Pink Top City Shorts: Dream Dinner

Pink Top City Shorts: Dream Dinner

The dinner rush was in full swing when the brass bell above the front entrance chimed gently. Lena stepped into the warm glow of Danny Donger’s, smoothing her long-sleeved, pink floral dress. She adjusted the delicate gold heart locket at her collarbone and glanced around the bustling sports bar, feeling a nervous flutter rise in her chest.

Behind the podium, Janine Fleming looked up from a clipboard and tapped her pen against the wood.

Janine: “Welcome to Danny Donger’s! Just one tonight, hon?”

Lena took a hesitant step forward, her fingers knotting lightly in front of her.

Lena: “Uhm, yes, please... Just one…”

Her eyes darted briefly across the busy floor, catching a glimpse of silver-white hair and a flash of green shorts moving between the booths near the back. A blush warmed her cheeks as she quickly looked back to the hostess.

Lena: “Actually, is… Would it be possible to sit in Fabien’s section? If he has an open table, that is.”

Janine raised an eyebrow, a knowing little smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She checked the seating chart on her podium, flicked her pen against the laminated sheet, and nodded.

Janine: “You’re in luck. Table six just cleared out, right in the center of his station.”

She grabbed a laminated menu and stepped out from behind the stand.

Janine: “Follow me, sweetie.”

Janine led the way through the noisy crowd, past sports fans cheering at the televisions and trays of steaming bar food rattling by. Lena followed closely, the straps of her heeled butterfly sandals tapping softly against the wooden floorboards, her heart beating a little faster with every step toward the back section.

Janine: “Right here.”

She said with an easy smile, leading her to a small wooden booth illuminated by the green and pink neon lights reflecting off the wood. She set the menu down on the table.

Janine: “Fabien will be right with you.”

Lena slipped into the seat, placing her purse beside her, resting her hands neatly in her lap as she offered a polite, quiet smile.

Lena: “Thank you!”

Lena drew in a slow breath to steady herself, looking across the table just as Fabien turned away from the service counter, balancing a tray on one hand and heading straight toward her.

Fabien slid up to the edge of the booth with that effortless, practiced grace, tucking the empty serving tray under his arm. He leaned in slightly, resting one hand against the corner of the polished wood table. His signature grin was bright and teasing, green eyes sparkling under the warm neon light.

Fabien: “What brings the lovely Lena Vaquero here tonight?”

He asked. Lena’s breath hitched as a sudden wave of heat rushed up to the tips of her ears. Being this close to him always made her pulse hammer. She inhaled his cologne. Rich notes of Gucci Pour Homme wrapped around her senses like a physical embrace, sharp yet impossibly warm.

Her fingers tightened around the corner of the laminated menu, knuckles turning pale.

Lena: “O-Oh... hi, Fabien…”

She stammered, offering a shy, flustered smile as she looked up through her thick lashes.

Lena: “I just... well, I am staying with the girls on Orchard Street, and they’re doing their thing… I thought I’d come get a bite to eat... and see how your shift was going.”

Fabien chuckled, the sound low and fond, clearly charmed by her bashful reaction. He pulled the small order pad and pen from his utility pouch with a quick, theatrical flick of his wrist.

Fabien: “Well, you definitely picked the best table in the house.”

He winked, leaning down just an inch closer.

Fabien: “It sure beats being around that fatty and her idiotic ‘oh my STARS!’ Though trimming grass with safety scissors sounds more thrilling. If you came all the way across the street just to inspect my work ethic, I’m honored.”

He smiled.

Fabien: “Can I start you off with something refreshing to drink, petite fleur? Or do you need a minute to recover from being subjected to Fatley’s ingenious phrases?”

Lena ducked her head, her purple hair falling forward to hide the crimson blooming across her cheeks. Her fingers traced the floral pattern on her dress as she tried to steady her voice.

Lena: “Could I get... a unicorn float?”

She whispered, peeking up at him with an embarrassed, bashful smile.

Lena: “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

Fabien’s grin softened into something genuinely delighted. He tapped the tip of his pen against the pad, clicking his tongue with approval.

Fabien: “Too much trouble? For you? Never.”

He said smoothly, scribbling the order down with an exaggerated, flourishing stroke of his pen.

He leaned in just a fraction more, his voice dropping into that playful, conspiratorial tone that always sent her stomach into knots.

