Dress to Impress (Even if You're Saving the World), Mother Knows Best (Even When She's Gone), and Melinda's Back, Baby (and Already Judging My Love Life).
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Author Note: Maggie in her mother's dress? Swoon. Tod being all chivalrous and mysterious? Double swoon. But let's not forget Melinda, who's awake and already shipping them harder than the Titanic. Looks like while the world might be ending, a new chapter is just beginning... and it might involve some awkward flirting.
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"It looks absolutely stunning on you, Maggie," Tod called out, a genuine, warm smile playing on his lips as he watched her twirl slowly. The hem of the dark purple dress fanned out with a fluid grace, catching the sunlight that streamed in from the tall windows. The fabric shimmered like liquid night, each movement a soft whisper of elegance and poise.
Maggie paused mid-turn, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Stunning? Isn't 'beautiful' the more appropriate adjective you're supposed to employ in such a situation?" she teased, her tone light, but her eyes betrayed the vulnerability she tried to mask—an anxious need for reassurance that the dress truly suited her.
She turned fully, striking a deliberately dramatic pose, one hand at her waist, the other brushing over the bodice as she admired the way the gown clung to her figure. It fit as though it had been made for her. The deep, luxurious hue of purple contrasted strikingly against her skin, while the intricate embroidery of delicate flowers curled over the bodice and spilled gracefully down the skirt. The design was timeless, old-fashioned perhaps, but full of understated nobility. It felt like something borrowed from a bygone era, conjuring images of candlelit halls and whispers behind fans.
"It looks like something far more profound than mere beauty, Maggie," Tod murmured, his voice dropping into a softer register. He held out a hand to her, his fingers steady, the gesture both chivalrous and sincere. "You look like you've stepped out of a forgotten dream."
Maggie took his hand and carefully descended the last steps of the grand staircase. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor, the dress swaying gently around her ankles. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel it—elegance, poise, and the illusion of being someone untouchable.
"It… it belonged to my mother," Tod said suddenly, almost under his breath, like the words had slipped out without planning. His smile faltered, just slightly, and his bright green eyes clouded with the soft sheen of memory.
Maggie stopped and looked at him, her hand still in his. His face, always so effortlessly cheerful, had taken on a faraway expression—a quiet kind of ache that came from remembering someone loved and lost. The air between them shifted subtly.
"Thank you, Tod," she said softly, her voice touched with honest gratitude. "For trusting me with something so important."
He shrugged, a small, uneven motion that didn't quite match the weight of the moment. "It's far better gracing your presence than gathering dust in a forgotten wardrobe," he replied with a wistful edge. "She would've liked you, I think. She believed clothes carried stories—and she'd love knowing her story was still being worn."
His phone buzzed in his pocket, a sharp vibration against the quiet ambiance, but he ignored it. Maggie noticed the faint shift in his expression, the way his gaze flickered briefly to the phone and then quickly away.
"Aren't you going to answer that?" she asked, her brow knitting slightly. "It sounds kind of urgent."
Tod waved a hand dismissively. "It's nothing important. Not right now."
His focus returned to her fully, and the warmth in his eyes returned like the sun parting clouds. He took her gently by the elbow and guided her toward a nearby room—an elegant dining hall awash in golden afternoon light. A long, mahogany table gleamed in the center, adorned with crystal dishes and gleaming silver cutlery. The aroma of expertly prepared food lingered in the air—rich, inviting, almost too perfect to be real.
He pulled out a chair for her, his movements smooth, practiced, like someone who had grown up around formality but never let it define him. She sat carefully, smoothing the dress beneath her, her nerves quietly buzzing beneath the surface.
Uniformed servers moved around them like whispers, explaining each course in muted tones. Tod mentioned casually that the main dish was a rare cut from Weru Island—some gourmet delicacy—but Maggie's attention was already elsewhere. She barely registered the names of the dishes or the way the silver gleamed under the light.
Her eyes were on Tod.
There was something in the way he avoided that phone call, the distant sadness that had crept into his voice when he mentioned his mother, the gentleness with which he treated her—as if he knew something she didn't.
"What is it?" he asked suddenly, catching her gaze. His voice was playful, but his smile faltered at the edges with the weight of whatever was going unsaid. "You've been staring like I've grown a second head."
Maggie blinked, startled out of her thoughts. A flush crept up her cheeks and she ducked her head, mortified. "Sorry. I just… zoned out for a second," she mumbled, focusing on the intricate pattern etched into her plate.
Tod leaned across the table, his hand warm as it gently closed over hers. "Is everything alright, Maggie?" he asked, voice soft and sincere.
She hesitated, then nodded slowly, though her voice betrayed her. "Yeah… I'm fine. I'm just… still a little worried about Melinda." Her words came out in a rush, the name alone tightening the knot of anxiety in her chest.
Tod's expression softened immediately, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. "I understand. And you have every right to be. But how about this: eat something first—just a little—and after that, I'll personally take you to see how she's doing. You have my word."
Maggie looked at him, her chest easing just a little at the reassurance in his tone. There was
something incredibly grounding about him—like an anchor in a storm.
She nodded again, more firmly this time. "Okay," she said quietly.
