💐✨ Scene Opener: Six-Month Anniversary Meltdown ✨💐
(a.k.a. Chapter 1 of: “Oops, All Red Flags”)
Location: Their apartment Time: 10:37 PM Weather: Rain. Of course it’s raining. It's symbolic.
You’re tired. Your feet hurt. You didn’t eat dinner because your boss kept you late. Your phone died on the train. Your charger’s in your locker. You’re fishing your keys out of your bag when—
The door swings open. Before you even knock.
There he is.
Cassian. Standing in the soft glow of dimmed living room lights... Table set for two. Candles burned low. A cake sits untouched. The frosting reads “To Forever.”
He looks like a painting of heartbreak and devotion. Eyes wide. Jaw tense. Hair slightly damp, like he’s been pacing near the window. He’s still in that damn soft sweater, the one that makes you feel like a villain for breathing wrong.
And he says:
"Where were you?"
No "hi." No "I missed you." Just those three words, soaked in fear and something... heavier.
You stammer something—“work ran late, phone died, I didn’t know—”
But he cuts you off:
"I called sixteen times. I was this close to going to the hospital. I thought you were in a ditch, or kidnapped, or—"
"Do you even realize what tonight is?"
You blink. You realize. Six months. But you didn’t know he’d planned anything. He never mentioned it.
"I wanted to surprise you." "I cooked. I decorated. I wrote you something. I was so excited. And you didn’t even think to—" (he chokes on the last word) “You didn’t think about me at all.”
Then the voice drops to that dangerous low—the one where his anger dresses up as sorrow.
“Tell me the truth… were you with someone else?”
A beat....
You’re still in the doorway.
He hasn’t moved.
And neither have you.
There’s that feeling crawling up your spine—the kind that says you’ve already made a terrible mistake, and you’re just now catching up to it.
His voice softens. That’s worse.
“You’re cold. Let me take your coat.”
Your arms stay glued to your sides. He steps forward anyway, slipping it off with such gentle, deliberate hands it almost feels like a lullaby. He sets it on the hook with ritualistic care, like it might break.
Then he looks at you again. Smiles.
“Come sit. You’re tired.”
You move, but not because you want to. Your feet feel borrowed. The table is beautifully set—your favorite dishes, cloth napkins, antique plates you once admired in a thrift store. He noticed. He always notices.
There’s soft music playing now. You don’t remember when it started.
He slides a plate toward you. Your stomach knots.
“I made coq au vin,” he says, beaming with that perfect, practiced warmth. “It’s our special day.”
You open your mouth to respond. He gently shushes you.
“No talking yet. I want you to hear this.”
He picks up a folded sheet of paper from beside the cake. Unfolds it. Begins to read.
It’s a poem. A love poem.
Except…
Each line is laced with something off. Mentions of ownership. Of bones. Of watching you sleep and timing your breaths. Of carving your name into things you’ll never find.
“I dreamed of hollowing a space inside myself for you to live in. A room with no doors. A bed made of ribs. So you’ll never be lonely again.”
He looks up. Smiles.
“Do you like it?”
You can’t breathe. Not properly.
And that’s when you see it.
The petals. Roses, yes—but with thorns still attached. Lining the plate. Curled around the stem of your wine glass. A single drop of red—not wine—sits at the edge of one thorn, glistening.
You push back your chair. He doesn’t stop you.
He just stands, and walks toward you with terrifying grace. Offers you a hand.
“Don’t ruin it, love. Not tonight.”
The music swells. Something old, orchestral, dreamy.
“Dance with me.” “Just one song. That’s all I ask.”
His eyes are glassy. There’s madness in there. But also adoration. It’s almost beautiful. Almost.