49. Where Desire Rose
Where Desire Rose
Rafe
Before I know it, we’re in the car, the night still unfolding ahead of us.
The road is mostly empty, streetlights slipping across the windshield in slow intervals, washing Kasia’s face in gold, then shadow, then gold again.
She’s got her legs tucked up, shoes off, fingers playing absently with the stitching on her shirt.
“Your parents were great,” I say, breaking the silence. “Pretty sure your mum was about two minutes from trying to adopt me.”
Kasia smiles, looking out the window. “She probably would’ve. She likes anyone who eats seconds.”
“I had thirds,” I say. “She’s going to embroider me into the family tree.”
That earns a small laugh, the kind that barely escapes her but still fills the car.
I glance over, watching the way she rests her head against the glass. “That sound,” I murmur.
She looks over. “What?”
“Your laugh. It’s… unfair. You shouldn’t have to work a job. You could just rent that out and cure depression.”
She shakes her head, trying not to smile. “You can turn it off now, the charm factor. It’s just me now.”
“Just being honest.” I hold her gaze until she looks away.
The radio offers an old soul track that suits the night.
I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift.
Her hand drifts close but doesn’t quite touch; every time I shift, our fingers brush, a small static spark.
For a while, we don’t speak. The silence feels good, soft, intimate.
There’s something about the way she watches the city passing by, and I realize I’m doing the same with her.
I park and kill the engine. The music fades, but the moment doesn’t. She turns toward me, knees drawn up, waiting for me to speak first.
“I couldn’t just let you go,” I admit. My voice comes out lower than I mean it to. “I lured you with wine but I'm out of the good stuff, the truth is I just wanted you all to myself.”
She studies me for a long second, then unbuckles her seatbelt. “You really think I came all this way for the wine?”
I grin. “Oh, thank fuck for that because what I have left is terrible.” When she laughs, nothing else matters.
Inside, the apartment welcomes us with leftover warmth from the day.
The lights are hazy, the kind you forget you left dimmed, soft enough to make everything look gentler than it is.
I kick off my boots near the door and grab the last bottle of red from the small rack.
Kasia lingers just inside, arms folded loosely, taking everything in.
She eyes me with suspicion. “You have candles? That’s new.” She makes her way over to one, picks it up, turning it slowly until she finds the label. “Lavender Dream? Really?” She cocks her head, incredulous.
“That’s a little sexist, don’t you think? Can a man not have candles?”
She’s too good at that, seeing through me.
No hiding the hope I’d had, wanting to make her feel more at ease, an attempt at being romantic maybe.
That if she gives in to what we both want, it can be framed as something intentional, something more than accidental or cheap.
More than what Rithy said to make her doubt me.
Her laugh comes again and I step closer, take the candle from her slowly, letting the intent show, and light it.
I set it down with a defiant thud that says yes, candles.
I pour the wine and hand her a glass. She takes it, our fingers brushing for a second, the same spark from the car, only stronger now.
We stand there for a minute, both pretending to study the color of the wine.
“So,” she says, swirling it lightly, “is this your official move? Bring me home, dim the lights, play soul music, light candles, pour wine?”
“Sometimes I skip the soul music.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “I’m sure it’s hard to remember all the steps in such a carefully practiced routine of seduction.”
I move closer, just enough to feel her warmth. “You don’t seem the type to fall for moves or routines, Dr. Sawadzka.”
“I’m not.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I don’t have any. I’m barely here. Can’t exactly practice out of a suitcase. I swear on my life, this apartment has never seen a lit candle before tonight.”
She shakes her head, laughing, that easy disbelief lighting her face. Then she looks up, and for a second, everything in me stops. The part that jokes, talks, performs—gone.
I reach out and push a strand of hair behind her ear. “No moves or routines. Just this.”
She doesn’t step back. Just studies me, eyes searching mine like she’s trying to decide whether to believe me.
“No moves?” she says, barely a whisper. “Please. That’s one of the oldest moves in the book.”
“Well,” I murmur, “I mean it. All of it. Every way I touch you. I’ve never been more honest about something.”
