Zephyr's mornings were his sanctuary—a time for solitude and routine, free from distractions. As he wiped sweat from his brow after an intense workout, he stepped onto the balcony, craving the crisp morning air and the calming aroma of coffee in hand. The steam curled upward as he sipped, his thoughts drifting aimlessly. But then, his eyes caught sight of something unexpected.
There she was.
Roseanne stood directly in front of his house, her figure bold and unmistakable, holding a large banner above her head. Bright, unapologetic letters scrawled across it read: "You Are Mine." She spotted him immediately, her face lighting up as she waved the banner enthusiastically.
The scene unfolded in slow motion for Zephyr, his grip on the coffee mug faltering. The liquid sloshed over the rim, spilling onto his hand. A startled cough erupted as he choked on his coffee, slapping his forehead in disbelief at the absurdity of it all.
Still coughing, he stormed downstairs and swung the gate open, his eyes narrowing at her. "What are you doing here? And what's this banner?" he demanded, his tone sharp and frustrated. His words spilled out in rapid succession, but before he could finish, Roseanne held a packet up to his face.
"What the heck is this?" Zephyr snapped, startled by the gesture.
Roseanne grinned, unfazed by his reaction. "Breakfast," she said cheerfully. "Your breakfast. I made it. Go ahead, eat."
Zephyr's frustration simmered beneath the surface as he glared at her. "Did I tell you to bring it? What are you, my delivery man now?"
Roseanne tilted her head playfully, her expression unwavering. "If you want me to be, then I can do it," she replied, her tone light but her words daring him to react.
Zephyr felt the urge to pull his hair out as he glanced around, realizing that neighbors were peeking curiously at the commotion. With a frustrated groan, he grabbed Roseanne by the wrist and pulled her further inside the gate, away from prying eyes.
Turning back to her, he clenched his fists, his patience hanging by a thread. "You—" he began, his voice rising, but the words caught in his throat. He stared at her, recalling with exasperation that nothing—absolutely nothing—worked on her. Screaming, lecturing, ignoring her—she brushed it all off as if it were nothing.
Defeated, he sighed deeply and gestured toward the table on the porch. "Just… sit," he muttered, shaking his head.
Roseanne obeyed with glee, settling into the chair as if she owned it. Zephyr reluctantly joined her, dragging himself to the table like a man walking to his doom. The breakfast she prepared was laid out neatly, almost annoyingly perfect. As he ate in silence, Roseanne took it upon herself to fill the void.
"Don't we look like a married couple right now?" she mused aloud, her tone teasing.
Zephyr froze mid-bite, his hand gripping his fork tightly. He glanced at her, his expression a mix of disbelief and resignation, before shaking his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, refusing to engage further.
The meal continued, punctuated by her relentless commentary—each remark pushing Zephyr closer to the edge of his patience. As soon as he finished eating, he stood abruptly, eager to end the ordeal. "I have to go to the office," he said flatly. "Go home."
Roseanne pouted but complied, taking her time as she walked back down the path, casting glances at him over her shoulder. Zephyr watched her go, sighing in relief as the door finally closed behind her. But that relief was short-lived.
The ritual continued.
Day after day, as the sun rose, Roseanne arrived at his doorstep with breakfast in hand. Each morning brought a new banner, each message more absurd than the last—"My Heart Belongs to You," "Perfect Match," "Breakfast is Love." She greeted him with the same enthusiasm, ignoring his frustration as if it didn't exist. Neighbors whispered, shaking their heads at the eccentricity of it all, but Roseanne didn't care.
Zephyr, however, felt the weight of it. Her persistence was exhausting, her unwavering cheer maddening. And yet, no matter how much he told himself to stop caring, he couldn't deny the strange rhythm they had fallen into.
Every morning, she was there. And every morning, he let her in. Like an unwritten deal of sorts.