The drive back followed the same pattern as before. Adrian turned the key in the ignition without looking at her. “It’s 17:30,” he said casually. “You haven’t eaten either, have you?”

  Mira tried to compose herself, looking straight ahead. “No, not yet.”

  “There’s a restaurant nearby,” Adrian said, voice still even. “It’s gothic. Decent food. Want to stop there?”

  She hesitated, her hand resting lightly on her seatbelt. But eventually, she gave a small nod. “Okay.”

  He shifted into drive, the car pulling gently into the street as the first stars began to show in the deepening sky.

  Soon enough, they stopped in front of a small, ivy-covered storefront—wooden framed windows, a simple sign above the door, and warm light glowing from inside. The smell—something deep and herbal, maybe slow-roasted—floated through the air.

  Mira paused. “You’ve been here before?”

  He held the door open for her. “Once or twice.”

  The moment she stepped inside, she felt it. Jazz drifted in the background. Shelves lined the far wall with worn books and small potted herbs—rosemary, thyme, a spill of ivy beside a stack of novels. The tables were set wide apart, everything wood and amber glass, the air carrying the warm scent of bread fresh from the oven and the dry sweetness of autumn leaves. Nothing clamored for attention; the sounds and colors seemed content to stay soft, as though the place existed at its own pace, tucked away from time.

  A waiter appeared the moment the door closed behind them, reaching politely for the bags. Adrian allowed him to take the lighter parcel from their errand but kept his own at his side, the refusal so smooth it didn’t break stride. They followed through the shaded interior until they reached a corner table by the window, where a small bouquet of white daisies stood waiting, modest and bright.

  She looked around, her cheek suddenly warmer, then her eyes shifted to Adrian. Is he… preparing this for her birthday?

  She picked up the menu, already glancing at him over the top. “So what’s good here?”

  He didn’t look up. “The steak. And the rosemary potatoes. You’ll like it.”

  Mira didn’t press. They ate in quiet, speaking only occasionally about the workshop, while soft music played in the corner.

  After a while, she reached for her water, then frowned. Her cheeks felt warm. A slow flush was creeping up the side of her neck.

  Adrian noticed immediately. “You’re turning red.”

  “I’m not,” she said automatically, touching her face.

  “You didn’t read the sauce description, did you?”

  She looked down at her dish. “...There was something about wine.”

  "It was barely anything!" she protested, though the pink in her cheeks betrayed her completely.

  Adrian leaned back, looking entirely too entertained. "Next time, remind me to check your food before you start unknowingly getting yourself drunk."

  "Ugh. This is so unfair."

  Adrian let her sulk for a moment before sighing, waving over a waiter.

  "Bring a lemon tea," he said smoothly. "And some extra citrus, if you have it."

  Mira peeked up from behind her hands. "Lemon tea?"

  "It helps," Adrian said simply. "Not immediately, but better than watching you melt into your chair like an overheated tomato."

  "I am not melting."

  His eyes flicked pointedly to the way she was slouching against the table, her head resting on one hand as if the very act of sitting upright required monumental effort.

  Mira scowled. "…Okay, maybe a little."

  Adrian shook his head, clearly holding back another smirk.

  The tea arrived moments later, steam curling softly into the air as the scent of fresh lemon and honey filled the space between them. Adrian took the cup, stirring it briefly before sliding it toward her.

  "Drink this," he said.

  Mira sat up with great effort and took a small sip. The tartness of the citrus cut through the lingering warmth in her system, the honey smoothing it over. It wasn’t an instant fix, but… it helped.

  She let out a small sigh. "Okay. Not bad."

  Adrian watched her, his expression softer now. "Better?"

  Mira nodded. "Still warm, but I think I’ll survive."

  Mira let out a small groan, setting her cup down. "I feel like this is some kind of elaborate setup just so you can mock me."

  Adrian gave a slow shrug. "Not entirely. But I won’t deny that it’s a pleasant bonus."

  She shot him a glare over her tea, cheeks still warm, though whether it was from the effects of the alcohol or sheer annoyance, she wasn’t sure. "I am perfectly fine."

  "Sure," he said lightly. "And I’m a florist."

  Mira sighed dramatically. "Well, someone was supposed to be the responsible one at this table. Maybe you should’ve stopped me."

  "Oh? You’re saying I should monitor your food now?"