She picked up her fork and tried to focus on the meal in front of her, tasting the flavors without truly registering them. But somewhere beneath the surface of it all, she was beginning to feel a cautious sort of calm—like maybe, just maybe, she wasn't facing everything alone.
The meal was nothing short of a revelation—a carefully curated symphony of flavors that seemed designed not just to nourish but to awaken something within her. Each bite carried with it an artistry so refined that even Maggie, lost in a tangle of thoughts, couldn't help but pause to appreciate its brilliance.
"This is… wonderful," Maggie murmured softly, the sincerity in her voice evident as she allowed herself a rare moment of calm. Tod guided her down another hallway—this one just as grandly decorated as the last. Their fingers were laced together now, and the gentle pressure of his hand in hers sent a ripple of warmth cascading up her arm and through her chest, soothing her like a gentle lullaby.
"Not to brag," Tod began with a boyish grin, "but we do happen to have the best chef in the entire world. Or at least, that's what my very dramatic uncle claims."
Maggie tilted her head with a bemused smile. "Well, it's a rather large world, I'm afraid," she said, her tone teasing but light, rolling her eyes just enough to make her point without sounding dismissive.
"Ah, but I've had the distinct pleasure of experiencing the culinary wonders of most of it," Tod responded with effortless charm, the casual tone of someone for whom world travel was a matter of routine, not luxury.
Her curiosity perked at that. "Really? You travel that much?" she asked, her gaze narrowing with genuine interest. She found herself constantly caught off guard by the way Tod dropped bits of mystery like breadcrumbs, as if daring her to follow and uncover the rest of the story.
"Yes, quite a bit. It's part of the… work, and various other things," he replied, his voice trailing off as if the details were too complicated—or perhaps too dangerous—to explain in such a serene moment.
Maggie gave him a narrowed glance, catching the intentional vagueness. "And what exactly are these 'other things'?" she asked, pressing gently, her voice light but inquisitive, wanting to peel back another layer of this man who had somehow become an anchor in her chaotic day.
"Oh, you know… work-related stuff," he replied with a wink and a glint of amusement in his eyes. "But we're not here to talk about the dull details of my professional life. Today is about you, Maggie."
She lifted an eyebrow at him, still intrigued. "Me?"
"Yes, you," Tod said, chuckling. "Believe it or not, despite the intimacy of this lunch and the whole whirlwind of today, I still don't even know your last name."
Maggie couldn't help but smile, the tension in her chest easing a little. Their banter, light as it was, offered a strange comfort she hadn't expected. She looked around them and, for the first time, fully noticed where they were heading. The space opened out into a sprawling garden that looked like something out of a dream.
Manicured paths wound through beds of exotic flowers, their petals shimmering faintly under the soft light. Roses in hues she'd never seen before bloomed in abundance—amber, periwinkle, midnight blue. The air was fragrant, filled with the subtle perfume of blossoms and fresh earth.
She turned to him again, the corners of her mouth quirking upward in a playful smirk. "Are you absolutely sure you're not some kind of prince or something?"
Tod laughed, truly and freely this time, the sound echoing lightly through the garden. He reached out and plucked a single crimson rose—its petals deep and velvety—and handed it to her with surprising gentleness.
Maggie accepted the flower, lifting it to her face and inhaling its sweet, earthy scent. "It smells absolutely lovely," she said, her smile now genuine and unburdened.
Without a word, Tod continued leading her past the vibrant garden toward another part of the mansion. But the shift was immediate. The air grew cooler, the scent of flowers giving way to a sterile clarity. The hallways here were sleek and silent, the walls covered in minimalist white paneling. The energy around them had changed—quieter, more focused. Clinical.
They stopped at a large, heavy door crafted from polished, dark wood she couldn't identify. It opened without touch or sound, sliding inward on invisible hinges. The room they stepped into was softly lit, calm, and intimate, despite the faint hum of magical energy in the air.
And there, lying on a broad, regal-looking bed surrounded by medical equipment more advanced than anything Maggie had ever seen, was Melinda.
Maggie's breath hitched in her throat. A translucent drip line ran from her friend's arm to a glowing bag filled with what looked like liquid starlight—its gentle pulsations casting ethereal shadows across the room.
"Magic infusion," Maggie whispered, barely able to speak past the sudden knot in her throat. The anxiety she'd been holding onto like a second skin melted away in a warm rush of relief.
Melinda was awake. Her brow was furrowed in its usual disapproval, and her lips were turned down ever so slightly, but it was her. That expression, that familiar scowl—it was Melinda.
"Ugh… too many people," Melinda mumbled groggily, her eyelids fluttering as she scanned the faces of the medics and servants before finally locking eyes with Maggie.
Maggie moved without thinking, crossing the room in a few hurried steps and falling to her knees beside the bed. Her arms wrapped around her best friend in a trembling embrace. "I know, Mel. I'm so, so sorry," she said, her voice cracking as tears welled in her eyes. "I thought I was going to lose you."
For a long moment, she simply held her friend, grounding herself in Melinda's presence. The warmth of her body, the rise and fall of her chest—it was all real, all here. The nightmare had not taken her.