Fabien: “I’ll make sure the kitchen piles the cherries extra high. Don’t go anywhere, Lena—I’ll be right back with something sweet.”

With a wink and a spin on the heel of his sneaker, Fabien turned and headed toward the bar, leaving Lena clutching the edge of the booth, her face burning hot and her heart racing a mile a minute.

Fabien rounded the polished counter, set his tray down with a crisp clatter, and braced his forearms on the wood.

Behind the bar, Frank was vigorously wiping down beer glasses with a white bar towel, a bottle opener dangling from a lanyard around his neck. The veteran bartender glanced up from under his bushy eyebrows, taking in Fabien’s grin.

Frank: “What’ve you got, kid?”

He asked, voice rough over the roar of the sports commentary blaring from the overhead TV. Frank: “Draft for table two? Another pitcher of Glacier Lite?”

Fabien: “Nothing so mundane, mon ami…”

He replied with a chuckle, tapping his order slip onto the counter.

Fabien: “I need a masterpiece. A unicorn float.”

Frank stopped mid-wipe, lowered the glass, and gave Fabien a flat, unamused look.

Frank: “A unicorn float? In the middle of third down? Those things are a sticky disaster, kid. Who ordered that, a kid having a birthday party? Don’t they know this is an 18+ bar?”

Fabien: “Table six.”

He said casually, tilting his head toward Lena.

Fabien: “Lena Vaquero. You know, sweet girl from across my street? Show a little craftsmanship, Frank. Make sure the whipped cream and sprinkles look worthy of royalty.”

Frank squinted past Fabien’s shoulder toward table six and spotted Lena sitting neatly in her pastel floral dress, fidgeting with her napkin. His gruff expression softened by a fraction, though he let out an exaggerated sigh.

Fran: “All right…”

He muttered, tossing the towel over his shoulder and reaching under the counter for a tall soda fountain glass. Fabien tapped his fingers on the bar top as he watched Frank start the neon-pink confection.

Fabien glided back through the crowded dining room, balancing the tall, frosted soda glass on the tray.

He slid up to table six and set the treat down before Lena with an elegant, flourishing wrist motion. Lena looked down, and her breath caught. The glass brimmed with fizzy, neon-pink cotton candy soda swirling through generous scoops of melting vanilla ice cream, topped with a towering swirl of whipped cream and a dusting of pastel rainbow sprinkles. But what made her heart skip a beat was the crest: right at the top, two bright red maraschino cherries were nestled together in the whipped cream, their stems twined and their glossy curves positioned neatly to form a tiny, distinct heart.

Lena’s fingers flew up to lightly brush her locket, her wide eyes flicking up from the drink to Fabien’s face. Her cheeks flushed the exact shade of the soda.

Fabien: “A little personal touch from the artist.”

He said, resting a hand on his hip and flashing her that crooked, charming grin.

Fabien: “Only the best for you, Lena.”

Lena leaned forward, taking the striped straw between her lips, and took a small, hesitant sip.

The fizzy, sweet burst of pink cotton candy soda mingled with the rich, creamy melted vanilla ice cream in a burst of pure sugar and nostalgia. Instantly, her Byzantine eyes went wide. A breathless little hum of delight slipped past her lips, and the shy tension that had held her shoulders tight melted into an ear-to-ear, radiant smile.

Lena: “Fabien, this is incredible!”

She gasped, placing a hand against her cheek as if to keep from giggling.

Fabien let out a low, warm laugh, leaning his hands on the edge of the booth table, clearly pleased with the reaction.

Fabien: “I told you Frank and I wouldn’t let you down. Seeing that face was definitely worth bribing the bartender.”

He winked, his green eyes dancing with mischief.

Fabien: “Take your time with it, Lena. I’ve got to check on a rowdy table near the front. I’ll be back in a minute to see if you want anything real to eat.”

Lena nodded eagerly, her cheeks still glowing pink as she watched him strut back toward the front floor with an effortless, confident bounce in his step.

Lena opened the laminated menu again, scanning down the brightly printed columns.

Almost every item seemed to sizzle right off the page: loaded chili cheese fries, double bacon cheeseburgers, deep-fried mozzarella sticks, and wings smothered in dripping buffalo sauce. While the smells wafting from the kitchen were undeniably tempting, a knot of worry tightened in her stomach.

