#dinner dates

Leona kingscholer

Kind of offended? Not kind of, very.

He lifts his sweet ass up just for you, and the idea of food, and you offer him this???

Nope, not doing it. He looks between the cups and you, before you can even begin to open the cups, he throws you over his shoulder and off you guys to a nice steak house.

He finds talking to crowley futile, so he wont even lift a finger about him. He already let's you use his twst equivalent of black card, but he also slips some money to your wallet without you noticing.

Afterwards, he is taking you out on dinner dates more often. He'll never admit but his tail wags happily when he sees you happily munching on some steak

Azul Ashengrotto

When he sees the cups of noddles, he is also taken a back. Looking between the two of you to gauge if its a joke.

When he realises it's not, he acts like nothing happened. Will eat the noddles while talking to you. But oh boy the gears in his head are turning.

He is planing to bankrupt headmage just cause that bird brain made you resort to such ways.

You'll wake up with crowley rising your pocket money!! Oh how happy azul is!!

You already had a special favoritism in monstro lounge before, but he puts slightly more to your plate everytime you come to eat there. Just enough so you won't notice anything wrong but eat more

Kalim Al-Asim

Very enthusiastic

It's like riches don't know the bread price kind of thing here. He doesn't see the implications at first.

It takes jamils sad look for him to push the poor guy and learn why that you resorted to noddles

Well... next morning you are waking up with a panting and semi-seeious kalim. This mf here bought you a store, you'd think when you saw just how much food he brought.

He probably broke into crowleys office. He is kind of intimidating when he is not smiling

He already offered you to live with him in scarabia, but he will never force you. But he'd invite you over more and sometimes appear at your doorstep with bags of groceries!

Vil Schoenheit

Probably was already suspecting something was wrong.

Man saw too many diets and dietary habits in the modelling industry that he just started to observe and guess people's diet subconsciously so he knows.

When you give him the cup of noddles he'd look at it before scolding you that this? Was not enough food for you. And bad for your skin!!

Oh no no no. He won't have it. He has rook, who is your relationship's top fangirl at this point btw, to send after crowley if his stern talk won't work. He is making sure you are eating a healthy diet.

He follows your diet close, even bringing you the same food he is eating so he knows you are meeting your natural intake

Idia Shroud

Oh sweet!

Tbh this mf probably lives off of noddles, energy drinks, and snacks

He isnt a stranger at all to the noddles! It even helps him feel more comfortable at ramshackle

Though.. it's a whole different story when he learns why.

Don't pass of the Internet nerds. He won't go to crowley cause, ughh interactions... but well, he can just.. fuck with nrc's systems as a revenge!

Afterwards, you will meet with a huge amount of money that was sent yo yout card next time you use it. He'd admit it shyly while blushing. Encouraging you to use it with ortho listing every bad outcome of a bad diet to convince you and support idia

Malleus draconia

Very curious... eyeing the noddles up and down and niffling the seasoning with wide cat like eyes.

He is very enthusiastic, though not showing it much, as he is eating it with you! Learning human norms and culture was always a fascination for him, but with you, it feels like he is getting more close to you

But oh that poor bird once the prince of briar valley learns why from silver or lilia why you only seem to have noodles in ramshackle

Yeah, hahahha... crowleys not surviving. Congratulations, there sand angry dragon demanding to know why his child of man was resorted to eating scraps while a storm follows him.

Kento was sensitive to the feelings of others. He was far less self-reliant than he thought (as responsible as the man was, he had terrible sleeping habits and ran through suits horrendously fast considering the nature of his work). He bought lots of books that he hadn't yet read, told his protégés numerous times not to look to him as an example, and then acted as exactly that, secretly indulged in romantic serials and b-grade martial arts films, ate fried chicken with beer every Tuesday and liked to visit the aquarium on his down time because watching the fish relaxed him. He always ended those aquarium trips by eating a sushi meal set, something you told him was decidedly morbid.

As someone who had spent years feeling drained by the many social interactions that came with any working day, speaking to Kento was a refreshing change, and not just because he was the man you had rapidly deepening feelings for. There was something about talking to him that left you feeling a little more enriched each time, as if some mischievous spirit, leashed by the strings that left lovers hopelessly entangled, danced with a loaded paint brush through your life, esoteric colours in unheard-of shades splashing against the placid walls.

