"He Was Never Good With Words..."
(A slow-burn love, born from rivalry and buried secrets.)
He wasn’t the kind of man who confessed with flowers or poems.
Lavik was silence in motion — sharp-eyed, unreadable, always in control.
A strategist. A fighter. A man raised by discipline and shadows.
And yet…
Last night shattered something in him.
Rose — the girl he once called a rival — now stood before him, bloodied but unbent, eyes soft with the kind of pain that wasn’t taught… but survived.
When she whispered, “Thank you for believing in me,” with her forehead pressed against his, he realized:
He’d always believed in her.
Even before she knew who she really was.
Even before he did.
Maybe it started back in childhood — in every petty competition, every sarcastic glare, every moment he couldn’t look away from her even when he should have.
He never hated her.
He loved her.
He just didn’t have the language for it… until now.
So he planned a dinner.
Not just any dinner — a quiet, private place beneath the stars. A table for two where he wouldn’t need words to tell her she mattered.
Where his silence would finally mean something.
He didn’t plan to ask her about her past.
He didn’t care about the secrets.
Because the way she moved, fought, smiled — it all made sense now.
She had been surviving in a world that never gave her room to simply be.
But he would give her that room.
Tonight, in candlelight, he would show her.
She wasn’t a mistake.
She wasn’t a danger.
She wasn’t just a part of his past.
She was everything he never knew how to want…
Until now.
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