Delilah blinked at the small velvet bag in her hand, its weight surprisingly delicate, as though it might dissolve if she gripped it too tightly. Adrian's words still lingered in the air between them—"Promise me you will not open this until you get home"—not demanding, but undeniably firm. She looked up at him, caught off guard by the gesture.
Her first instinct was confusion. A gift? From Adrian? The same Adrian who spent most days at work buried behind reports, eyes scanning data like he was trying to solve a riddle the universe hadn't yet given him permission to crack? The same man who spoke with calculated clarity, who rarely—very rarely—leaned into sentiment? She hadn't expected this. And that made it all the more… intriguing.
She glanced at the bag again, then back at him. "Thank you," she said simply, careful to keep her voice neutral, though curiosity tugged at the edges of her words. "I'll wait, like you asked." There was a flicker in his expression—relief, maybe, or something softer—and then he turned to go. Not abrupt, not awkward. Just… Adrian. She watched him walk away, the quiet confidence in his stride making the moment feel like it had been rehearsed, as if it always had to end this way.
"Goodnight, Adrian," she called after him.
As he disappeared into the night, she stood there for a beat longer than necessary, the velvet bag warm now from her palm. Then, without ceremony, she slipped it into her coat pocket and turned toward home.
The house was unusually still when she let herself in. No television muttering in the background, no clatter of bottles in the kitchen. No slurred accusations or forgotten promises echoing down the hallway. Her mother wasn't home tonight—off somewhere, drinking someone else's patience dry—and for that, Delilah was grateful. She flicked on a small lamp by the window, letting the gentle glow spread across the modest space. Then she sat on the edge of her bed, toed off her shoes, and pulled the velvet bag from her pocket with deliberate care. For a moment, she just stared at it.
She remembered the night market. The warm air laced with spice and laughter, strings of lights tangled above their heads, the stalls spilling color and noise and memory. She remembered the display—simple, almost unremarkable in the chaos around it—and how she'd paused in front of it, fingertips grazing the the pieces as if to trace the shapes inside. She hadn't lingered long. Just a passing moment. But he'd noticed. She loosened the drawstring and let the contents spill gently into her hand.
The necklace caught the light first. A slender gold chain, impossibly fine, holding a teardrop-shaped opal. It shimmered with an otherworldly softness—lavender, blue, pale green all swirling beneath the surface like a secret trying to stay hidden. It was beautiful. Not flashy. Not loud. But right. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Then the ring. A delicate band, twisting like ivy—graceful and wild. At its center, a pink tourmaline stone, oval-cut and gentle in its light. Romantic, restrained, and completely unlike anything she'd ever received. She turned it over in her palm, studying the craftsmanship, the intention. This wasn't a gift picked up in passing. This was chosen.
"Damn you, Adrian," she whispered, half-smiling, voice laced with something between wonder and disbelief. No one had ever bought her anything like this. Not without strings. Not without an agenda. But this? This felt different. It wasn't about grandeur or impressing her—it was about noticing. Remembering. Caring, in a quiet, deliberate way. She thought about him then. His stiff nods. The way he always seemed to hesitate before saying something personal, as if weighing the risk of honesty. The way his eyes softened, though, when she surprised him with kindness, or humor, or just her presence.
Adrian was definitely odd. Awkward, even, outside the realm of structured tasks and spreadsheets. But there was a sweetness to it. A kind of unpolished sincerity that made him… endearing. And real. She wondered how this friendship—if that's what it was—would play out. They hovered around each other like two people unsure of the choreography, and yet, sometimes, it all fell into rhythm. Quiet understanding. Unspoken trust. There were still sharp edges, still questions neither of them knew how to ask. But there was also calm. A strange sense of being okay, if only for a moment.
She placed the ring on her nightstand, then unclasped the necklace and held it up to the light once more before setting it gently beside the ring. Her fingers lingered on the opal, thumb brushing over the stone like she was trying to memorize the texture of thoughtfulness.
Delilah changed into something soft and old—her favorite oversized sleep shirt—and climbed into bed. The silence was comforting, not empty. No slamming doors, no voices raised in regret. Just her, the quiet hum of the city outside, and the faint shimmer of a gift she hadn't expected from a man she was beginning to understand, slowly, piece by careful piece.She curled onto her side, fingers tucked under her chin, a small smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Odd man," she murmured to no one. And then, more quietly: "But sweet." Sleep came gently, wrapped in gratitude and a strange, tentative hope.