The message lit up my screen, a stark contrast to the grey, impersonal glow of my computer monitor. It was from Darcy.
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"Do I have the honor of knowing what my highly esteemed mistress wants to have for dinner tonight?"
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A laugh burst out of me, unexpected and loud in the quiet office. My colleague, Leo, glanced over from his cubicle with a raised eyebrow. I mouthed “sorry” and turned back to my phone, a warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with the building’s inefficient heating.
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"Sounds so obsequious," I typed back, my fingers flying over the screen. The formality of his words was a little game we played, a ridiculous, charming pantomime that felt like a secret language amidst the mundane demands of our Hong Kong lives.
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His reply was almost immediate. "How about hot pot? I feel from the chill of winter, it's a good time for something to heat us up."
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I grinned. "Strange suggestion from someone who can't use chopsticks." I’d never forgotten our first hot pot experience, where Darcy, for all his eloquence and confidence, had fumbled comically with the utensils, eventually resorting to a fork for the slippery fish balls while maintaining an air of dignified tragedy.
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His next message came in a flurry, a textbook of unsolicited, yet oddly endearing, advice. "For a fine lady like you approaching her period, it would be a good idea to take more foods full of iron, like fine meats (cough like myself) and seafood. Foods full of omega 3 and soya would also reduce symptoms of pain."
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On cue, as if his text had psychic control over my biology, my stomach gurgled loudly. He was right, of course. The familiar, dull ache was beginning to settle in my lower back, and the thought of a rich, simmering broth and plates of thinly sliced beef was suddenly the most compelling idea in the world.
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But he wasn’t finished. The tone of his messages shifted, becoming less playful, more earnest. "And then after a rich dinner, let me hold your hand on top of the rooftop of the malls, and let's view the harbour together. That is what I always imagined we would do, even in our eighties."
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The warmth I’d felt curdled into a sudden, panicky tightness in my chest. The rooftop. The harbour view. Holding hands. It was too much. It was a scene from a movie, a perfect, romantic tableau that felt like a demand. My own life felt too small, too cluttered with small anxieties and failures to fit into such a pristine picture. The pressure of that imagined future—a future that stretched all the way to our eighties—felt like a weight.
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My response was impulsive, a defensive reaction to the sheer scale of his vision. "Oh no, maybe that's too much, I don't think I can take so much in a day."
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The three dancing dots on my screen stopped. They vanished. A full minute passed. The silence from his end was deafening. I had done it again. I had taken something beautiful and offered by a generous heart and had clumsily swatted it away. I pictured his face, the gentle earnestness in his eyes dissolving into confusion and hurt.
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Finally, a new message appeared. It was just two words. "Yes. I supposed that's what a prudent lady would say."
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The formality was back, but the playfulness was gone. It was cold, distant. It was the voice of someone retreating behind a wall of good manners to hide their disappointment. My panic intensified. I couldn’t bear the thought of his quiet, polite withdrawal.
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My next messages were sent in a frantic, insecure rush. "Are you mad with me? Do you hate me already? I am always wasting your time?"
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I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. The office around me had faded into a meaningless blur. This was why I struggled. This was the terrifying vulnerability that came with someone actually seeing you, and caring, and planning a future that included you. It was so much easier to talk about theoretical dating with Hermione, or to offer comfort to a broken soul like Bensimon. That was safe. This, with Darcy, was real, and therefore terrifying.
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His reply came not in a flurry of texts, but in a single, long message. I could almost hear his calm, steady voice in the words.
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"Bauhinia. I would never imagine to be mad with you, and hate is the furthest word away from the truth. I cannot bear to be away from you for even a second. Wasting my time? You are the only thing that makes my time feel worthwhile."
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The tightness in my chest loosened, replaced by a wave of such profound relief it left me feeling weak. He continued, explaining his desire for the rooftop, and in doing so, he offered me a key to understanding his heart.
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"I want to bring you to the rooftop not to overwhelm you, and certainly not to perform a scene from a film. I want to bring you there because it is a quiet place. Up there, above the noise of the traffic and the crowds, the city doesn't feel like a machine we are both trying to survive inside. It becomes beautiful. The lights on the water, the outline of the mountains… it becomes the postcard we were promised. And I suppose… I suppose I have a foolish, romantic need to attach that view to you. To create a memory where the most beautiful sight I know is forever linked to the feeling I get when I am with you. It is a selfish act, really. I am trying to make you a part of my city's magic so that I can never look at it again without thinking of you."
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Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the text on the screen. This wasn't obsequiousness or performance. This was the real Darcy, the man who hid his profound capacity for feeling behind a screen of formality and humour. He wasn’t asking for a grand romantic gesture; he was asking for a moment of shared peace. He was offering me a piece of his world, the part he found beautiful, and asking me to stand in it with him.
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He was right. The hot pot would warm me from the winter chill. The iron-rich meats would soothe my aching body. But this—this understanding, this patient, unwavering regard—was what would truly heat me up, from the inside out. It was a different kind of warmth, one that fought a deeper cold, a chill of loneliness I had accepted as a permanent condition.
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I thought of my father’s disapproval of greasy chicken, of Hermione’s modern, strategic dating advice, of Bensimon’s chaotic scream on the mountain. They were all voices telling me how to be, how to love, how to survive. Darcy’s voice was different. It wasn’t telling me anything. It was asking me. It was inviting me.
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I looked out of my office window. The afternoon was fading, the sky beginning to tinge with the promise of the spectacular neon sunset to come. Down there was the chaotic, demanding, beautiful city. And up there, on a quiet rooftop, was a different perspective waiting to be shared.
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My fingers, which had been frozen with anxiety, now moved with a new certainty. I typed my reply, my heart feeling too large for my chest.
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"A prudent lady would say a rooftop is too cold in winter. But it seems I am not always prudent. Let's have hot pot. And then, if you still want to… show me your view."
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I added a final line, a small return of our game, a signal that I was stepping back into our shared space. "And I promise not to laugh at your chopstick skills. Too much."
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The three dots appeared, danced for a moment, and then his response arrived.
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"The honor and the pleasure are all mine, my esteemed mistress. I will be waiting."
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I put my phone down. The grey glow of the monitor no longer seemed oppressive. It was just a screen. The real world was outside, waiting, full of simmering broths and city lights and the quiet, steadfast promise of a hand to hold on a cold rooftop. For the first time that day, I felt not a sense of dread, but a thrilling, terrifying, and beautiful sense of anticipation.
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and then Add to home screen.