Prince Caspian -Jung Yoonoh NCT

40. The First Date

I'm all dressed up for my first date with Jae. 

It's the first time he's ever asked me out for a date. The previous time I went out alone with him had been an impromptu kind of thing on my birthday.

So this evening will be our first date ever.

A while ago, he had texted.

I'm coming to sweep you off your feet. Dinner and dance, say, at 8?

I had texted back breathlessly, Okay.

He texted back, I can't wait. I'll come over to your place.

At exactly 7.59 pm, the doorbell rings. 

I know, because I have been keeping count of the time since I got that last text from him. I have been sitting in an agony of impatience, alternating between gnawing at my nails and pacing like a mad woman for the past hour.

I have to fight an urge not to fling open the door. Instead I open it very sedately. And stand there like a fool, tongue-tied, staring up at him.

"Hello," he smiles.

"Hello," I squeak.

"This is for you." He passes me a bouquet of white violets.

Omg.

I am so giddy now.

"You shouldn't have troubled," I mumble. "I - you've already given me so many..."

I stand before him, my flowers cradled in the nook of my arm. My cheeks are flushed, I know, and I feel jittery and coy, like a schoolgirl. My heart is thumping so loudly. I hope he doesn't hear it.

He takes a small step forward. 

"I said that I would sweep you off your feet. You need romance. The whole works. Flowers and violins and wine. Passionate kisses in the moonlight." There is laughter in his eyes.

"Thank you for these," I say softly, suddenly shy, as we stand facing each other. "And for all the flowers today..."

We stand in the elevator.

His tie is silver and his shirt brilliantly white, his jacket is hanging open and his hands shoved casually into his pants pockets. His hair is golden in the light, and slightly long, the ends drifting over his collar. He smells of sunset tonight, of dusky rose and gold, languorous and elusive and intoxicating.

We stand side by side, not touching, or saying anything. I felt his gaze slide over my profile, but I keep my eyes very carefully on the shiny aluminum elevator doors. I look very tiny beside him; he is a giant, and I am hopelessly in love with him. My heart is racing in my chest, my stomach quivering madly. I swallow down a bubble of laughter; I have never been so happy in my life.

The elevator slows on the eighth floor and a group of three men get in, talking excitedly among themselves. I step back to make room for them, retreating into the opposite corner of the elevator.  He has sidestepped along with me. I don't need to turn to know that he is behind me. I can see our reflections in the doors. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. He shifts a little, his arm brushing against mine. I suck in a deep breath. The men are smiling, and talking about a funny incident; when they laugh, their eyes catch mine, wanting me to join in their good humour, so I smile politely, even though I don't know what they're laughing about, for all I am aware of is him, and his presence behind me, gorgeous and disturbing and male. 

When the elevator reaches the lobby, the men step out first, and I take a step forward behind them. His hand settles firmly in the small of my back and he walks out beside me, steering me. I feel a ripple pass through me, shuddering all the way down to my toes. He keeps his hand on me until we reach his car. It is a low, black monster. I am a tiny speck. I will be swallowed whole by it. By him. He opens the car door for me, and his hand falls away, and I feel a rush of cold air. The car glides away effortlessly, powdery dust swirling in the bright glare of its headlights, as it purrs down shadowed highways and long obscure roads that coil like tongues into the night.

We sit at an Italian restaurant, and I order a creamy chicken and mushroom carbonara, while he calls for a beef lasagna. Our dishes arrive, and very carefully, I fork a mouthful of the carbonara into my mouth, and chew delicately, the way they taught me at the Academy, while he digs into his lasagna, layered like him. I watch him surreptitiously beneath my eyelashes, as he uncovers its mysterious depths methodically, with a single-mindedness that would be the envy of lesser mortals, working efficiently with a silver fork poised between his elegant, clever fingers, starting with the top layer, and working his way down slowly, neatly, to the bottom. 

Midway through our meal, he leans over, and brushes the edge of my lower lip and murmurs, "You've got cream here," and I want to pull his head down to mine, and kiss his mouth so badly that I gulp down my red wine in a panic, and he laughs, crinkling his eyes. 

"Careful," he whispers in my ear, and lays his hand on mine. "Don't be in such a hurry; we've got all night..."

And I look at him, sitting beside me, so close that my knees are brushing against his thigh, and I feel my heart swell with love for him, so strong that I gasp inwardly and actually feel a jolt of pain. I want to remember every detail of what is happening - the shadows of the candles across his face and the tiny droplets of condensation cooled on the outside of his glass, and the little wet mark on the rim where his lips have touched, the taste of the bubbles against my throat and the way he is smiling into my eyes. I want to frame the smell of the place, burnished wood and warm breads, and see myself from above, flicking my hair back off my neck, and his mouth centimetres from mine, his head tipped, and tilted to the right, frozen in time like a scene from a movie, so close that our noses almost touch.

Our gazes meet, and hold. There is a promise in his eyes. My heart is pounding and my stomach is a minefield of simmering nerves. My mouth is a rosebud, mirrored off a hundred glittering surfaces. I want to pull his tie loose and unbutton the neck of his shirt. I want to put my hands around his throat and feel his skin hot underneath my fingertips, his body hard and demanding against me, cedar and pine and desire spicing the air between us, burning my nostrils like smoke.

"What are you imagining?" He is staring at me, and his voice has dipped very low.

"Strangling you." Is that my voice? It is so husky I can barely recognise it.

"Is that so?" His eyes are going dark. "Are you flirting with me, Jung Yiseul?"

I swallow.

"I don't know," I whisper. "Am I?"

"I think you are." He looks into my eyes. "You want me desperately." His eyes are two pools of inky blackness. "Just as much as I want you." He leans forward, and follows the curve of my lips with his thumb. "I'll do anything you want, darling." His lips are a breath from mine. "All you have to do is ask."

"Are you," I lick my lips, "flirting with me?"

"I don't know. Am I?" His jaw is angular and shadowed with a fine sheen of silvery stubble. I can feel the heat of his mouth inches from mine. It's like sunshine. I can smell his skin. 

His mouth curves. "Is that what you think you and I are doing right now? Flirting?"