It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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【 03.
Three
Kashish 】
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[ Kashish • charm/attraction ]
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MICAH BONOVICH HAS a smile that makes Rose never want to stop looking. Her eyes stay fixated on it; on the curve of his lips, on the way the edges of his mouth push into his cheeks, on the sliver of upper teeth his smile reveals, on the way his right incisor is chipped at the bottom, and on that subtle touch of smugness at the fact that she called his name without him having to tell her himself.
“She knows my name,” he says—and Rose bites the inside of her bottom lip, where the gesture isn't too obvious or revealing to this man's eyes. Because his voice, oh, his voice.
“It's the least I can do,” she tells Micah, feeling the urge to burst his little smug bubble, “Considering you're my biggest fan and I spent nearly two decades not knowing you exist.”
Micah's smile turns into a grin and his hand flies to his chest, his eyes feigning a wounded look. “That's cold,” he complains good-naturedly.
“Ice runs through these veins, Bonovich,” she tells him in all seriousness, but her lips betray her with every uncontrollable twitch at the corners, aching to break into a smile.
“Ah, well,” he shrugs, turning around and then leaning his back against the fence, lifting the hand cupped around the stem of his own champagne flute and moving it towards Rose. “Here's to a year of melting the frost around an ice queen's heart,” he shakes the glass, urging her to clink her drink against his, “To a year of welcoming warmth instead.”
This time, Rose laughs. She simply can't help it.
“Yeah, I'll drink to that,” she nods, picking up her champagne and meeting Micah's in their own little New Year's toast. She drinks the rose-gold liquid, feels it wash down her throat, the drink's temperature preserved to perfection by the flute. “Thank you, by the way,” she tells him, “For the drink.”
“It's Moët & Chandon.”
Rose pauses in raising her glass to her lips for a third sip, shifting her attention to Micah instead. “A man who knows his wine?” she lifts her brows. “Colour me impressed.”
Micah laughs, the sound strumming along the strings in Rose's chest, and then he downs whatever little is remaining in his glass before leaning sideways towards her, adapting a secretive demeanour as he brings his mouth next to her ear. “I actually just read the label on the bottle when the waiter brought one for a refill, but by all means, continue to be impressed.”