Something flickers between us, something turning towards love, maybe.
Then she sets her glass down, and before I can say anything else, she leans in and kisses me.
It’s slow and sure, a hint of red wine lingers on her lips, followed by the sound of both of us finally giving in.
My hands find her hips, her fingers slip around my neck.
When we break apart, she’s still close, eyes half-lidded, voice soft. “Wanted me all to yourself, huh?”
I brush my thumb along her jaw, smiling. “I did warn you.”
For a long moment, I don’t move. Every instinct in me wants to keep going, to lose myself in her completely, but I bite my own lip and draw a breath instead. If I want her to know what this means, I have to give her something first.
The song I’ve been shaping for weeks, that started after Miami, since that dream I had of her.
I’ve kept it half finished, waiting for the right moment to let it live outside my head.
Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how I show her that she isn’t just another verse or a night I’ll write off later. She’s the part I keep building toward.
“I should probably warn you,” I say, still catching my breath, “that every single cell in my body wants to rip your clothes off right now.”
Her mouth tilts into a smile. “Probably not the warning you think it is.”
“Right, well,” I continue, still brushing my thumb over her jaw, “before that happens, and it will happen, I’ve got something to show you. At the piano. Though if you insist on doing that naked, I won’t stop you.”
She laughs, still pressed against my chest, burying her face there for a second before looking up. “Fine. Show away, maestro.”
I take her hand and lead her to the piano. The bench creaks as I sit, and she leans against the side, watching me with that expression that always makes my pulse stumble.
“It’s not finished,” I say, fingers finding the first chord. “But it’s something that’s been living in me since I met you. Turns out, trying to press that into a song is harder than my neurotic thoughts. Nothing feels like it does you justice. Or I’m a perfectionist. Probably both.”
She doesn’t answer, just waits, eyes on my hands.
I play a few chords, a melody that still feels like it’s learning how to breathe. The notes rise and fall, delicate, the kind of line that carries its own confession. Words slip out, almost under my breath:
You were the fruit I was never meant to taste,
The red stain dripped on the mouth I chased.
Silk bound want, the dark unspun,
You walked through hell and brought the sun.
Your shadow blooms where desire rose,
Every step you take, my garden grows.
When I finish, the silence that follows is the kind that feels alive. I look up. Her eyes catch mine, bright, wet at the edges, and the sight hits me square in the chest. It feels like she just took aim and drove an arrow straight through me. Her love made a weapon I’d die happily on.
I start rambling, trying to steady myself, talking about the chord progression, why I changed the bridge, anything to keep the nerves from surfacing.
Trying to calm what’s emerging in me, now that what I’ve been chasing, is walking this way like she’s chasing me right back.
I turn on the bench to face her and she steps between my legs.
Her hands settle on my shoulders, glide up the back of my neck, then frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheeks.
I smile up at her, my hands rubbing gently along the back of her thighs, and she leans down.
The kiss is gentle at first, then deeper, a blend of light and sound and everything we’ve been building toward since that first look our eyes shared.
I pull her in, cradling the back of her head, nipping her lips in small teasing bites, her mouth opening against mine like it’s something she’s finally taking with both hands.
Her breath catches as I let my hands roam, tracing the lines of her waist, shoulders, back.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers into my mouth. “The song.”
I pull her closer still, the words barely a breath against her lips.
“It was a dream,” I say between kisses, each one slower than the last, building heat in their wake.
“The day you arrived. I felt this moment before it happened. Knew it. I couldn’t stop the way my heart fell into yours, even before I realised what was happening. ”
She sighs, the sound dissolving against my mouth as I move to her neck, kissing the skin there. Her pulse beats against my lips. I trail lower, along her collarbone, tasting the faint salt of her skin, the warmth of her.
“You’re a dream,” she murmurs, fingers sliding through my hair, pulling through it like an anchor when I touch her, her voice caught and aching. “You have to be.”
I look up at her, breath uneven, every part of me caught between wanting to speak and just letting the moment pull us under. The candle flickers beside us, the light bending over her skin, and for a second, I can’t tell if I’m awake or still inside the same dream that started all of this.