Yavannah Constantine
The only sounds reverberating through the apartment were the soft clinks of knives and forks against porcelain as we dined.
Peaceful, perhaps, for the others, but I was far from tranquil, fidgeting under the intense gaze of a magnetic stranger across the table.
He claimed we had met before—a fact I sensed, though the specific moment eluded me. My body responded to him as if recalling a distant memory; he was undoubtedly someone who left a profound impression on those he encountered.
I was familiar with him, though not in person. My brother often mentioned him during our lengthy phone calls; they were practically best friends. I had also spotted him in several magazines. Yet, despite my knowledge of Sandro, I wasn't surprised by his silence since arriving.
He was not one for conversation.
Yaskier munched hungrily on his meal, glancing up to meet my eyes, and I responded with an expression of disgust. He grinned at me, his mouth full of rigatoni.
"Brother, euuughhh," I exclaimed, eliciting a chuckle from him.
What a clown.
My gaze returned to Mr. Vivaldi, and to my surprise, he wasn't looking at me for the first time that evening. Our knees brushed occasionally beneath the table, an unintentional reminder of the palpable tension in the air.
Determined to break the silence, I turned to him, voicing the question that nagged at my mind.
"So, where did we meet?" I asked softly. He turned to me, the weight of his attention drawing me in.
He swallowed, then laid down his cutlery. "Downtown Avenue, New York. March 14th, 2023," he recited, causing me to gasp in astonishment.
Was he a robot?
"You helped me escape from a group of thieves," he added, catching the attention of both Yaskier and Sandro.
"She helped you?" My brother exclaimed incredulously.
Mr. Vivaldi nodded, and a flash of memory pierced through the fog of my mind.
I recalled tossing tin cans and hiding in a small room. It was faint, yet I was relieved to recall anything; that frustrating sensation of trying to grasp a memory just out of reach was always unbearable.
I could hardly believe this composed man was the same individual I had assisted. He appeared so put together, a stark contrast to the chaos of that day. Still, it didn't surprise me that I had intervened—after all, I had once thrived on adrenaline.
Yaskier opened his mouth to speak, but I quickly stepped on his toe, forcing a pained wince from him.
"Fate works in mysterious ways," I said, chuckling softly in an attempt to ease the tension.
"It sure does," Adonis hummed in agreement, his tone resonating with an undertone I couldn't quite place.
"So, what do you think of my cooking?" I asked, glancing hopefully at the three of them.
"It was quite good," Yaskier replied, rolling his eyes dramatically. I reached out to smack him on the head, and he scoffed, clutching the back of his skull. "Manageable."
"Delicious," Adonis complimented softly, his gaze piercing through me as though he saw straight into my soul, evoking that familiar sensation that he meant something more.
Despite my growing confusion, I smiled in appreciation before turning to Sandro.
"How about you, Sandro?" I asked, and his blue eyes flicked up to meet mine at the mention of his name. "Is it good?" I probed, hoping to elicit a more substantial response from him.
He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up, and I couldn't help but beam at that simple gesture. It was enough to lift my spirits.
Raising his wrist to check the time, Adonis gestured to Sandro.
It seemed it was time for them to leave. The sound of scraping chairs filled the dining area as they both stood simultaneously.
"Thank you for the meal," Adonis said, bowing slightly, with Sandro mirroring his actions.
I cursed under my breath as I banged my sore knee against the table's edge in my attempt to stand, drawing concerned glances from all around.
"Are you all right?" Adonis asked, his expression now laced with concern.
Yaskier rounded the table and grasped my arm, his intent to inspect my leg evident.
My eyes widened as I noticed a flash of red trickling down my shin.
In an instant, the men gathered around me, inspecting the injury with an urgency that made my heart race.
Yaskier led me to the sofa, assisting me as I settled onto it and extended my injured leg onto a footstool.
I took a good look at the wound—it was rather serious. I had banged this knee multiple times in quick succession.
Adonis hurried to the cabinet beneath the television stand, retrieving the first aid kit.
How did he know it was there? I dismissed the thought—perhaps Yaskier had mentioned it to him.
He grabbed a cotton swab, dabbed it with disinfectant, and knelt before me, his hands enveloping my shin with an unexpected gentleness.
"It's going to hurt," he warned, and I merely hummed in response, urging him to proceed.
The sting was sharp, but I was no stranger to pain.
As he carefully wrapped the wound in gauze, ensuring it was secured tightly, he meticulously wiped away the remaining blood without crossing any boundaries.
I found myself unable to tear my gaze away from him as he knelt before me—his strong jawline, plump ruby lips, arched brows, and, my personal favorite, those mesmerizing amethyst-green eyes.
He was distractingly, dangerously handsome.
Once finished, he looked up, and our eyes locked, an electric connection holding us in place. I found myself unable to look away.
"Yavannah," he called softly, his voice sending a thrill coursing through me.
"Are you in pain?" he asked, a twinkle of concern lighting his eyes.
I bit my lower lip harshly, stifling the gasp threatening to escape. His eyes were dangerously captivating, and the weight of his gaze was unnerving.
His eyes followed my lips, and he swallowed thickly, gripping my shin a little tighter.
"I'm all right," I finally managed to reply after a moment of contemplation.
He nodded in affirmation as he rose to his feet.
What was that intense moment of eye contact?
I felt a significant sense of loss as he stepped back.
Turning my gaze around the dining area, I searched for any sign of Yaskier and Sandro.
Where had they gone?
"They're in the kitchen," Adonis informed me, and I turned to him, intrigued. "Sandro offered to help with the dishes, and Yaskier decided to join in," he explained, prompting a nod of realization from me.
That was thoughtful of them—well, of him, really. Yaskier would have been roped into doing the dishes regardless.
"Would you like to sleep now?" Adonis suggested after a brief silence.
"Yes, please," I replied.
He extended his arm, and I took it, using it for support as I rose to my feet.
His arm wrapped securely around my waist as I draped my own over his shoulder, and he slouched slightly to accommodate my height.
He guided me through the dining area and into the hallway, moving slowly and steadily to avoid causing me any discomfort.
At last, the door to my room came into view. I withdrew my arm from around his neck, grasping the handle to steady myself.
His hands remained firmly around my waist as I turned to meet his gaze, only to find him already watching me intently.
"Goodnight," I breathed softly, captivated by the way his eyes lingered on my features, as though committing them to memory.
He appeared on the verge of saying something more but seemed to think better of it.
"Goodnight, Salvitrice," he whispered, his tone imbued with an unnameable emotion.
He continued to stand there, watching me with those same piercing eyes, even as I pushed the door open and stumbled inside.
Only then did I hear the echo of his footsteps fading away as he walked down the hallway.
With my back pressed against the door, I took in deep, shuddering breaths.
What had just transpired?