The steam from the cauldron filled the room, curling lazily through the air. Tom‘s sharp features softened for a moment as the scent struck him—sandalwood, crisp apples, and a faint trace of lavender. His gaze flicked across the room, lingering for just a second too long on the girl seated at the next table.

“It’s yours,” he said smoothly, turning to you with his trademark smirk. His voice carried an air of certainty, like the matter was already decided.

You blinked, caught off guard by his declaration. “That’s… not my scent.”

Tom’s expression faltered, his confidence slipping just enough for you to notice. “Of course, it is,” he said quickly, the denial sharp and defensive. His dark eyes bore into yours as if daring you to question him further. “Who else would it be?”

Your stomach twisted, and you followed his gaze, noticing the way it darted briefly—too briefly—toward someone else in the room.

“Tom,” you said carefully, your voice tinged with suspicion. “That’s not me. You know that.”

His jaw tightened, and he straightened in his seat, feigning indifference. “Don’t overthink it,” he muttered, his tone clipped now. “It’s you. End of story.”

But the tension in his voice betrayed him, and as the silence stretched, it became clear: he wasn’t just lying to you. He was lying to himself.