She looked down at her pretty, floral dress, then glanced nervously across the dining room at Fabien, effortlessly carrying a loaded tray in one hand and laughing with a table of sports fans. Her face grew warm. The absolute last thing she wanted was for him to think she was a pig—stuffing her face with greasy, messy finger food while he watched.

She remembered the last time she had stopped in; she’d stayed safe and orderly by getting a crisp garden salad. It had been neat, tidy, and impossible to mess up.

Her finger traced down past the fried appetizers until it found the modest side menu. House Garden Salad.

A little spark of cleverness struck her, and a shy smile tugged at her lips. Beneath the options was a list of dressings: ranch, thousand island, blue cheese, and... French. She ordered that the last time and loved that little inside joke.

Lena held the menu tight, feeling a sudden flutter of butterflies at the silly, secret little tribute. A simple salad with French dressing was light, dainty, and completely safe. Most importantly, it gave her a subtle, private reason to blush every time she looked up at him. She closed the menu with a quiet snap, smoothed her hands over her lap, and waited for Fabien to return, her heart beating fast.

Fabien glided back over to the booth, a fresh bounce in his sneakers as he pulled his small notepad and pen from his server pouch. He leaned one arm casually against the edge of the wood, flashing her an attentive, easy smile.

Fabien: “All right, chérie.”

He said smoothly.

Fabien: “I saw you studying that menu like it was a final exam. Have you made up your mind, or do you need the chef’s personal recommendation?”

Lena sat up a little straighter, her fingers lightly smoothing down her dress to calm the persistent flutter in her chest. She peeked up at him, her Byzantine eyes wide and soft.

Lena: “I… I think I know what I’d like.”

She murmured, feeling that familiar warmth creeping back into her cheeks. She tapped the edge of the closed menu.

Lena: “Just the house garden salad, please. With... French dressing.”

Fabien paused mid-scribble, his pen hovering just above the paper. His eyebrows ticked up with genuine amusement, and a slow, roguish smirk spread across his face.

Fabien: “A garden salad? In a sports bar surrounded by half-pound bacon burgers and onion rings?”

He chuckled, a low and playful sound that made Lena’s pulse skip.

Fabien: “Well, you certainly have delicate tastes, Lena. But I have to say…”

He leaned down just a few inches closer, his green eyes glinting with pure mischief as he tapped the side of his nose.

Fabien: “You picked the absolute best dressing on the menu. Naturally, I approve of your exquisite taste in all things French.”

Lena bowed her head, biting back a giddy, helpless smile as the blush rushed to her temples.

Fabien: “Salad and the finest dressing Pink Top City has to offer…”

He declared with a theatrical flourish, jotting it down on the pad.

Fabien: “Coming right up for you, Lena.”

He tore the ticket from his notepad with a quick flick of his wrist and walked toward the kitchen pass-through.

Behind the stainless steel counter, Sal looked up from tossing a basket of fries. He wiped his hands on a greasy apron and squinted at Fabien.

Sal: “What’s the rush, pretty boy? We got tickets backed up to third base.”

Fabien: “Take it easy, Sal.”

He chuckled, clipping the yellow order slip onto the spinning ticket rail overhead.

Fabien: “A light one for table six. One house garden salad.”

Sal stared at the ticket, then back at Fabien with a dry, deadpan stare.

Sal: “A salad? At Danny Donger’s? On game night? Who orders rabbit food when the deep fryer is singing?”

Fabien: “A lady with refined taste.”

He countered with a playful grin, leaning over the counter.

Fabien: “And make sure the French dressing is on the side. Don’t go dumping it all over. She likes to keep things neat and tidy.”

Sal grunted, shaking his head as he reached for a chilled metal bowl and a head of iceberg lettuce.

Sal: “French on the side. Got it. Only for your regulars, lover boy.”

Fabien: “Merci, Sal.”

He said smoothly, giving the metal edge of the counter a friendly two-tap salute before turning back to attend to the floor.

A few minutes later, Fabien glided back up to the stainless steel kitchen window, his tray resting against his hip. Sal slid a wide, chilled ceramic bowl onto the shelf with a heavy thud. Inside, crisp ribbons of lettuce, bright cherry tomatoes, and sliced cucumbers sat perfectly arranged, flanked by a neat little glass ramekin filled to the brim with tangy, orange-red French dressing.

Sal: “Here's your rabbit food, pretty boy.”

