She stares at the dried pseudo-lily on her bedside, heart skipping as hope flutters freely in her chest. When she first laid eyes upon the pretty pink petals, her heart nearly burst from the locks she had so carefully strewn. To keep herself from wanting something she knew was unattainable. Thought was unattainable.
"Are you ready yet, Sango?"
She swallows down her nerves, wiping her palms on her jeans. "I'll be out in just a moment!" She touches the lily with fondness, inhaling a deep, calming breath.
Miroku pokes his head in, tapping an imaginary watch on his wrist. "Need I remind you that we are on a time limit?"
She shoves his head out of the way, sneaking a glance back to the flower adorning her nightstand. The one she hid away that first day when they made their surprise appearance. The one she desperately doesn't want him to see, lest he jester her for acting like a teenager in love. Or find out she really is in love with him.
"Need I remind you to knock before entering a ladies room, hmm? I know you're used to just waltzing into any room you feel like, but some of us prefer our privacy."
"And I prefer if we don't get there late," Miroku says, hand on the small of her back to guide her to the door.
His fingers burn against the thin fabric of her shirt. Her heart flutters in her chest, a phoenix reborn in the fire of his touch. Thoughts of the last time they cooked swirled through her mind. His touch had lingered on her back then as well. The wildfire that overtook her body, burning her from the inside, face flushed. Until she combusted, taking out everything in her wake.
"Maybe we should just go another day," she says. She barely survived the last time he gave her a cooking lesson. His touches. The way his eyes lingered on her chapped lips. How would she manage knowing she was fully in love with him now?
"Absolutely not. We've already confirmed, and if we back out now then we lose the class. This was your Christmas gift, remember?" He glances down at her, eyebrow raised. "Why do you want to back out? Scared?"
Yes, she's very much afraid of acting like a lovestruck fool in front of him.
"You're not going to make a fool of yourself in front of others."
She snaps her gaze up this, blinking. He meant cooking. An out. She grasps it and runs. "I've just never really done this sort of thing before in front of others."
"Everyone will be learning," he says gently. "Including myself. Nothing to be afraid of. So, let's go. We will take the mustang. Lord knows we need speed on our side if we are going to make it on time."
He guides her out of the apartment. Sango thinks, not for the first time tonight, just what she has gotten herself into.
Her anxiety only climbs when all eyes fall upon the two of them when they enter the kitchen. They are, much to her horror, the last to arrive. So, it is all the more apparent when they make their entrance. Whispers fill the air. Stifling her as the room shrinks with each word. About her. Being with him.
Miroku just shoots them an award-winning smile, dipping his head in acknowledgement and greeting before pulling her to the only spot left.
She trips over her own feet at the sudden movement, cursing under her breath. Eyes sweep the room. A few girls swoon at the sight of Miroku, earning reproachful looks from their partners. A few others whisper to their neighbors discreetly, their looks traversing between the pair with distaste.
"Relax," Miroku says in a hushed voice meant only for her. "They'll stop in a few once the shock wears off."
"I don't know how you are possibly able to relax anywhere you go," Sango mutters, ducking from the curious stares of their classmates. A second sweep around the room. "Miroku."
"Yes?"
"Why…," she swallows thickly as her heart leaps into her throat, "why is everyone here a couple?"
"Welcome," a cheerful voice announces from the front of the room, "to our Valentine's Day special cooking class!"
The blood drains from her face at those two words.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
"You motherfuck—"
"Now, dearest Sango," Miroku chides with a devilish grin as he fights down a laugh at the bewildered look upon her face. "Language."
If Sango were in her right mind, she would march out of there immediately. But that stupid little voice in her head roots her in her spot. Because he knew. How could he not know that it was Valentine's Day? He chose this date on purpose. Her cursed heart flutters, that phoenix beating its wings in preparation of soaring high towards the blinding sun.
She swallows, hands planted firmly on the counter in front of her. The coolness of the granite a much needed reprieve from the warmth tingling throughout her body. She musters a glare, but from the way his eyes dance with mirth she knows it's lacking in bite.