  She gasped, sitting up straight. "I would throw this tea at you, but I actually need it."

  Adrian was clearly entertained. "A rare moment of restraint. Impressive."

  Mira grumbled under her breath, taking another sip. The tartness of the citrus was working its magic, slowly clearing the haze. The warmth in her skin was still there, but at least she didn’t feel like she was radiating heat anymore.

  She sighed. "Fine. You win this round."

  "I always do."

  Mira gave him a look. "One day, I’m going to be the one teasing you. Just wait."

  Adrian practically vibrated with glee as he moved into her space. "I’d like to see you try."

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Mira set down her cup, feeling the warmth finally settle into something manageable. She sighed, satisfied, only to notice that Adrian’s gaze stayed on her a fraction longer than usual.

  She caught it.

  His amber eyes moved over her face, as if studying the way the remaining flush still tinged her cheeks. The moment stretched just a second too long—enough for the air between them to feel different, heavier.

  Mira blinked.

  Adrian seemed to realize it at the same time, his expression smoothing over into something unreadable as he leaned back in his chair.

  Seriously. How could someone be affected this easily?

  A few minutes later, just as Mira finished the last sip of her tea, the waiter returned with a small, carefully plated dessert.

  It was delicate. A slice of warm chestnut tart, thin and golden, with a glossy glaze and a dusting of powdered sugar. Beside it, a tiny scoop of something pale—lavender ice cream, maybe—and a single sugared violet resting on the rim of the plate.

  Mira blinked. “We didn’t order this.”

  The waiter set it down gently. “A little tradition of the house. We prepare a dessert for guests celebrating their birthday today.”

  He placed it gently between them and left without explanation.

  Mira stole a peek at Adrian.

  He didn’t look surprised. Or even particularly focused on the tart. Then, without looking away from his cup, he said, almost offhand, “Happy birthday, Mira.”

  Her hands stilled on the table, and heat rushed to her cheeks so quickly she lost her words for a moment. The room felt smaller, the candle brighter, her thoughts scrambled. Finally, she managed, barely above a whisper, “Thank you, Adrian…I thought you’d forgotten.”

  “I’m not the type to forget a promise,” Adrian said, his gaze shifting to the window, the words even but carrying something he chose not to show.

  Mira pressed her hands together on her lap, trying to will the warmth from her face. At last she reached for the dessert, breaking the moment by tasting the cake—slowly, carefully, as if it might help her cool down. The sweetness was rich, the chestnut soft against her tongue. She set her fork down for a breath, then lowered her voice.

  “You’re not having any cake?”

  “I don’t like sweet things,” he said simply, still not looking over.

  Mira paused, fork poised again in midair.

  The meal moved at its own pace. Mira ate slowly, savoring each bite of the cake, the sweetness grounding her more than she expected. Every so often she tossed a light remark his way, but when the words fell away, she was content to sit and enjoy the food, the calm, and his company. Adrian didn’t try to fill the silence, nor did he shut it out. He remained composed, as if simply being here—with her—was enough.

  And maybe that’s what got to her the most.

  That he’d made space. For her. On this day.

  The silence held for a while. Adrian’s eyes stayed on her, waiting until she finished the bite. Then he spoke in a casual tone.

  “What’s your plan after this?”

  Mira brushed a crumb from her fingertip, smiling. “We already celebrated at noon.” She paused lightly. “Later we’re doing a small gathering — snacks, movies, nothing big.”

  He nodded, as if that was the answer he expected, then added, “I won’t be around campus next week. If you need anything—for the club—just leave a message.”

  Mira tilted her head, studying him. “Another trip?”

  “Something like that,” he said, leaving it there.

  Her smile faltered. “You always seem busy.” It slipped out softer than she intended, like the regret of realizing she wouldn’t see him for a while. "Is this why he is telling me?", she wondered.

  ?

  By the time they stepped outside, the wind had picked up slightly, brushing against Mira’s coat and loosening strands of her hair from her braid. Her cheeks were pink from the slow-blooming warmth still beneath her skin.

  She’d thought the wine in the sauce wouldn’t do anything.

  She was wrong.

  The breeze caught her just right, and for a moment, she swayed on her feet.

  Adrian caught her lightly. “Try not to look so dazed,” he said in his usual dry tone. “People might think I set you up with alcohol on purpose.”