He said, wiping his brow with the back of his forearm and gesturing with a greasy pair of tongs toward the plate. He leaned across the counter, squinting past the pass toward the dining room floor with a sly grin.

Sal: “Took extra care with the presentation just for you. Don’t want lover boy getting complaints from his special guest, do we?”

Fabien laughed, completely unfazed as he balanced the cool bowl onto his tray with one hand.

Fabien: “Careful, Sal, jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He shot back smoothly, green eyes glinting with amusement.

Fabien: “Besides, a little charm never hurt anyone’s tips.”

Sal: “Yeah, yeah, get outta here, lover boy, before the lettuce wilts.”

He chuckled, waving his tongs dismissively as he turned back to the sizzling grill. Fabien tossed him a quick wink, spun lightly on his shoes, and headed across the floor toward Lena’s booth.

Fabien smoothly lowered the chilled bowl to the table, setting it down directly in front of Lena with an effortless flourish. Beside the fresh greens, he placed a small glass ramekin of vibrant orange-red dressing and a neatly rolled napkin with silver cutlery.

Fabien: “Here you are.”

He said, leaning down slightly with a warm, theatrical bow.

Fabien: “And I made sure Sal kept the French dressing right on the side for you, so you can dress it however you like.”

Lena’s eyes widened with quiet appreciation, a soft smile immediately lifting her lips.

Lena: “Oh... thank you, Fabien! That’s so thoughtful of you.”

Fabien: “Only the best service for my favorite neighbor.”

He replied with a playful wink, tucking his empty tray back under his arm.

Fabien: “Enjoy, Lena. Let me know if you need anything else to go with it.”

Lena: “Fabien?”

Fabien: “Oui, Lena?”

He asked softly, tucking the tray comfortably under his arm. He leaned an inch closer to the booth.

Lena: “Could you drive me to where I am staying after your shift? I am still staying with the girls in Greammoom Hills while Elias makes my wing at Jordi’s house.”

Fabien’s smile softened into something warm and genuinely obliging. He rested one hand casually on his hip and let out an easy, low chuckle.

Fabien: “Drive you? Bien sûr, Lena, you don't even have to ask.”

He said smoothly.

Fabien: “No way I’m letting you walk or try to catch a cab all the way up into Greammoom Hills at night.”

He tapped the leather strap of his server pouch, glanced at the kitchen clock, then looked back at her with a conspiratorial wink.

Fabien: “My shift wraps up in about forty-five minutes. Take your time finishing that float and your salad, and as soon as I cash out and grab my jacket, the Cobra is at your service. Deal?”

Lena: “Okay!”

Fabien smiled and gave the edge of the booth table a light, reassuring double-tap with his knuckles.

Fabien: “Perfect. I’ll grab you when I'm clocked out. Enjoy your dinner, Lena.”

With a jaunty spin on his heel, he breezed back toward the kitchen pass to clear another round of orders.

Lena let out a long, fluttering exhale she hadn't realized she was holding, pressing her cool palms against her burning cheeks. Another ride in Fabien’s vintage Shelby Mustang Cobra—just the two of them, driving through the warm evening air up toward Greammoom Hills. Her heart fluttered excitedly against her ribs.

Beaming to herself, she picked up the little glass ramekin, drizzled just a neat, careful portion of the tangy French dressing over her greens, and took a delicate, contented bite.

~

After closing out his final ticket, Fabien ducked into the employee backroom. He took down his black leather motorcycle jacket. He slipped his arms through the leather sleeves and zipped it halfway up. With an effortless flick of his wrist, he grabbed his classic black Ray-Bans and slid them on, pushing a stray lock of white hair aside.

He strolled back onto the dining floor, the keys to his Shelby Mustang Cobra jingling loosely between his fingers.

Lena waited patiently, having finished her salad and every last drop of the unicorn float. She looked up as boots tapped lightly against the hardwood, and when she caught sight of him in the leather jacket and dark sunglasses, her breath caught.

Fabien slid up to the side of her booth, propped one hand on the table, and lowered the dark shades just a fraction down the bridge of his nose so his emerald eyes could give her a playful, teasing wink.

Fabien: “Ready to roll, mademoiselle?”

He asked with that signature, crooked grin.

Fabien: “Your chariot awaits.”

