"What did you cook?" I challenge, enjoying this game more than I should.
"Steak." He shrugs. "It's the only thing I can make without burning down the house."
"And was I impressed by this culinary masterpiece?"
"Impressed enough for a goodnight kiss." His eyes drop briefly to my lips before meeting mine again. "Just a short one. Testing the waters."
The air between us grows electric. I take another bite of pasta to hide my reaction. "And then?"
"Then we started seeing each other. Quietly. Because of who your father is. Because we knew people would talk." His voice drops lower. "Secret meetings. Late night phone calls. The excitement of something forbidden."
The scenario he's painting stirs something in me. The thrill of secrecy. The rush of wanting someone you shouldn't.
"When did you know it was serious?" I ask, my voice softer than intended.
He considers this, eyes never leaving mine. "When you showed up at my workshop after a fight with your father. You were upset, but you came to me instead of your friends. That's when I knew you trusted me. That it was more than just attraction."
The fictional scenario feels so real, I can almost see it. Me, turning to him for comfort. Him, offering quiet strength when I needed it most.
"And when did I know?" I prompt.
"You tell me." His gaze is steady, curious. "In our story, when did you realize you were falling for the town bad boy?"
I don't have to think about my answer. "When I saw how you were with those kids you teach welding to. How patient you were. How you saw their potential instead of their mistakes." I swallow. "That's when I knew you weren't who everyone thought you were."
A vulnerability fills his face I haven't seen before. "That's... specific."
"Good stories have details." I try to keep my tone light. "So we fell in love, secretly dated for months, and then you proposed yesterday?"
"Not yesterday," he corrects. "Last week. I've been planning it. The ring wasn't a rush job."
The ring. I look down at my hand where his creation glints in the kitchen light. He's right—it's too intricate, too perfect to have been made in one night.
"Have you been working on this for someone else?" The thought makes my stomach twist uncomfortably.
"No." His answer is immediate. "I made it because I wanted to. Because creating beautiful things is what I do." He pauses. "But it was always meant for someone special."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. "It's perfect," I whisper.
"It suits you." His eyes hold mine. "Almost like it was made for you all along."
We sit in charged silence for a moment before I shake myself back to reality. "So that's our story. Secret romance, proposal plans last week, and now we're done hiding."
"Seems believable." He nods. "Now tell me something true."
The request catches me off guard. "What?"
"We've spent all this time creating fiction. Tell me something real." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Something about you that isn't in our made up story."
I could deflect. Keep things superficial. But something about the quiet intensity of his gaze makes me want to offer truth.
"I'm terrified of never being good enough." The confession slips out before I can stop it. "My mom left when I was eight. Just walked out one day. And part of me has always wondered if it was because of me. If I wasn't worth staying for."
His expression softens. "Savannah..."
"Your turn." I cut him off, not wanting his pity. "Something real."
He doesn't hesitate. "I'm scared of being alone. Not just single, but truly alone. Like my mother was. Bitter, drunk, isolated and convinced the world was against her after our daddisappeared. I was seven. Our mother took it out on me and my brothers until we ended up in the system."
