhett says, steadying her with his hands on her shoulders.
Cheeks burning, Neva looks up at him, shame swirling in her deep cocoa orbs.
Neva hurriedly backs away, almost aching Rhett with her abruptness.
"S–sorry," she says, blinking up.
He just smiles.
She holds out the container. "Here."
Rhett glances at the jar, filled to the brim with sugar.
"Thank you." He hesitates. "Can I—"
He cuts himself off.
Neva slightly raises her brows. "You wanted to say something?"
Rhett shakes his head. "Nothing."
As he takes the jar from her, his hand brushes against hers. She flinches at the touch—his skin is ice-cold.
She studies him more closely now. Pale. Too pale.
"See you later, Angel," he says, breaking her thoughts.
He doesn't want to leave—but for now, just seeing her was enough.
With a heavy heart, he peels away from her.
She probably doesn't even like his presence.
Neva stands in the kitchen, pondering whether to stop him.
Then again, he's just a stranger.
And an annoying one at that.
She won't bother.
But... she cannot ignore this tug inside of her.
.
.
.
Her betraying feet move faster than her thoughts can catch up.
Just as he's about to open the door, she grabs the hem of his hoodie.
"Wait."
Rhett freezes. Confused, he looks over his shoulder. "Hmm?"
She says nothing. She simply turns him around by the arms and places her palm on his forehead.
He's burning up! Then her gentle fingers checks his pulse on his neck.
Rhett doesn't move.
He stares at her, stunned—his heart pounding wildly, though he isn't sure if it's the fever or her who's the reason.
Without another word, Neva drags him to the living room.
"Sit."
He obeys instantly, sinking onto the couch.
"You have a fever," she announces, arms crossed.
"Do I?" he blinks, dazed.
"What do you think?!" she snaps, sarcasm dripping from her tone.
"I think I do," he admits softly, as if finally realizing it.
Neva sighs at his pitiful state. Dumb as a donkey.
"Sit still. And don't move."
She vanishes into her room and returns with a first-aid kit.
She hands him a thermometer.
"Put it under your tongue."
He obeys.
Minutes pass. The thermometer beeps. Neva, who's settled far beside him asks him to hand it to her.
He does so. She takes it—100.4°F.
"It's not terrible. But still not good."
She heads to the kitchen, returns with a glass of warm water, and places tablets on his palm after tearing the wrapper.
He looks from the meds to her face. His heart quietly warms at her care. His eyes at all times in awe of her.
He swallows the pills with a long gulp.
"You didn't notice your fever?" she asks, settling on the other end of the couch.
"No." He scratches his head like a sheepish donkey.
"You really are a different breed." She declares, so casually cruel.
"Is that a bad thing?" he asks, clueless.
She eyes him sideways and simply shrugs. "Dunno."
"Thank you, Neva," he says sincerely.
Perhaps he's really sick. His heart refuses to slow down the beatings.
"I haven't told you my name, have I?"
She stays silent. Of course he hasn't.
But she already knows—as if she'll let him know that.
"It's Rhett. And I more genuinely than ever...desire to be your lover." His eyes glitter with honesty.
The mystery man pursues her still.
"No! You go and rest. I'm giving you these medicines for free—so take them and stop troubling me!" Her words burst out harsher than she intends as she fails to spare them a second thought.
His face falls. The light in his eyes dims.
His heart aching quietly at Neva's cutting dismissal.
"No need. I've troubled you enough. Thank you... goodnight, Neva." His voice is low—fragile, wavering like dry grass.
He rises slowly, barely glancing at her—or the jar of sugar and the tablets left waiting on the table.