Kento was a hopelessly beautiful mess of contradictions. Solid, yet vulnerable. Dependable, yet never disguising his yearning to live for something more. Practical and no-nonsense, yet a dreamer and an idealist. A man who gave himself no excuses, nor shirked responsibility, but made no secret of his desire for a soft life on a sunny beach.

You would not exchange him for anyone else in the world.

The second time you go out together, he calls it a date. He is completely unabashed in his approach. He sees no need to conceal what you both know to be the truth, now that it has been acknowledged. It's something you have keen appreciation for. He doesn't message you the details, instead asking you outright in the break room, where you meet regularly for lunch.

He wants to go to a specific seafood place that he feels you will enjoy. When you cheerfully agree, he touches you with intention for the first time.  It is only momentary, as if he can't contain the desire to do so. He reaches across the table and gently brushes his fingers over your wrist before that same hand smoothly unwraps the packaging on his lunch. You think that it's almost unfair, the effect that this small contact has on you, but then you see that his hands fumble with the chopsticks slightly.

Of course, it's only a matter of time before the conversation that is completely necessary takes place. You didn't know when it would occur, but the second time you go out together turns out to be the occasion.

He waits for you in the garden after work, as he did the last time. You're starting to learn how important routine in small matters is to him. You take your stroll through the school grounds, lingering in the familiar spaces that now feel new, due to the person beside you.

Kento is amused by the turn your conversation has taken.

"So, you've never learned how to swim?"

"Never. Even though I lived fairly near the ocean when I was younger."

"But what was it about the water that scared you?"

"Do I really have to tell you?"

"Yes."

"Is that an order?"

"More like a strong suggestion."

"How considerate of you, sir."

Kento clears his throat, and you glance sideways at him. Smiling, you continue.

"It wasn't the water itself. It was more the idea of what was beneath it. It's wasn't about what I could see, rather what I imagined was there."

"And what did you imagine?"

"Sharks."

"There were sharks near where you grew up?"

"Very rarely. But I thought of them anyway."

"Did you, perhaps, watch - "

You laugh and shake your head.

"Jaws? No, so that wasn't the reason."

He hums thoughtfully.

"All human fear has its root in a primal cause. It's our desire for survival, our learned fear. But not all fear is learned. Sometimes, we fear things that we can't quite put a name to."

This time, you're the one that can't hold back. You reach for him, the back of your hand brushing his.

"What are you afraid of, Kento?"

He pauses, before gently entangling your fingers. The simplicity of the gesture, along with its weight, steals your breath momentarily. He seems similarly lost for the appropriate words, the contact of your skin and his forming all the communication you are both capable of in that moment. Eventually, when the car draws up alongside, he has an answer for you.

"I'm afraid of many things. And my list grows longer every day."

The place he has chosen, ironically, is a quaint seaside cafe, a fair distance from Jujutsu Tech. This was why he had asked to leave earlier today. The place is situated on a high ridge overlooking a long, winding staircase that leads to a faint strip of shingle below. The sea looks rough, the weather grey and uninviting, which makes the atmosphere within the cafe seem cosier by comparison. The table he chooses is private, and this time you are seated closer to him, the setting more intimate.

"How did you find this place?"

"I was on a solo mission in the area for a few days. Got caught in a storm and found my way in here."

"Lucky coincidence. I like this place a lot. It's warm."

Your eyes travel across to Kento whose posture is a tad stiff. You realise that because he had come here alone on the previous occasion, he hadn't accounted for how small the seating space at each booth was with two people present. The leather couches formed an 'L' which left your shins pressed against the backs of his very long legs. You never were good at disguising your amusement and Kento watches you with narrowed eyes as you peruse the menu and wiggle your toes slightly. He clears his throat and taps his fingers along the edge of his drinks list.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Very."

"Hmm."

"Why, aren't you?"

"I mean to say, does this seating arrangement make you wish for more space?"

"No. It's cosy."

He goes back to reading the drinks list and remains noticeably rigid, as if he is doing everything in his power to keep from making you uncomfortable. It's not long before he asks again.

"Are you sure that you don't want to move?"

"Oh no. Not at all."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Is this my first personal encounter with your stubborn streak?"

"Perhaps it is."

You look up and can't help the laugh that escapes you at his put-out expression. You move your legs further along until they rest beneath his ankles, a far more comfortable position for both of you.

"Better, my good sir?"

The corners of his mouth curve upward, as if against his will and he relaxes, leaning back in his seat.

"Better."

