The Second Trip for a Midnight Snack

Violette stood frozen, immobile for a long, heavy moment.

She wasn't some delicate flower who had never ordered takeout crab before. She knew the reality: the steam trapped inside the plastic container, the soggy batter, the loss of that signature crispness. It wasn't exactly ruined, but the breadcrumbs were never quite as crunchy, the roasted goose never as charred and fragrant as it was fresh out of the kitchen.

And yet, for a midnight snack that she could have easily gone without, he had driven back and forth twice.

Her past experiences had taught her that in love, you generally get back exactly what you put in. Blake Pierce had certainly done things that moved her, but back then, she viewed it as a transaction—sowing seeds in the spring to harvest in the autumn. It was simple, logical, and she had enjoyed those gestures with a clear conscience.

But now? Was this even balanced?

He had scattered a handful of seeds and returned with an entire estate. Violette felt completely adrift. After a long silence, she managed to say, her voice sounding thin and dry, "That first one would have been fine to eat, you know."

"What are you thinking about?" Roman turned his head to glance at her. "I’m not that wasteful. I ate it."

"…Oh."

That thought brought her some relief. No wonder he’d said he had already eaten.

Violette didn't move to the dining table. She stayed right where she was, perched on a high stool at the kitchen's marble island, picking at the remnants of the meal one bite at a time. Every time she leaned forward, her hair would slide over her shoulder, shielding her face. She was used to it, but Roman clearly wasn’t having it. He reached over, gathered the loose strands, and fumbled with a hair tie to twist her hair into a messy low ponytail.

"I’ve been eating this specific salt-and-pepper crab since I was a little girl," Violette remarked, breaking the quiet.

Roman stood behind her, his fingers still lingering in her hair. He gave a low hum of acknowledgement. They spoke with the casual, measured rhythm of a long-term couple.

"At first, it was just a tiny hole-in-the-wall place. The owner specialized in steamed dumplings. The crab was a rare treat, only available if they had time during the night market rush. It was basically a secret menu item."

Roman recalled, "The first time I tried it was two years ago."

"The shop was so small back then, you probably wouldn't have noticed it," she said.

Violette picked up a piece of snow-white crab meat with her chopsticks and held it out behind her. She didn’t bother turning around; she just felt the subtle weight on the other end of the chopsticks, knowing Roman understood.

This piece—the most succulent, carefully chosen morsel—was for him.

He was a refined eater; even the act of chewing was nearly silent. Once she gauged that he was finished, she continued, "Our old place wasn't in Bauhinia Bay. It was just two streets over from that shop. I could walk there after school. But then we moved, and school got busy, and work became all-consuming. The only way I could satisfy the craving was to call it in."

She bit down on the edge of her chopstick, musing, "Come to think of it, I haven't actually sat down to eat there in ages."

"We’ll go together next time," Roman promised.

Violette nodded. After a moment, she added earnestly, "But what I really meant was, other than the delivery driver and my parents, you are the only person who has ever gone out of their way to buy me that crab. And you did it twice."

Violette knew exactly which words to use to make a man feel like the center of the universe.

She conveniently omitted the countless times she’d dined out with Blake Pierce, and she ignored the revolving door of delivery drivers she’d encountered over the years. She didn't count Charles Ellis or Catherine Palmer either. She knew damn well she was lying, but she delivered the word "only" with such conviction that it sounded like an absolute truth.

Because "only" was a beautiful word. It was a sweet, intoxicating lie that could make any man beam.

She hadn't emphasized the word, but it settled in the air, spinning like a falling leaf before turning into a heavy stone that dropped deep into Roman’s chest. His heart hammered against his ribs, a rhythmic, pulsing thud.

*Has Blake Pierce really never done even this simple thing for her?* Roman wondered, a flicker of disbelief coloring his thoughts. *Then he really is...*

Roman’s shoulders relaxed, and his mood brightened instantly.