Lena gathered her small handbag, clutching the strap tight against her pastel floral dress as she slid out from the booth. The heat in her cheeks flared up once more, practically matching the neon signage around them, but she managed an eager, dainty nod.

Lena: “Ready…”

She murmured. Fabien turned, offering a chivalrous sweep of his arm toward the exit, and Lena fell into step right beside him.

As they walked toward the double doors, a sudden, gentle breeze from the opening entrance carried his scent straight to her—a rich, intoxicating trace of warm cedar, citrus, and smooth amber from his Gucci cologne, mingling with the rugged aroma of worn leather. It made her head spin in the best possible way.

Fabien pushed the door open, holding it wide for her with a charming, easy tilt of his head as his Ray-Bans caught the evening light.

Fabien: “Ladies first.”

He said smoothly.

Lena stepped through into the balmy night, the humid breeze lightly rustling the hem of her dress as the roar of traffic from the boulevard hummed in the distance. Right under the amber parking lot lamppost sat the sleek, muscular silhouette of his 1970 Shelby Mustang Cobra, gleaming under the stars and waiting just for them.

Fabien rounded the front of the Cobra, popped the passenger door open for Lena with an easy flick of his wrist, and shut it gently behind her once she settled into the bucket seat.

He jogged around to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and pulled the door shut. He tossed his server pouch in the backseat. The interior immediately carried the heady mix of rich leather upholstery, lingering Gucci cologne, and warm engine heat.

Before reaching for the ignition, Fabien slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and produced a fresh pack of cigarettes. He tapped the box against his knuckle, plucked one out between two fingers, and let it rest loosely at the corner of his lips. With a quick, practiced snap, he flicked open an engraved silver Zippo lighter with his thumb.

A spark flared, and the amber flame illuminated the sharp angles of his face, the dark tint of his Ray-Bans, and the white fringe falling across his brow. He drew in a steady breath, the tip of the cigarette glowing a bright, crackling orange, before snapping the lighter shut with a crisp metallic chime.

Fabien leaned back, resting his left forearm against the open window ledge, and exhaled a smooth ribbon of gray smoke out into the balmy night breeze. He turned his head slightly toward Lena, a cool, lazy half-smile playing across his mouth.

Fabien: “Ready to roll, chérie?”

He asked casually, his voice low over the quiet crickets outside.

Lena: “Y-Yes…”

He rested the cigarette between his knuckles as he reached forward to turn the key in the ignition.

The starter caught instantly, and the Shelby’s big V8 engine roared to life with a deep, throaty rumble that vibrated right through the floorboards and into the leather bucket seats. The dashboard lights flickered on, casting a soft, vintage green glow over the analog dials and Fabien’s hands on the steering wheel.

Taking another slow, leisurely drag, he flicked the ash out into the warm breeze whipping past the window frame, his dark Ray-Bans catching the reflection of the dashboard meters.

Lena sat with her purse tucked primly onto her lap, her heart hammering against her ribs. Sitting next to him like this—surrounded by his cologne, the sweet curl of tobacco smoke, and the dark, cozy sanctuary of the Cobra—felt like something out of an old romantic movie.

Fabien: “All right, then…”

He muttered, shifting the stick smoothly into first gear with a satisfying mechanical clunk. He eased his foot off the clutch, the tires gripping the asphalt as the Cobra surged gracefully out of Danny Donger’s parking lot and onto the open, neon-lit boulevard.

Downtown Pink Top City was alive with late-night energy, drenched in buzzing violet, turquoise, and magenta neon signs that reflected across the Cobra’s polished hood. Fabien navigated the bustling streets with effortless ease, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel while the other shifted gears like second nature. Cool night air rushed through his rolled-down window, catching the white strands of his hair and stirring the tail of smoke from his cigarette before he pulled it out into the dark.

From the passenger seat, Lena couldn’t tear her eyes away.

She turned slightly toward him, her hands pressed tightly over her purse on her lap. Under the flashing neon glow of the downtown storefronts, Fabien looked entirely larger than life. The stark, sleek black of his Ray-Bans hid his eyes, giving him an air of dangerous, effortless cool, but the familiar, gentle curve of his lips kept him grounded as the boy from across the street. The heavy black leather of his motorcycle jacket made his shoulders look impossibly broad, and every time the dashboard lights flickered green across his profile, her breath caught in her throat.