The appetisers arrive, soft shell crab thermidor for him and sake-steamed abalone for you. He insists that you taste some of his food and you manage to sneak a small sample of yours onto his plate. As you wait for the entrée, sipping on the piping hot tea served in a beautiful earthenware pot, your gaze is caught by the turbulent sea, the distant waves breaking against the shoreline with a muffled roar.

"What are you thinking about now?"

Kento is watching you when you turn back to him. His voice is soft, carrying that gentle undertone that you'd never thought you'd be fortunate enough to hear, let alone have directed at you. You close your eyes momentarily before swirling the tea in your cup, stalling for time.

"I was thinking about how happy I am right now."

"You are?"

"Yes."

There is something in his glance now, something so warm, but so heavy. Your meals arrive and there is no opportunity for you to address it. Kento tucks into his food with relish. It seems that colder weather increases his appetite and, you have to admit, you're very much the same.

He returns to the earlier conversation you'd been having. This was one of the things you appreciated most about speaking to him. You both instantly knew what the other was referring to, even if time and other topics had passed in the interim.

"Would you be open to learning how to swim?"

"Oh, yes. In fact, I've made resolutions to learn at the gym many times. But I'm not sure ... I've always ended up postponing it."

"Why?"

"Things become busy. I forget."

"Sounds like there's a deeper issue here."

"Do you plan to do something about it, then?"

"Possibly."

"Don't tell me that you were one of those kids who stood behind the scared ones at swimming lessons and pushed them into the pool."

"Do you really think I'd do that?"

"No. But how else would you get me into the water?"

"I'd provide an incentive."

"You'd feed me?"

"Just how one-track minded are you?"

"I can't think of a single other reason to get motivated."

"Maybe I'd get in first."

You almost choke on your miso cod.

"Hmm. That may work. Nanami Kento, grade one sorcerer and swimming pool siren. Has a nice ring to it."

"This conversation will never be repeated to another soul."

After supper, Kento does not call the car. There is an enclosed nook outside the restaurant, sheltered from the worst of the wind, where you both stand, his upper arm pressed against yours. It seems that many physical barriers are coming down today, something you're definitely not complaining about. There is something about the sheer strength of the man standing so close to you that is both intimidating and intoxicating. In this moment, you feel that you can say anything to him.

And, possibly, he feels the same, because his next question opens the topic you weren't able to broach earlier. The one that darkens the already narrowing spaces between your life and his.

"You said earlier that you felt happy."

"I did."

"Just for that moment in time?"

"No. Being here makes me happy. And talking to you on the phone does too."

"I'd hoped I wasn't bothering you."

"Your calls are never a bother."

That keen sweetness, the unspoken tension that always hovered so close to your tongues was thickening the air once more. Kento looked down at his hands, fists closed over the railing.

"Are you saying that I make you happy?"

"Yes, Kento."

"What if that isn't always the case?"

"Are you talking about your work as a sorcerer?"

"Yes, and ... other possibilities. If this goes any further, I need to know that you will be safe and have peace of mind. If it means me sacrificing my own happiness, and yours, temporarily, I won't hesitate to do what's necessary. I don't want to see you hurt."

You let out a soft sigh and meet his gaze. It was vital that you address this now. He was not the sort of person who would leave an issue like this hanging tentatively between you two. You cannot mince your words either, because to do so would be an injustice to someone as principled and straightforward as the man standing beside you. You realise that in this moment, there is a different type of courage surfacing inside you, one you didn't know you possessed until you met him.

"Kento, I'll be frank. If anything happened to you, I'd be hurt beyond measure. With, or without us ... progressing further than this. I can't help how I feel. It's too far beyond my control. No, I'm not ashamed to tell you so. Nor am I embarrassed. I want you to know that I will miss you when we can't spend time together. That I will worry for you when you're out in the field. That I will wait for your call and feel relief when I hear your voice. That whenever a fatality is reported, I will feel sick to my stomach and never cease looking for you until I know that you're safe."

You pause and collect yourself. It's too late now, too late to cram the words back into your mouth. Secrets like this can never be swallowed. In this business, words like these birth curses. But they also birth wondrous things, feelings you know you can no longer live without.

"I want you to know that all these things are true, but they don't make other truths lesser, simply because they exist. Knowing that I will miss you doesn't take away from the fact that I cherish the time I spend in your company. When I worry for you, it's only natural. You worry for people you care about whether they're near you or not. You can choose to do whatever you want, Kento, now or in the future. But your actions can't change the way I feel. Not now. Not ever. You can save many people, multiple times, as a sorcerer. But you can't save me from myself."