"In my defense," Miroku says with a shrug, "it didn't specify that it was a couple's class when I signed us up."
"It's Valentine's Day."
"Which you also forgot," he says, elbowing her side with gentle teasing. "So, forgive me, and don't let it ruin our fun night."
Sango somehow resists the urge to scream in frustration. "And if I was still with Kuranosuke?" A few people turn at the name. She ignores them, staring up at her table partner.
Miroku's grin widens. "Then he would have to share because I claimed this date months ago."
"I thought you said you didn't realize the date."
"I picked it because the dessert looked delicious," he turns forward. "I'm not one for…Hallmark holidays. Now, shush, we're missing the instructions for how to make this strawberry roll cake."
Her mouth parts as she prepares a retort, but nothing comes out. She just stands there, gaping like a fish at this enigma of a man next to her. The one who is dead set on not looking at her.
His lips purse in concentration as he takes in the teacher's words.
She wonders what those lips would feel like on hers. On her bare skin. Would it turn her into a puddle of nothing but sighs? Would…would he try to kiss her tonight? Is that why he picked this date? Did he, perhaps, secretly feel the same? Why else would he choose this?
Hot. It is far too hot in the room. She tugs at the collar of her shirt, the thin fabric feeling more like a weighted blanket.
"It's the ovens."
He startles her with the sound of his voice. "What?"
"The heat," he says simply. "It's the ovens."
"The ovens," she repeats, tucking her hair behind her ears. She sucks in a breath, acutely aware of the way he's staring at her. "Right."
He raises an eyebrow, glancing down at the ingredients in front of them.
"What?"
"What do you mean what? It's time to get started. You know what to do?"
A sheepish laugh fills the space, soon overcome by the sounds of mixers and small talk. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"
"Unbelievable, that's what you are," he says like he's scolding her, but a full fledged grin tugs at those kissable lips. "Why am I not surprised?"
"You're the expert at," she gestures vaguely to the table in front of them, "all of this."
"Which is precisely why I got you this gift, so you can learn and make me something besides…," his eyes twinkle with amusement, "burnt eggs."
The breath whooshes out of her lungs as her chest constricts at the mention of the eggs she had made for breakfast so long ago. She can't help the way her eyes drift to his lips for a brief moment before she tears herself away, snatching an apron to hastily put on. Anything to preoccupy her hands and thoughts. She struggles with the strings as she scoffs, "You deserve those burnt eggs and more."
He grabs the apron strings from her, pulling them taut and twirling them around until they are fastened in a bow. "You wound me, Sango."
Her hands still on the counter, frozen under his unbearable touch. She clears her throat, "What now?"
Miroku shakes his head. "You really weren't paying attention, were you?" His face inches towards hers. "Too excited to be on a date with yours truly?"
Her face flames as she swallows. She grabs the other apron and shoves it at his pompous face. "You're a horrible human being."
"Only to you, dearest." He starts gathering ingredients. "Can I trust you to crack some eggs? Never got to taste if there were eggshells in your last dish."
Sango sticks her tongue out at him. "Yes, asshole, you can trust me to crack eggs."
"Then, get cracking."
She rolls her eyes, snatching an egg out of the carton. "You're so punny."
"Ah, quick learner," he laughs as he slips on his apron. "If only your cooking skills could keep up with your tongue."
"Don't make me throw this at you."
"So violent, and with so many people around. Tsk, tsk, Sango."
She glares at him before her line of vision shifts to those around them. Most of them are at hard work on their cakes, but a few curiously peer over at the pair every now and then. Two friends must be on double dates because the two girls keep whispering and giggling to each other as they stare at Miroku and her.
Sango frowns at them, slamming the egg with a little more force than necessary against the lip of the mixer. It isn't the first time sympathy pangs soft vibrations through her soul at how hard it must be for him. To have spent his entire life in the limelight. To have people watch you with preconceived thoughts, never knowing the true you. Only what the tabloids write. Only seeing the mask so carefully contrived to hide the pain buried deep in the depths of his mind.