He drove with such calm, casual confidence—unfazed by the roar of the V8 engine beneath them or the flashing lights of the city around them. To Lena, sitting in that warm passenger seat filled with the lingering trace of Gucci cologne, the rest of the world simply fell away into a blur of neon streaks.

As if feeling the weight of her gaze, the corner of Fabien’s mouth twitched upward into a quiet, knowing smirk. Without turning his head from the road, he tapped the ash off his cigarette and let out a soft, amused murmur.

Fabien: “Like what you see, petite fleur?”

He asked smoothly.

Lena’s face flared crimson, the heat rushing to her cheeks so fast she thought it might outshine the neon signs outside. Caught red-handed, she ducked her head, her fingers twisting self-consciously around her purse strap.

Lena: “I-I… Well…”

She stammered softly, her heart doing nervous somersaults in her chest.

She took a small breath to steady her fluttering pulse, then peeked back over at his handsome profile, speaking before she could talk herself out of it.

Lena: “I was just thinking about your drawings…”

She murmured, her voice sweet and sincere.

Lena: “I… I really love your art, Fabien. You’re so talented. The way you sketch, the lines, the detail... everything you make is just so expressive and beautiful.”

Fabien’s smirk softened. He lowered his cigarette toward the ashtray, clearly caught off guard by the sheer, earnest warmth in her voice. He flicked his gaze away from the neon-lit road for just a second, his emerald eyes peering over the dark rim of his Ray-Bans to meet her shy gaze. A genuine, gentle smile replaced his usual cocky grin.

Fabien: “You really think so?”

He asked, his tone dropping into something far softer than his usual bravado. He stubbed out the rest of the cigarette with a quiet hiss, snapped the ashtray shut with his thumb, then let his hand rest easily on the steering wheel once more.

The words danced on the tip of Lena’s tongue, practically begging to be spoken.

Could you draw me? She wanted to ask, imagining herself rendered in delicate charcoal strokes and soft pastel hues, dressed in a sweeping, romantic pink ballgown layered with silk and lace. She could picture it so vividly—standing gracefully on the heavy paper, framed by his talented hand, seen through his eyes as something elegant, timeless, and lovely.

Her lips parted slightly, but the sheer boldness of the thought dried her throat.

Her fingers tightened until her knuckles were white against the smooth leather of her purse. What if he thinks that’s silly? Or conceited? What if it was too obvious, too revealing of how much she wanted him to look at her—really look at her? Celeste was bold, fierce, and confident enough to ask for the world without flinching, but Lena felt like a flutter of flower petals in comparison. Asking Fabien to capture her like a princess in a fairytale felt like giving away the biggest, sweetest secret in her heart.

The deep, steady rumble of the Shelby Mustang Cobra softened to a low purr as Fabien guided the car along the winding hillside road, finally easing up to the curb of the Old Koks manor.

Just past the rosebush entrance, a grand three-tier stone fountain bubbled softly, water cascading gracefully from one ornate basin to the next with a peaceful, rhythmic splash. A clear, babbling brook wove along the manicured lawn, its gentle current murmuring over smooth river stones as it caught the pale glow of the twin moons.

Fabien cut the ignition, letting the silence settle over them, broken only by the soothing trickling of water and the distant hum of night breezes rustling the towering pines. He rested one arm over the steering wheel and glanced across the cabin at Lena, sliding his Ray-Bans down slightly with an admiring smirk.

Fabien stepped around the sleek front of the Cobra and pulled the heavy door open, offering Lena a steady hand as she gathered her purse and stepped out. Leaving his sunglasses hooked casually into the pocket of his leather jacket, Fabien fell into step right beside her. He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, the rich notes of his Gucci cologne mingling with the fragrance of pine needles and damp stone.

Together, they followed the winding flagstone pathway that cut across the sprawling front grounds. Above the blossoming gardens, tiny, luminous fairies drifted like living starlight, their delicate wings fluttering with a soft, translucent glow that brushed the velvet petals of roses and lavender. The sweet, floral-scented night air felt almost magical, charged with an ethereal warmth that seemed to wrap around Lena and Fabien as they walked side by side.

Just beyond the creek, nestled among flowering shrubs and shadowed willow trees, stood an ornate white Victorian gazebo. Its intricate latticework and spindle railings looked almost ethereal in the quiet night, straight out of an old-world storybook. Fabien slowed his stride and glanced at the gazebo, whistling appreciatively.