The laugh that escapes you then is a little wild, a reckless sound that you wish you hadn't uttered, but it's another on the long list of things you can't pull back into yourself.

Kento is watching you as if you've transformed before his eyes, spurred on by the treacherous ocean behind you, into some kind of weapon that holds him in thrall, as if you've dealt him some grievous wound that, somehow, births more pleasure than agony.

He doesn't speak, but his hand comes up, the broad palm unspeakably warm and heavy against the side of your face. His fingers are rough in certain places, strong and capable as they trail down your cheek, pausing intimately at the corner of your mouth, before they move down to enclose the side of your neck, thumb resting beneath your chin.

Your face turns to him, a hapless sunflower towards a solar flare that arcs across space to unfold and destroy it. Your mouth opens under his, readily, and his warm, slightly chapped lips cover yours with that gentle firmness, so characteristic of everything he does. Your head is pushed to the side, tilting as he leans into you, something desperate under the staidness of his kiss, as if he is the one who has swallowed all the words you've spoken and is attempting to breathe his own intent back into you.

Your head tilts even further, as the kiss becomes less chaste, as his lips move with greater firmness against yours. He steals every breath you attempt to take and repays it with molten honey that threatens to drown you. His fingers are now tangled in your hair and yours are clenched in the fabric of his coat.

When you separate, a necessity to keep you both from suffocating, his eyes are shut tightly, the bridge of his nose slightly creased, as if he is in pain. You don't think you've ever seen a more beautiful sight.

You echo his movement, gently cupping his cheek with your palm and guiding his face back towards yours. Not for another kiss, no. Not now. There'll be plenty of time for that later. For now, you rest his forehead against yours and close your own eyes in turn.

Something about the sigh that escapes him, the solid weight of his head against yours, the soft fall of his hair against your brow, reminds you of an illustration you've seen in one of the many storybooks you've read as a child.

A weary knight finds a safe haven in a perilous forest, his back against an old, gnarled tree, sword shoved upright into the earth before him. You are willing to be the sword, no matter how thin your edges are worn. You are willing to be the tree, no matter how scarred time makes you. You want to stand by his side, for as long as you are permitted, holding off the beasts of the forest until dawn arrives.

Tonight was the night. Her date with Aidan. "Just a simple, quiet dinner at his place," he had said, his voice a low rumble over the phone, making her stomach flutter. Yet, despite the casual invitation, Gracie found herself standing in front of her closet, utterly paralyzed by indecision. What did one wear for a "simple, quiet dinner" that was also, undeniably, a date? Her usual paint-splattered jeans and oversized sweaters felt too... her. Too comfortable. She needed something that hinted at effort, but not too much effort. After what felt like an eternity of trying on and discarding outfits, she eventually settled on a cute autumnal brown dress. It had a low V-neckline that felt subtly alluring without being overt, and charming puff short sleeves. She paired it with white sneakers, simple yet classic. "Simplistic but still cute enough," she murmured to her reflection, trying to convince herself. She finished it off with the Claddagh earrings Aidan had gifted her. She grabbed a light jacket – the Irish evenings could be deceptively cool – and her small purse, then headed out of her cozy cottage.

Typing the address Aidan had given her into her phone’s GPS, she watched the blue line snake its way across the screen, a digital representation of the journey ahead. As she navigated the winding coastal roads, a prickle of unease began to surface. Why the nerves? Gracie felt a familiar knot of nerves begin to tighten in her stomach. She wasn't sure why. She had hung out with Aidan a handful of times before, shared easy laughter and comfortable silences. He was charming, intelligent, and possessed a quiet intensity that intrigued her. But this felt different. More intentional. More weighted with possibility. It was because it was labeled a date, she supposed. That single word changed everything. At least, she mused, Al, wasn’t present to regale Aidan with any more embarrassing anecdotes. Al’s unfiltered commentary was a constant source of mortification. That thought brought a small, wistful smile to her lips.

The GPS chimed, announcing her arrival. Aidan's house. It was a charming, stone-fronted cottage, not unlike her own, but with a slightly more established feel. Lights glowed warmly in the windows, casting inviting squares of yellow onto the darkening street. Gracie took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm the butterflies doing acrobatics in her chest, and switched off her engine. She got out, smoothed down her dress, and walked up the short path, pulling her jacket closer. She approached the door and knocked, a light tap against the solid wood, and after only a few seconds, the door swung open.