  Mira gasped, scandal lighting her face. “Excuse me?!”

  “Wait,” she said slowly. “I thought you didn’t care about rumors?”

  Adrian paused. From where he stood, the height between them made her seem even smaller, her cheeks still flushed from that sip of wine sauce, eyes bright with the effort of holding his. Endearing in a way he would never put into words.

  "I don’t," he said smoothly. “But I do appreciate accuracy.”

  And yet—he had brought it up.

  And just like that, the way back felt warmer, closer. From a distance, they looked almost ordinary: two students walking side by side toward the parking lot. Yet there was a nearness in the space between them, a balance so natural it was easy to miss, unless you were watching closely.

  ?

  Mira set her shoes aside, crossing to her desk and sat down, eyes falling at once on the gifts waiting there: the small pot of plant, its round leaves trailing gently over the rim, and beside it, the crystal emerald hair ornament shaped like a butterfly.

  It looked almost unreal—like something out of a dream, something a fairy might wear. Light danced across the emerald crystal as she tilted it, the silver frame so fine it seemed spun rather than forged, every curve catching the glow of her desk lamp as though it might take flight.

  A sheet of paper lay open beside it, his handwriting tight and controlled, each stroke narrow and exact, the lines set down with an almost mechanical steadiness. Her cheek grew warm as her finger brushed the edge.

  She never expected Adrian to write this himself. Was it because she’d written him once before?

  Her eyes moved down the page:

  The plant is a String of Turtles. Keep it in bright, indirect light. Water lightly, allowing the soil to dry between waterings. The leaves will wrinkle if dry, soften if overwatered. It grows slowly, but in the right environment, it can last for years.

  As for the ornament—perhaps it will be useful for your Halloween party. I thought it suited the idea of a fairy spirit.

  Happy birthday.

  A.

  She read it twice, the strokes so precise she could almost hear his voice between them—practical, careful, nothing unnecessary. It sounded just like him.

  It grows slowly.

  She had asked him to slow down. She had worried about the speed of everything.

  She wondered if he was telling her that he understood. That he didn’t mind waiting.

  She crossed her arms on the desk, folding them into a makeshift pillow, and rested her head there. Her hand drifted down to touch one of the vines, feeling the cool, solid weight of the leaves. A warmth spread through her chest, a soft, hopeful comfort that settled deep within.

  For all the noise of the day, it was this moment—alone with the plant, the glimmering butterfly, and the letter in his exacting hand—that felt the most like her birthday.

  She looked at his name. A.

  She found it strange how this single letter always brought such a familiar feeling—giving her the courage to become better, to grow, even while the person behind it always stood so far away.

  Adrian lived in a world of brilliant lights and heavy expectations, a reality distinct from her own. The gap between them felt vast.

  And yet… whenever he stepped close, it felt surprisingly natural, as if they had always been this way, long ago.

  She took a soft breath, closing her eyes for a second.

  Then, following the pull of her heart, she grabbed her phone.

  Thank you for the gift.

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then added—

  Good night, Adrian.

  Adrian sat at his desk, still awake, his mind occupied with his own thoughts—until the buzz of his phone drew his attention.

  Across the dark of the hallway, through the two closed doors, he imagined he could almost hear the soft thud of her book closing. His lips curled into something barely there.

  Then, he typed back—

  Good night, Mira.

  ?

  And in the silence that followed, the night held its breath—as if it, too, was waiting for what would come next.

  Once, there was a girl who didn’t believe she could be loved without earning it. And a boy who had forgotten that he was allowed to want anything for himself.

  For every story, there is a moment before the storm—when the stars hush their flicker, and even the moon forgets to blink.

  They had stood close enough to touch something real. But not all storms arrive with thunder. Some come in silence—veiled in cruelty, draped in expectations, wearing the face of someone who pretends to care.

  And perhaps, in the chapters to come, they would learn—

  That love doesn’t always come gently.

  That even when it hurts, it returns.

  And that no matter how far she runs, someone waits for her…

  Just like he always does.

  ?

  Chestnut – A Soft Return has ended, not with a grand celebration but in a moment of reflection, a feeling that often cannot be spoken in words.

  The Scientist and the Fairy, Vol. 2: Chestnut – A Soft Return

  Vol. 3 is a whole new arc beyond the academy, with both wonder and tension, just like the name of the story ;) .