Fabien: “A brook, a fountain, and a little gazebo fit for a fairytale. Seems pretty fitting for you, don't you think?”

He said softly.

Lena’s face flushed an incandescent crimson at his words, the compliment striking right at the center of her heart. But before she could muster a single stammered word, a sudden, violent snap and dry rustling erupted from the thick, shadowed bushes at the foot of the bridge.

The sudden, dark commotion instantly set off every alarm in her head—a rodent, a rat, or worse —skittering in the undergrowth.

A high-pitched, terrified shriek tore from Lena’s throat. Driven by pure panic, she threw her arms tightly around Fabien’s waist, locking her grip onto the sturdy leather of his jacket and burying her face directly against his chest. She trembled against him, squeezing her eyes shut.

Fabien stiffened on instinct, hands immediately coming up, ready to throw up a barrier if some wild threat leaped from the trees.

Instead, a raven wearing a tiny hat flew out and flew toward the house.

The garden returned to dead silence, save for the tranquil babble of the brook beneath the bridge and the soft, rapid thump of Lena’s heart against his ribs.

Fabien blinked down into the shadows of the bushes, letting his hands lower as the corner of his mouth twitched. Realizing what had happened, his shoulders shook with a silent, amused chuckle. He glanced down at the bundle of purple hair pressed securely against his chest, feeling the soft warmth of her cheek right through the open zipper of his leather jacket.

Fabien: “Hey… it’s okay, petite fleur…”

He murmured gently, his voice rumbling softly under her ear. He rested a steady, reassuring hand lightly on the small of her back.

Fabien: “It was just a raven.”

Lena took a shaky, timid breath, her fingers slowly unclenching from the front of his jacket as the panic subsided. When she finally dared to lift her face from his chest, her cheeks were burning hotter than ever, though a small, shy smile of immense relief crept onto her lips.

Lena: “I’m… I’m so sorry…”

She whispered, her voice barely carrying over the gentle rush of the water.

Fabien: “Never apologize for having quick reflexes.”

He replied smoothly, giving her shoulder a light, comforting squeeze before letting his arm drape casually at his side.

Fabien: “Besides, not every guy gets to play bodyguard on a quiet stroll.”

Lena bowed her head, biting back an utterly flustered giggle.

Her hand lingered gently near his sleeve, and with a timid little motion, she gestured toward a smooth flagstone path curving away from the bridge.

Lena: “Would you… mind sitting for just a minute?”

She asked softly, looking up at him through her lashes.

Lena: “Over by the water?”

Fabien: “Sure.”

She guided him down the stone steps to the edge of the babbling brook, where a graceful wrought-iron bench, painted a soft antique white, sat beneath the drooping boughs of a weeping willow. The cool night mist from the creek brushed over their skin, carrying the scent of damp moss, fresh pines, and the sweet lingering citrus and amber of Fabien’s cologne.

Lena smoothed the skirt of her floral dress and sat down near the edge, leaving plenty of room beside her. Fabien dropped comfortably onto the iron slats with his usual relaxed poise, stretching his legs in his green dolphin shorts and sneakers and resting one arm along the ornate curved backrest behind her.

Overhead, luminous rays from the dual moons drifted gently through cascading willow fronds, scattering shimmering silver glimmers across the creek’s shadowed current. At the same time, the tranquil stream murmured its soft, peaceful melody.

Lena sat with her ankles crossed, her hands folded tightly in her lap over the floral cotton of her dress. Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs she wondered if Fabien could hear it over the quiet, rhythmic trickle of the brook.

Just ask him, she urged herself desperately. He’s right here; Just say it, Lena thought.

Her lips parted, her breath catching softly. Just ask him if he will draw you in a princess gown, she thought.

Lena: “Fabien…?”

Fabien turned his head, his emerald-green eyes meeting hers with an effortless, inquiring warmth. The corner of his mouth tilted up into a crooked, easy smile.

Lena: “Oui, Lena?”

The words rose to the back of her throat, bright and pleading, but the sudden weight of his undivided attention froze them solid. Her voice dried up entirely. The fear of sounding silly, or vain, or entirely transparent about the sheer depth of her feelings clamped around her chest like a vise.

Her fingers tightened until the knuckles turned white against her purse, and a burning, helpless crimson surged across her cheeks. She quickly dropped her gaze toward the rushing water.