Aidan stood there, a vision of relaxed charm. He was wearing a light beige sweater, not overly heavy, but looking incredibly soft and warm, paired with dark jeans and classic Converse sneakers. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d just run a hand through it, and a bright smile lit up his face, making his steel-blue eyes crinkle at the corners—effortlessly casual yet undeniably handsome.  The scruff on his face was a little bit thicker than usual, like he hadn't shaved in while. He looked genuinely glad she had arrived.

"Gracie! You're here!" he exclaimed, his voice warm, and before she could even fully register it, he pulled her into his arms for a tight, encompassing, unreserved hug, his arms strong and reassuring. She felt herself melt into it, the scent of him – something clean and subtly masculine – filling her senses. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture, and her nerves, for a moment, evaporated into a pleasant warmth. She could feel her cheeks warm at the action.

"I'm here," she confirmed.

He pulled away slowly, his hands lingering on her arms, and pulled back enough to press a soft kiss to her temple. a gesture so sweet and easy, it made her stomach flip. "Come in, come in. Make yourself comfortable." His voice was a low murmur against her ear, sending shivers down her spine. He placed a hand gently on the small of her back, guiding her inside, and gave her a small tour of the downstairs. It was a cozy space, filled with character, not overly decorated but clearly lived in—the living room with its fireplace and comfortable furniture, a small study lined with bookshelves, and finally he led her towards the back of the house where the kitchen was, and the most delicious savory smell was emanating from a pot on the stove.

“Smells incredible,” Gracie said genuinely, turning to him.

“That,” Aidan announced with a theatrical flourish towards a bubbling pot on the stove, “is my attempt at traditional Irish stew. Nothing fancy, but it should be edible." He moved smoothly to a cabinet, producing a bottle of deep ruby wine. “Wine? To soothe the nerves of a woman about to try my questionable cooking.”

“Absolutely,” she smiled, accepting the glass. He poured her a generous glass and handed it to her, their fingers brushing.

They settled at a large wooden island counter while the stew simmered. The conversation was immediate and fluid, falling back into their easy rhythm.

“So, the master chef,” Gracie teased, swirling the wine in her glass. “Do you cook a lot?”

Aidan poured himself a glass, then turned to her, propping his elbow on the counter. His steel-blue eyes, already sparkling, seemed to gleam in the kitchen light.  "Not as much as I'd like, honestly. Traveling for work means a lot of hotel food or takeout. But I do love to eat. A bit of a glutton, I'm afraid. Never being able to walk past a fridge without opening it and seeing what treasures lie within." He grinned sheepishly "Though, I suppose that's one of the benefits of being an actor – there's always cake laying around on set."

Gracie laughed, surprised. “You hide it well. I would never have pegged you for having a rapacious appetite, considering how svelte you are.” She looked him up and down, His physique was understated, a testament to discipline rather than brute strength. her gaze lingering on the subtle definition in his biceps visible even through the soft knit of his sweater. "For an older man, you definitely take care of yourself." The words slipped out before she could censor them, and she flushed slightly. He certainly looked after himself for a man in his early forties.

"Older man?" Aidan raised an eyebrow, but he was smiling, his eyes sparkling with gaiety. "I'll have you know I'm in my prime."

"Sure you are." Gracie took a sip of wine, to try and hide the grin forming on her lips. "But seriously, what do you do to fight off all those snacks you're sneaking?"

Aidan chuckled, a low, attractive sound. “Biking. Through the hillsides. It's meditative, actually. Helps me clear my head between shoots. And, well, the current character I’m playing requires a rather stiff and unyielding costume, so I have to keep in shape to continue wearing it. Can’t upset the costume designer, now can I? Wouldn’t do to bust a seam.”

Gracie noticed the characteristic flicker of avoidance when he mentioned his work—no show name, no specific details. It was still a clear boundary, and she respected it.

Aidan stared at her, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Since you mentioned it earlier,” he continued, his tone shifting slightly, “speaking of age. How old are you, Gracie?” There was a subtle note of concern, as if he was bracing himself for a potential revelation, he took a large sip of his wine as he braced for her answer.

“Twenty-eight,” she replied, “though I’ll be twenty-nine soon.”

Aidan nodded, his expression easing. A broad, relieved grin stretched across his face, chasing away the earlier apprehension. “Forty-two,” he said, a slight smile playing on his lips. The twelve-year age gap, while present, felt less of a chasm in this moment. He wasn't the type to harbor desires for girls barely out of their teens; he typically dated women closer to his own age.