A shudder slivers down her skin thinking about what they had written about her over the past month. A cheating whore. Heartbreaker. Someone who wants to sleep her way to fame and money. All because she allowed Kuranosuke to kiss her at midnight. All because she got drunk and threw herself at Miroku, like one of his fangirls. Miroku punching Kuranosuke for her honor.
All because she ran away. Like always.
A presence presses up behind her, peering over her shoulder to stare down at the lone egg sitting in the mixer. "Didn't realize it took five minutes to crack a single egg," Miroku says, "but at least there are no shells."
Sango remembers herself at the sound of his voice. At the feeling of his chest against her back. Tendrils of heat curl at the base of her stomach, traveling up to her cheeks. She moves to take a step away, but his hands brace against the counter, effectively trapping her.
"You okay?"
His breath tickles her ear, rendering her speechless. She just nods, body taut like a rope that's about to snap. Her hands splay against the counter, fingers white with pressure as she leans as far forward as she can to give herself some space. A shaky breath leaves her lungs as she wills her body to stop responding at his close proximity.
"Peachy," she manages, "just peachy."
He lingers for a moment, their bodies flush, before he abruptly pushes back. "Can you put this in the freezer for me then? It's gotta cool while we make the cake batter, and since you're slacking on the egg cracking, I can help take over."
Somehow, she manages to not gulp for air like she's just run a marathon. Honestly, it was becoming embarrassing the effect he had on her. And the way his eyes shone with flirtatious mischief, he totally knew.
A tray of pink and red piped hearts lay next to the mixer. "What's this for?"
"The cake," he says, leaning against the counter and angling his body toward hers.
"Hilarious."
"No really. It's for the cake. Once it cools, we pour the cake batter over it and bake it. Then, we roll it and add the filling."
"And the S and M initials?"
The corner of his lip tips up. "Gotta stamp our signature on it, right?"
She sighs, resisting the urge to blush and roll her eyes at the same time. "So poetic, you novelist."
A fleeting smile before he turns his attention to the mixer. She grabs the tray, staring down at the red initials that taunt her so lovingly with their cursive loops. She opens the freezer, putting them on an empty shelf. When she turns, her heart clutches her chest as a feeble apology murmurs from another's mouth for scaring her.
"I'm surprised you're with him."
"Excuse me?" Sango meets curious browns staring at her unabashedly.
A tilt of the head. "I thought you were with that politician? The childhood friend?" She touches a finger to her chin. "What was his name again? Oh, right, Kuranosuke."
Sango's eyes narrow for a moment, flickering to Miroku. To safety and comfort. "We broke up."
The woman follows her line of vision. "I see." Her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth. "So, moved on from politicians to novelists, did we?"
Sango shakes her head. "It's not like that at all. We're friends."
Another click of her tongue, eyes roaming hers with judgment. "I see," is all she says again before she walks off back to her partner.
Sango's blood boils with just those few passing words. She squares her shoulders, marching back toward Miroku. The anger swells with each passing step and passing whisper. The weight of the words crush her, shoulders collapsing as she leans against the counter.
"Why did you put me up to this?"
"Sango?"
A warm hand on her shoulder, squeezing, just as her lungs squeeze with panic. "I need air."
She pushes off the counter, ready to bolt when a hand roots her to the spot. "I'll go with you."
The comforting hand guides her out of the stuffy kitchen and into the frosty February air. She gulps it down, savoring the coolness against her torrid skin. His hand leaves hers, instead rubbing her back in a comforting manner.
"How do you do it?"
He's silent, staring at her with stifled blues. She begins to wonder if she should clarify her question when he finally answers. "I distract myself. Then, they write more awful things and the whispers continue, so I continue to distract myself. It's a vicious cycle, really."
"So, you're saying I need a vice."
"I'm saying," he says, hand trailing down her arm to once again claim her hand, "that you should ignore them like I do."