Lena: “It’s… It’s a nice night out…”

Fabien gave a quiet, low laugh—soft and fond, completely unaware of the lavish sketch tumbling behind her thoughts. He looked back out over the rippling silver brook and exhaled slowly.

Fabien: “Yeah, petite fleur… It really is.”

He said gently.

Lena took a small, trembling breath, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stared down at her lap, her knuckles turning white as her fingers tangled in her purse strap. The brook’s quiet rush filled the silence, but the unspoken request burned in her chest until she couldn’t keep it in any longer.

Lena: “F-Fabien…?”

She stammered, her voice soft and unsteady. Fabien turned his head toward her.

Fabien: “Oui, Lena?”

Lena’s cheeks flushed a deep, helpless crimson. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, her lips parting as she tried to force the timid words past the lump in her throat.

Lena: “I… I was wondering… I mean, if it isn’t too much trouble, and only if you wanted to…”

She swallowed hard, her pulse hammering in her ears as she finally gathered every ounce of her courage.

Lena: “Would you… would you ever draw me? In... in a pink ballgown?”

Fabien’s breath caught slightly, his emerald eyes widening behind his white bangs as her words settled into the quiet night air.

Fabien: “In a pink ballgown…?”

He murmured, leaning in a fraction closer.

Fabien: “Lena, I would be honored.”

He smiled.

Fabien: “In fact, I’ll make it the most stunning drawing you’ve ever seen. Like a princess out of a storybook. Just for you.”

Lena cupped her burning cheeks, the warmth radiating against her palms as a dizzying flutter of butterflies erupted in her stomach at his eager, charming agreement. Her heart hammered against her ribs, completely overwhelmed by the sweet, romantic promise in his green eyes.

Overcome by the sweetness of his promise, Lena leaned gently against Fabien, resting her head against the worn leather of his shoulder. The cool night air softly rustled the drooping willow branches above them, letting filtered streams of silver moonlight dance across their lap. Softly drawing in a breath filled with the warm, familiar notes of his Gucci cologne, she reached up a slender hand and tenderly pressed her palm against his chest, right over the steady, comforting beat of his heart.

Fabien’s breath hitched slightly at the soft, trusting touch. He tilted his head down, his green eyes softening as he looked down at her under the pale, moonlit canopy. A tender, quiet smile brushed his lips, and he rested his hand gently over hers, wrapping them both in the evening’s peaceful, romantic silence.

Lena’s heart thrummed with a sudden, surging courage, quieted only by the gentle warmth of his fingers wrapped over hers. She lifted her head from his shoulder, her Byzantine eyes searching his under the soft silver light filtering through the weeping willow.

Without a word, she leaned in close, closing the small distance between them, and gently pressed her soft lips to his in a sweet, tender kiss. Fabien’s eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into the touch, his hand gently cupping the side of her cheek as silver moonlight filtered through the willow branches, wrapping them in quiet, magical warmth.

~

The soft, ambient hum of an alarm clock chiming from her nightstand gradually pulled Lena out of the deep, velvety haze of sleep. Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy and slow, as sunlight filtered through the delicate lace curtains of the guest bedroom, painting pale golden stripes across the floral duvet cover.

For a long, quiet moment, Lena lay completely still, her head resting softly against her pillow. The lingering warmth of Fabien’s hand over hers, the crisp night air fluttering through the willow leaves, and the sweet, lingering notes of his Gucci cologne felt so vivid, so remarkably real, that she half-expected to see the moonlit stream right outside her window. Her fingers tentatively reached up to touch her lips, still tingling with the memory of that gentle, tender kiss.

She sat up slowly, the sheets rustling as she pulled them back. A deep crimson blush bloomed across her cheeks as the realization hit her. The dinner at Danny Donger’s, the unicorn float with the twined cherry heart, the night drive in the Shelby Mustang Cobra, and the romantic promise under the stars—it had all been a dream.

Lena buried her warm face in her hands and let out a soft, flustered exhale. Even though her heart still hammered wildly against her ribs, a quiet, helpless smile curled at the corners of her lips beneath her palms, leaving her wondering how she would ever look at Fabien across the street without blushing.

She slowly looked down and saw she had climaxed in her panties, her release all over the bedsheets. She turned a deeper shade of red, not wanting to tell the girls about this, except maybe Juniper, since she told Lena about her crushes on Tristan and Brad.