I had suggested—well, promised—to spend the rest of my Sunday at his place. At least now, we've crossed the line between client and Uber driver. He seemed surprised when I said it, maybe even a little suspicious. Perhaps he thinks I'm some desperate girl. I laughed at the thought; if only he knew. Desperate? Hardly. I just go all in for my man. My ex can testify. Don't let my "always busy" aura fool you—when I choose to be available, I show up fully.
The afternoon was bright, soft sunlight spilling through my window—the kind of light that reminds you it's Sunday. I'd wrapped up my chores early so I could get ready before Harry came to pick me up. Today's date was at his place, and—let's say it proudly—I am his girl. Go, Camila! Stories really do change, no matter how unlikely the timing.
I nibbled on some leftover macarons, took a long, warm bath, and slipped into something casual yet feminine. It wasn't anything fancy—just a simple dress—but I made sure to accessorize it right: subtle jewelry, a clean face, a touch of gloss, and a matching clutch that tied it all together. Effortless, but intentional.
Before he arrived, I quickly skimmed through some office work—edited a few documents, printed what needed to be printed, and sent off a couple of emails for Monday morning. Nothing too heavy; just enough to ease my conscience. Because today, my focus was clear: my date with Harry.
Five minutes to go. My heart beat a little faster. I glanced at the clock, then at my reflection. Ready.
Then, the phone rang. His name lit up my screen.
Harry.
The excitement in his voice over the phone was downright contagious—warm, bright, and full of something that made my chest flutter. You'd think we hadn't seen each other in decades. I laughed softly, promising to be downstairs in a minute. For once, I wasn't late. A miracle worth celebrating.
When I opened the door, there he was—Harry—standing tall with that easy smile that could melt the hardest of hearts. But what caught my eyes wasn't his dimples or his freshly ironed shirt; it was the flower in his hand. A single bloom, simple yet deliberate.
A flower? I blinked in surprise, almost forgetting how it felt to be treated like someone's soft spot. Maybe I'd forgotten how to be spoiled—or maybe I'd just gotten too used to pretending I didn't need it. I accepted it with a grin that stretched wider than I intended, like a child handed her favorite candy.
"You look so pretty, Camila," he said softly, his voice carrying that soothing tone—like rain that has just stopped, leaving the world hushed and fresh.
I smiled back, teasing, "You're not looking bad yourself."
Something magnetic passed between us—unspoken but real. I leaned in for a hug, the kind that lingers a little longer than it should, and brushed a light kiss against his cheek. The flower still sat prettily in my hand, and my heart—well, it was somewhere between calm and fireworks.
"Come in," I said, ushering him inside with an excuse. "Let me keep this properly in a vase, maybe add some water. Then we can head to your place."
He stepped in, his cologne trailing behind him—clean, confident, familiar. That's when I noticed the smaller bag in his hand, and curiosity immediately took over. Inside was a bottle of wine.
"What's that for?" I asked, one brow raised, trying not to sound too intrigued. "Is that mine too?"
Harry chuckled, his lips curling into that slow, deliberate smile that always made me nervous—in a good way.
"It all started here," he said, his tone soft but sure. "So, I figured... it wouldn't be bad if we start afresh here too. This time, as a couple—not business partners."
And just like that, the moment stilled. Everything—his words, the flower, the wine, even the sunlight sneaking through the curtains—felt beautifully intentional.
Now I understood. The flower wasn't random. The wine wasn't casual. It was his way of saying, let's rewrite our story.
If I ever get to advise the singles out there, I'll tell them this: Find yourself a strategic man—one who speaks louder with actions than with promises.
Harry made himself comfortable in my space—too comfortable, in fact. You'd think he'd been here a dozen times before. I stood there, clutching my precious flowers like a trophy, watching him settle in with a calm that made my heart skip.
"I have no food in this house," I muttered casually, half-expecting him to suggest we grab a bite out. "But if it's okay, I could probably make something... there should be a few ingredients left in the fridge."
Before I could even finish my sentence, he was already on his feet, rolling up his sleeves with a grin that said challenge accepted.
"Shall we?" he asked playfully. "You take care of those flowers while I see what we can whip up to go with this wine."
Without hesitation, he placed the wine in the fridge to chill and began inspecting its contents like a seasoned chef preparing for a cooking show. I couldn't help but stare—half in awe, half in disbelief. Something about the ease with which he moved, the quiet confidence, the way he made himself at home—it was all... disarming. Comforting.
For a few minutes, I said nothing. I just trimmed the flower stems and arranged them neatly in a vase, stealing glances at him as he hummed under his breath. Harry caught me looking once or twice, shrugging his shoulders as if to say, "This is me, Camila. Get used to it."
Then, with a quick flick of his wrist, he grabbed the remote—one I hadn't touched in weeks—and switched on the TV. Smooth jazz filled the room, soft and slow, blending perfectly with the golden hue of the setting sun slipping through my curtains.
"The mood's set," he said with a grin. "Perfect atmosphere for dinner prep."
I laughed. It was light, effortless, the kind that bubbles up when you're exactly where you want to be.
He took out some steak, handed me a few potatoes with a wink, and got to work seasoning the meat like a man on a mission. When he pulled out a bunch of asparagus from the fridge, I froze for a moment, watching him move around my kitchen as though it was his.
Right there—amid the clinking utensils, the scent of raw spice, and the sound of music humming low in the background—I caught myself smiling like a fool. Because somehow, I just knew: this wasn't just a man who could drive or cook; this was a man who could build.
Permit me to be a little ahead of myself, but in that simple, unspoken moment, I saw it so clearly—
I had found the father of my future children.