Aidan’s shoulders visibly relaxed, a small sigh escaping him that he quickly converted into a cough. . He leaned in conspiratorially, his eyes twinkling. "Brilliant. Excellent," he muttered, shaking his head slightly as if disbelieving his good fortune.

He then set his glass down with a definitive clink. "Honestly, Gracie," he said, pushing off the counter and stepping closer, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I was just drafting my mental response to 'Do you have a daddy kink?' and I'm not sure I had a good answer ready. This saves us both a potentially very awkward, very Irish, very polite silence over dinner."

Gracie burst out laughing, a bright, unrestrained sound that filled the kitchen. She threw her head back, shaking her hair, thoroughly charmed by his quick wit and transparent relief. "Oh, Aidan," she managed between giggles, "You were worried about that?"

He feigned a look of grave seriousness, though his eyes betrayed him. He grabbed a second bottle of wine and uncorked it with a decisive pop. "A man has to be prepared, Gracie. One can never be too careful. But let’s be honest, Gracie, I was bracing myself for a number where I’d have to feign interest in the fact that I’m old enough to be your father.”

He poured her a glass, then winked slowly, the candlelight catching the mischief in his eyes, then reached out and gently took her hand, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her skin. "So, no daddy issues then? I feel so much better knowing this is just garden-variety attraction. Perhaps, Just… a charmingly experienced man with an excellent music taste?"  It was the perfect blend of self-deprecation and smartassery, hitting exactly the right spot.

Gracie squeezed his hand, her laughter softening into a warm smile. "Something like that. And yes, a very excellent music taste indeed."

They continued talking like that, the conversation flowing easily between them, punctuated by sips of wine and stealing tastes from the pot, until the stew was finally ready. Gracie felt herself relaxing more and more in his presence.  When the stew was finally ready, Aidan served it in deep bowls with crusty bread and butter on the side, and they sat at his small kitchen table.

"This is incredible, Aidan," Gracie declared after her first bite, her eyes wide with surprise and pleasure. "Seriously, it's so good."

Aidan gave her a slow, knowing smile—a genuinely lascivious look that sent a jolt down her spine. "Ah, that's only because I've been getting you drunk the entire time, so you can't possibly notice what a non-cook I am." He winked again.

Gracie laughed, shaking her head, blushing slightly. "You're just being modest. It really is delicious." She found herself admiring his easy charm, his self-deprecating humor.

After dinner, comfortable and content, Aidan led her into the living room, both of them carrying fresh glasses of wine. He set the bottle down on the coffee table and they settled onto the couch. It was a space that spoke volumes about him: lived-in, intellectual, and slightly eccentric. Books were stacked everywhere, some in precarious stacks, others lying open as if he'd been in the middle of reading three different ones at once. a laptop sat abandoned on the corner of the coffee table, and beside a deep, inviting armchair stood a side table holding a pair of reading glasses. The fireplace had a low fire burning, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Most striking of all was the beautiful, vintage jukebox against the far wall, its chrome gleaming softly in the firelight.

"You have a jukebox," Gracie murmured, drawn instantly to the machine. Gracie found herself getting up from the couch and walking over to it. She loved jukeboxes, always had—something about the vintage aesthetic, the physicality of selecting a song, something so nostalgic and romantic about them.  Perhaps it was the old soul that lied within her. She bent down to look at the selection through the little display window, reading the song titles, a smile playing on her lips. As she was looking, Aidan came up behind her, his presence sudden and close, causing her breath to hitch. She felt the warmth of him even before his arms wrapped around her waist, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder as the faint scent of his cologne drifting toward her.

“A bit of a ridiculous indulgence, I know,” he said softly, his voice near her ear, his baritone voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine,  she sensed his shyness simmering beneath the surface. 

“Does it take money?” she managed, her heart beginning to pound a strange rhythm against her ribs,  her voice  coming out slightly breathless.

Aidan chuckled, the sound rumbling against her back, his fingers lightly running against the fabric on her hip. “It’s been rigged, blessedly. Just press the buttons." he said against her ear, his voice low and teasing, "Though I wouldn’t mind collecting some change from my lovely date.”

