I hesitate before getting in, still not used to being handled like a ritual.
There’s a fine line between chivalry and control.
He watches my pause. “You think too much,” he says.
It sounds like reassurance, but it lands like instruction.
I slide into the seat.
Soren shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side.
When he starts the engine, he glances at me. “Phone,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He holds out his hand.
I stare at him. “What for?”
He exhales through his nose like I’m making something difficult that shouldn’t be. “You don’t need it,” he says.
My stomach tightens. I should say no. I should. But something in his tone makes my body react the way it always does when a man sounds certain enough.
I pause. Just for a moment.
Then I hand it over.
Soren tosses it into the center console and closes it with a soft click.
Then he smiles at me, satisfied. “Good,” he says. “Now we can have fun.”
He drives with one hand on the wheel, relaxed, like he owns the streets.
He doesn’t ask where I want to go first. He already knows.
We stop at a café that looks like it belongs in an influencer’s dream—white brick walls, whimsical plants hanging from the ceiling, chalkboard menus written in elegant cursive.
“This is cute,” I smile, trying to relax. Trying to lean into a day he’s clearly planned out carefully for me.
The barista lights up the moment Soren walks in. “Soren!”
Not sir. Not welcome.
Soren.
I bristle slightly at the familiarity. She’s pretty, and looks genuinely happy to see him.
He nods at her like he’s granting her the privilege of his presence.
I glance at the menu on the wall, but Soren doesn’t even look.
He doesn’t need to.
He just leans against the counter, casual and confident. “She’ll take an oat milk latte,” he says.
I blink. “I don’t?—”
Soren turns his head slightly, eyebrows raised. A look. Not angry. More… corrective.