She shakes her head, squeezing his hand. "This was a bad idea."
Miroku winces, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand. He shoots her an apologetic smile. "Normally when people see me, they gush for the first few minutes and it fades. You've seen it when we've been out before. They never pay any attention to the…girls I have with me. I suppose I underestimated just how much time had passed since your name was last in the paper. I thought it would have faded from their memory by now, but I guess it didn't. I apologize, Sango. You don't deserve their cruel words when you are just trying to live your life."
She watches the way his thumb traces lightly over her skin. "You don't either," she says softly.
"Of course I do. I'm a horrible person, remember?"
Their shoulders bump together as she stares up at him, eyes narrowing. "Stop."
"Just repeating your words."
"The difference is," she says, releasing his hand to jab a finger at his chest, "that I was joking and you believe it."
"Such a heavy conversation for what was supposed to be a fun night." He shoves his hands into his pockets, staring up at the inky sky. "I…I'm working on it. Being a better person, I mean."
"I never thought you needed to change."
Blues as deep as that night sky peer down at her, emotions as endless as the stars. "Then," he says slowly, "you would be the only one."
"I don't want to go back in there," Sango admits, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry I ruined our night. Seems to be a theme of mine."
"Guess we are stealing the aprons then. That makes me an accessory to your crime. Truly, Sango, you are a horrible influence on me."
She knows what he's doing. Deflecting. Using humor to curb his disappointment. She pauses, staring at him. Really looking at him. He's going on and on about all the ways she's wrought her influence on him. That mask slowly slips back up over his features as his mouth widens in a grin. Something clicks into place, and she exclaims, "Oh!"
He stops mid-sentence, blinking at her.
"You were trying to distract me in there. Keep me from thinking too hard about what everyone was saying."
He smiles with a shrug. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Can't a guy just have fun with his friend?"
She links arms with him, drawing him close to starve the cold. "I suppose we can allow the fun to continue. Just not in there."
"Oh? What does the lady have in mind?"
"A private lesson, of course, from yours truly."
He barks a laugh. "Meaning I cook for you and you get to gorge yourself."
"Now you're talking."
Miroku hums, "That would be a normal Tuesday night, though. I'm thinking…pizza? And some bottles of wine."
"Trying to get me drunk, are you?" she teases lightly as they walk away from their misery and toward the car. "Is that how you agree to get all those girls to come home with you?"
"I think you mean that's how Kuranosuke gets his women."
"Touche," she says, flushing as she remembers that night. "Maybe we should make that one bottle to share. Your roomie is a lightweight."
"Oh I remember," he says, eyes crinkling at the memory. "You threw yourself on me. Then Kuranosuke. Good to know you're a…what's the word I'm looking for?"
"A whore?"
"Language, Sango," he chides, but his cheeks puff out like he's trying to contain his laughter. "I was thinking more…like clingy? Touchy-feely? No boundaries?"
"I get it, I get it!" she says, bumping their linked arms together. "So, what kind of pizza are we thinking?"
He scoffs. "Is that even a question? Pineapple, of course. Oh, I have a serious question to ask you."
Her arm jolts within his. "Yes?"
"Sango, will you share half of my heart with me?"
She stumbles over her feet, gaping up at him. "What?"
He grins down at her. "My heart shaped pizza, that is."
She shoves away from him, rolling her eyes to hide the blush creeping into her cheeks. "You have to have a heart to share one, idiot."
Miroku visibly staggers as he clutches his chest. "Cruel, wicked, Sango."
"Yep, that's me." She sticks her tongue out at him before sauntering forward. "Come on, Monk. Let's go get some pizza and drink ourselves silly."
"What kind of wine do you think goes well with pineapple pizza?" He jogs to catch up with her, draping his arm around his shoulder.
"The expensive kind, of course."
He laughs. "You've got good taste, Sango."
She glances at him, wishing she could drink in the sight of him all night. "Yeah," she murmurs softly, "I suppose I do."