Gracie smiled, a genuine, uninhibited smile, and pressed her selection. A moment later, the melancholic yet beautiful strains of Air Supply's "All Out of Love" poured from the jukebox, filling the cozy room.  The music pulsed through the air, rich and enveloping, carrying hints of dust and nostalgia that made the moment feel timeless. As the familiar, sweeping melody poured out of the speaker, Aidan pulled her into his arms with a surprising firmness that belied his reserved exterior, and they began to sway, a slow, intimate dance.

She could feel her heartbeat quicken, a frantic drum against her ribs, as she stared into his eyes. They seemed to have deepened, darkened, melting into an intense, almost cobalt blue, reflecting the soft light of the room. She had never really met anyone before who had such expressive eyes as Aidan did; she couldn't stop looking into them, holding a silent intensity that seemed to hypnotize her, pulling her deeper into the moment.

They continued to dance, barely moving, just swaying to the music, the rhythm guiding their steps in slow, deliberate circles across the rug.  Aidan's hand was pressed against her lower back, gently pushing her closer, until her body was flush against his. She could feel the steady beat of his heart mirroring the frantic pace of her own. His other hand held one of hers, fingers intertwined, and she found one of her hands had instinctively moved to the nape of his neck, her fingers playing lightly with the soft curls resting there, twisting it absently as the distance between their bodies dissolved. Hips aligned, his thigh insinuating itself against hers with each sway, Gracie felt the jukebox’s vibrations climb her calves as the music climbed toward its crescendo. Every brush of their hips ignited a spark of electricity, her heart racing against his chest, the heat of his body seeping through her dress as the music wove its spell, heightening the unspoken tension between them. In that intimate space, Gracie felt the world narrow to just the two of them—the steady beat of his heart, the subtle pressure of his hand, and the heady rush of desire that made her wonder what other secrets this night might uncover.

As they swayed together, the music's rhythm seemed to draw them closer still, their bodies pressing in a way that blurred the line between dance and something far more primal. Aidan's hand slid up her back, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine through the thin fabric of her dress, sending a cascade of shivers across her skin. She tilted her head, her lips parting slightly as she met his gaze, those deep blue eyes of his holding a storm of unspoken longing that mirrored her own, the air between them thickening with the scent of his cologne and the faint, intoxicating warmth of their shared breath.

The song ended, and silence enveloped the room, but it was like neither of them noticed. They continued to hold each other, swaying to a silent melody. Gracie could feel Aidan's breath ghosting against her lips, warm and soft, he was so close now, the space between them vanishing as the dance slowed to a halt, their bodies still swaying imperceptibly to the music's pulse. His exhale hit her mouth—sweet with red wine, sharp with want. Her eyes fluttered closed,  a silent invitation she scarcely realized she was making, the world fading into a haze of sensation, and then she felt Aidan's soft lips against hers, a gentle brush at first that ignited a spark deep within her core.

What started as a slow, a gentle exploration, But the moment their mouths met, the tenderness shattered into something fierce, it turned into a hot, desperate passionate one, as Aidan wrapped both arms around her, one hand traveling down to grasp her fleshy butt cheek, holding her as tightly as possible, his strong embrace pulling her flush against the solid plane of his chest, as if he couldn't bear an inch of space between them. 

Gracie responded with matching fervor, her arms locking around his neck, one hand clutching the back of his head, holding him in place, her fingers tangling in his salt and pepper hair. A soft moan escapes her lips, allowing Aidan more access to her mouth. Their tongues met in a playful, almost fervent dance, exploring and teasing, vying for dominance in a way that made her pulse race and her thoughts dissolve into pure, electric need. The faint, delicious burn of his mustache against her lips was intoxicating. The world outside them ceased to exist; there was only the press of their bodies, the taste of him, the intoxicating rush of sensation. The kiss deepened, every touch amplifying the heat building between them, his lips firm yet yielding, tasting faintly of the wine they'd shared earlier, a rich, velvety note that mingled with the salt of his skin. Gracie's heart hammered wildly, her body arching into his as waves of desire coursed through her.

Aidan's hands roamed with a shy yet dominant assurance, the one on her butt was groping and massaging, while the other cupped her cheek, his thumb gently stroking her jawline, heightening the rush of sensations that left her breathless and yearning for more. In this cocoon of moonlight, she surrendered to the whirlwind of emotion, the barriers of their reserved exteriors crumbling away with each shared breath.