*He deserves to be out of the picture.*

Violette, oblivious to his inner monologue, figured the atmosphere was soft enough now to broach the topic of yesterday. She set down her chopsticks. "I saw the note you left on the counter this morning."

Her tone hadn't changed, but Roman went rigid. The tremor in his chest intensified. He let out a short, clipped sound of acknowledgment. He lowered his gaze, focusing on the small whorl of hair at the crown of her head.

Her hair was thick; fearing he might hurt her, he hadn't tied it too tightly. The rubber band was sliding loose, revealing that tiny swirl. He felt as if he were being pulled into his own kind of vortex.

"Why didn't you just say it to my face?" Violette turned around to face him.

The whorl disappeared from his view. Roman blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"Was it too sappy?" Violette teased gently. "Ah, I get it. You couldn't get the words out while looking at me, so you left a note."

Everything from last night, the morning apology—it all dissolved into nothingness in the face of her playful remark. He had braced himself for her judgment, her criticism, but she had brushed it aside like a speck of dust.

It was like a drop of ink falling onto a pristine, white document. The blot spread in concentric circles, soaking through the paper. The more beautiful the page, the more jarring the blemish. He had expected her to be disgusted, yet she had only looked at the stain and remarked, *'You know, if you dip the pen too deep, the ink is bound to bleed.'*

That was all it took.

Roman was stunned. "I’ve truly never said those things to anyone else."

Violette’s eyebrows rose. "Not a single soul?"

"Not one."

She smiled. "Then I suppose I’m a lucky woman."

She knew when to pull back, so she ended the conversation there and turned to clear the takeout containers. She had barely grabbed a lid when Roman’s hand reached out, efficiently stacking the insulated containers in one swift motion. Then, he deftly plucked the chopsticks from her grip.

"I’ve got it."

Her phone chimed, so she let him take the lead. She leaned against the kitchen counter, unlocking her screen while murmuring, "There was one other thing."

Blake Pierce had sent a photo.

It was his trophy shelf, with a pink tennis ball sitting in the empty, center-most spot. He hadn't left a caption. But from the familiar night view visible in the background, Violette knew exactly where he was: the 27th floor. He had moved the shelf from his place, putting the ball she had once given him back into the exact spot she had originally placed it.

*“I’ve reserved this spot. You can only take my ball down when you bring home your biggest trophy. Understand?”*

*“If I don’t win, won't I have failed you, sister?”*

*“So little ambition?”*

*“How could that be? Just wait and see.” He’d laughed. “I’ll bring that big one home and let you use it as a cup.”*

She never expected a simple photo could summon those memories with such biting clarity. The words Blake Pierce had said to her tonight echoed in her mind.

*"You should know what fair play looks like."*

Fair play? Was Blake planning to mirror Roman’s moves, step for step? Was he making his determination to "poach" her crystal clear?

Violette drifted into a trance, entirely forgetting that she had just told Roman she had something to discuss.

"What was it?"

When she didn't answer, Roman leaned in, his gaze lingering for a few seconds on her uncharacteristically serious profile. He prompted, "Zhizhi?"

Violette snapped back to reality. "Huh?"

Roman spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable. "Didn't you say there was something else you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Oh... right! My friend wants to watch the ATP tournament in Kuala Lumpur. She wants to stream it but doesn't have an access code. So I wanted to ask—"

"Consider it done," Roman said.

He looked at her, his voice low and inviting. "Anything else?"

Violette locked her phone and looked away, focusing on the knotted trash bag. "No, that’s all."

"Then it’s my turn," Roman said, straightening his posture.

Because of the difference in their height, he looked down at her with hooded eyes—a look that felt like a mixture of lethargy, exhaustion, and an intangible, looming authority. Violette felt, instinctively, that whatever he was about to say next would be of immense importance.

She stood tall, bracing herself to listen.

"I’m having the staff prep Blue Springs Estate. We’re moving in there for the holidays. Is that alright with you?"

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