Valentine's Day - Imre

Author's note: yeah it's early. Nia's will be on Thursday and Lorcan on Saturday.

You watch him expertly pour the crystalline champagne.

Your hands are clasped in your lap. Imre had his staff pepper the table with roses, glasses and plates of steaming food. It made your mouth water.

You didn’t know what to expect on your first Valentine’s Day together. Imre is traditional in some ways. He told you he wanted a dinner with you. The box of chocolates with a red silk bow that he handed to you when you first arrived, lies in your backpack.

You don’t know how these things are supposed to go but you’re grateful that Imre didn’t decide to take you out to a fancy public restaurant.

“I hope it’s to your liking,” he says.

You take the glass and swirl it around. You sniff it first and he smiles. The first sip makes you slightly wrinkle your nose at the unfamiliarity of its taste. Fruity.

“I hope you don’t expect me to start using fancy words about it ‘cause I don’t know shit about champagne,” you confess.

Imre grins and lifts his own glass. “To us.”

You do the same, clinking yours against his. “To us.”

You watch him take a small sip and then take up his utensils.

What you have in front of you is a nice steak. Since you’ve been dating Imre, you’ve eaten foods you haven’t since early childhood.

“I wanted this to be a surprise and I also wanted to find things you would like to eat,” he explains as he cuts into his steak.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” you reply.

Imre pauses. “I’m not trying to buy you.”

You roll your ears and cut into your steak. You stab it with your fork and stick it in your mouth. You could moan and you think you do by the way Imre looks at you. You could blush, you have ideas for what awaits you tonight.

“I don’t think you’re trying to buy me, Imre,” you respond.

He nods. “Good. I know the optics are not the best.”

You chew and then ask, “what optics? You mean that I’m at the poverty line and you’re way above it?”

“I just never want you to feel as if I’m flaunting,” he says.

You grin, “but you kind of are.”

He has the audacity to look confused. “Why would you say that? I always cover the cost on our dates because I know you can’t afford. I’m not a monster.”

You snort. “That’s not what I’m taking about. I mean that you like to impressive me.”

Imre chews on his steak for a good minute. You take a moment to look at his clothing. He’s wearing a burgundy suit and his cologne constantly wafts into your nose. It smells like money.

“It’s hard to impress someone who doesn’t seem to be impressed by anything,” he says, a slight annoyed tone to his words.

That amuses you. “Are you saying that I’m a challenge for you?”

Imre smirks, “you always were.”

You quirk an eyebrow, lifting your glass. “And do you like that?”

He tilts his head. “Depends on the day.”

The air feels thick with the weight of the conversation, and as you savor another bite of the steak, the tension begins to settle into something more comfortable.

There's something about his expression. Half amusement, half frustration. It sparks a curiosity inside you. Imre never seems to show his full hand.

He’s always a little guarded, a little too cryptic.

"So," you say, leaning forward just a tad, eyes locked on his. "If I’m a challenge... how do you plan to keep impressing me?"

Your words almost playful, but there's an edge of truth underneath. You don’t know why you don’t want him to see that.

Imre doesn't respond immediately, and for a moment, the only sound is the soft clink of your silverware against your plates.

Then, he sets his glass down with an intentional slowness and meets your gaze, his lips curling into that smirk again.

"Keep you guessing," he says, a challenge in his own voice now. "Keep you wanting more."

You take in the subtle change in his demeanour, the way his words carry that little hint of something deeper, something almost dangerously confident. But that’s not unusual with him. His pride always hides something eerie.

You wonder how long he's been planning this. "And how long are you planning to keep me on my toes?" you ask.

You know the answer is probably as elusive as he is.

"For as long as you permit," he says, his tone unwavering.

“Are you playing me?” you inquire, a smile follows that’s as sharp as his.

"Playing you?" he repeats, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "I think you’re giving me too much credit. I don’t always play games, not everything has a secret motive."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "So you’re telling me this is all true?" you ask, watching closely for any sign of hesitation.

For a brief moment, he doesn't say anything. He just watches you, focused on the way your lips chew. Then he leans in slightly, his voice quieter but still sure.

"I’m not playing. But I do like the chase," he admits almost reluctantly. Like this is a secret he’s not used to sharing, nor really wanting to. Is it too much to hope that you disarm him?

Can he be the knight in shining armour he pretends to be with everyone else? How he pretended to be when you first fell in love?

“And if you catch me completely?”

He has a mischievous smile. “Can you be caught?”

You pretend to ponder his question, taking a slow and deliberate sip of your champagne.

“Never.”

“Well then, mi amor, I could spend the rest of my existence trying,” he replies softly.

You can’t help yourself and you lean over the table – not caring that things fall to the floor with loud signs of breakage – and press your lips to his.

Before he can return your kiss you lean back a bit and repeat, “to us.”

“To us.”

And then he reels you back in, the food and champagne supplemented for a much more tastier meal.