As the kiss lingered, deepening in its fervor, Gracie felt Aidan's grip tighten around her waist, guiding her backward without breaking their connection, the soft fibers of the rug beneath their feet yielding to the insistent push of his body. The room's ambient glow from the jukebox cast elongated shadows that danced across the walls, mirroring the whirlwind inside her as his thigh slipped between hers, pressing her firmly against the cool, unyielding surface of the nearby wall, as she found herself lighty grinding against it.  Her back arched instinctively against the smooth surface, the contrast of its chill against her heated skin sending a shiver up her spine, while his solid form pinned her in place, the weight of him both thrilling and grounding, every breath shared between them heavy with the musky scent of desire and the faint trace of his cologne.

When Aidan reluctantly broke away, Gracie found herself breathing hard, her chest heaving, a string of saliva followed between them.She could taste the lingering essence of wine on her tongue, mixed with the salt of his skin, as the world around them seemed to hold its breath. Her eyes fluttered open, disoriented. His breathing was ragged, mirroring her own rapid inhales. He rested his forehead against hers, one roamed slowly along her side, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip through the thin fabric of her dress, his touch deliberate and almost reverent, as if he were memorizing the contours of her body. His eyes, when he finally opened them, were darker still—a deep, turbulent navy that seemed to absorb the light, pupils swallowing irises whole.

Gracie, still reeling, her hands sliding from his neck to rest against the knit of his sweater, fingers idly playing with the textured wool, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath. Aidan let out a slow, audible swallow. The sound seemed to break the spell, and then he took a step back away from her, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself. 

 Not a gentle retreat, but a sudden, definite move that created unwelcome space between them.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his sweater with a visible effort at regaining composure. He looked into Gracie’s eyes—and she felt the devastating intensity of his gaze—before he licked his lips, the gesture drawing her gaze inexorably to their fullness, a vivid reminder of the heat they'd just shared, and she felt a pang of longing twist in her core.

“It’s getting… late,” he said, his voice emerging low and husky, and a little strained. Yet, even as the words hung in the air, the tension between them lingered, electric and unresolved, the jukebox's dim light flickering like a silent witness to the desires they'd only begun to unearth. Gracie’s own throat tightened, her gaze dropping to his Adam’s apple as it bobbed again—a silent countdown.

Gracie blinked, confused. The sudden shift in his demeanor was jarring.  Her internal wiring short-circuited. Late? Was he... kicking her out? It certainly sounded that way. Just moments ago, they were pressed against the wall, utterly consumed, and now he was suddenly invoking curfew?

"Oh," she managed, feeling embarrassment and rejection wash over her in equal measure. She managed to detach herself from the wall she had been leaning on, her limbs feeling strangely heavy. “Yes,” she replied, her voice sounding unnaturally calm, masking the shock. “I should probably be heading back.”

She began gathering her things—her purse, her jacket, her movements a little stiff—while Aidan stood rooted where he was, watching her without moving, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. The shift in his demeanor was incomprehensible.

By the time she had her jacket on and reached the front door, Aidan finally moved. He caught up to her side and pulled her into one last, long hug. It was tight, full of unspent energy, but Gracie found herself unable to fully reciprocate the warmth, confused by his abrupt emotional retraction.

Taking a deep breath, breathing in her scent like he was trying to memorize it, he mumbled into her hair, "I had a truly wonderful night, Gracie. I would love to see you again."

Gracie blinked. See her again? But he had just slammed the emotional brakes hard enough to leave skid marks. What was with the mood swings?

She forced a small, polite smile as he released his arms from around her, and she gave a small, noncommittal nod.

She walked quickly to her car, acutely aware of his gaze tracking her every step.She could feel his gaze burning into her back until she was safely in her driver's seat.  As she started the engine, she gave a brief, mechanical wave and pulled away, heading back toward her little cottage.

The entire drive was a bewildering replay tape of the evening: the easy laughter, the perfect stew, the dancing, the hypnotic darkness of his eyes, the heat of the kiss, and then, the sudden, inexplicable abrupt dismissal.

By the time she reached her cottage, she was utterly bewildered.

Gracie didn't bother changing or turning on the lights, She went straight for her wine rack, pulled out a bottle, uncorked it with a defiant twist, and began drinking directly from the bottle, not even bothering to pour it into a glass.

She was utterly bemused by Aidan Gillen.

One moment he was pulling her close, kissing her like she was oxygen and he was drowning. The next he was practically shoving her out the door with a polite "it's getting late."

What the hell was that about?

Gracie took another long drink from the bottle and stared at her latest sketch—those damn blue eyes looking back at her from the page, full of secrets and complications she was only beginning to understand.

"You're going to be the death of me," she told the drawing.