Melinda let out a weak chuckle, lifting one hand to pat Maggie's head with slow affection. "It's alright, Margaret," she murmured, using her full name in that familiar, exasperated tone. "As you can see… I'm not, in fact, dead."
The line—so perfectly timed, so undeniably Melinda—broke the dam in Maggie's chest. A wet laugh burst from her lips as she pulled back just enough to look at her friend, eyes streaming, smile trembling.
From the other side of the room, Tod stood quietly, observing. His usual composure was intact, but his green eyes were soft, shadowed by something unspoken. It was as if he too had held his breath and was only now letting it go.
Melinda's gaze slid over to him, studying him for a long beat before lifting a single brow. The old glint—the spark of mischief and spirit—returned.
"Well, well, well," she said, voice raspy but strong, "who's the fried handsome chicken?"
Maggie's laugh echoed through the room, clear and bright and full of life. It was the same absurd nickname they'd used since high school—reserved for good-looking men and their shared mockery of fairytale romance tropes. And hearing it now, after everything, felt like a balm on a fresh wound.
The fear was still there, lurking beneath the surface. But for now, it was eclipsed by something far more powerful—gratitude. For Melinda's life. For this unexpected sanctuary. For the ridiculous, beautiful comfort of friendship that refused to die, no matter how close to the edge they came.
And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Maggie allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—everything would be okay.
Later that evening, Tod sat in silence, nestled into a deep, velvet-lined armchair positioned near the head of the large, ornate bed. The glow from a delicate chandelier overhead cast a soft golden hue over the room, illuminating the faint shimmer of the silk sheets. Across from him, the two girls lay peacefully entwined—Maggie curled protectively around Melinda, as though her body alone could shield her friend from any lingering danger. Their steady, even breaths filled the otherwise quiet space, the gentle rhythm oddly soothing in the aftermath of the day's chaos.
Despite the seemingly tranquil scene before him, Tod could not relax. His body remained still, but his mind refused to follow suit. Thoughts churned like an endless tide behind his calm exterior—the image of Melinda barely clinging to life, the way Maggie had trembled when she thought her friend might not make it, the unexpected but undeniable bond forming between them all. Even now, hours later, he could still feel the echo of the panic in his chest, as if it had been stitched into his ribs.
He sighed, the sound quiet and unforced, more from reflex than intention. The weight of the day bore down on his shoulders like a cloak made of stone, pressing him deeper into the plush seat. A few times, sheer exhaustion had tempted him into a shallow doze, his head dropping slightly before jerking upright again at the faintest sound—the soft creak of an old floorboard, the rustle of sheets, even the whisper of his own breath. Each sound pulled him back to full awareness, as though his instincts refused to let him fully rest. Something wasn't right. That nagging sense again—a subtle warning humming just beneath his skin.
The door opened with a quiet creak, subtle but distinct enough to draw his eyes immediately. In one smooth, practiced motion, Tod rose to his feet, every step controlled, nearly soundless. His eyes flicked to the doorway where a tall, older man stood—a butler, clearly. The man was probably in his late sixties, with sharp features softened only by age and silver hair that had been meticulously combed back. His posture was impeccable, his presence serene but commanding, as if he'd been trained in the art of invisibility and duty.
"Sir, you have a call," the butler said quietly, his tone respectful and unobtrusive. He extended a sleek, black phone towards Tod with gloved hands, offering it without comment or question.
Tod nodded once and took the phone, the movement economical. Without a word, he stepped past the threshold of the room and moved swiftly down the hall. His footsteps were soundless on the polished floor, and the moment he passed through the arched glass doors into the moonlit garden beyond, he let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
The cool air outside was a stark contrast to the warmth within, and for a brief second, it helped ground him. He brought the phone to his ear and answered, his voice steady, practiced, carefully void of the unrest twisting in his chest.
"Hello?"
"Tobby, where the hell have you been? I've been calling your damn phone all day!" barked a voice from the other end, sharp, commanding, and unmistakably irritated. There was no preamble—just the blunt weight of expectation dropping into the conversation like a hammer.
"I'm home, Liam," Tod replied evenly, his gaze instinctively flicking back toward the lit hallway. Even from this distance, he could make out the silhouette of the butler still stationed beside the door, watchful, dutiful. The girls were safe. That was all that mattered.
"We've got a job. The team's already prepping a portal for your extraction now," Liam continued, his tone brooking no refusal, no delay. "This isn't the time to—"
Tod cut him off, a rare thing. His voice was low, but unyielding. "A portal? No, Liam. Not tonight."
There was a pause on the other end.
"I'll be there first light," he added, more softly now but with no less certainty. "I'm not leaving them. Not after what happened today."
He didn't explain. He didn't need to. The silence from Liam's end wasn't confusion—it was understanding, tinged with frustration. But Tod didn't care. Not this time.
"Morning might be too damn late, Tobby," the voice warned, the sharpness of its tone curling with urgency. There was a distinct undertone of menace now—impatience layered with something heavier, more desperate. It was the kind of voice that came not only from pressure but from the knowledge that consequences were looming on the edge of delay. Liam wasn't merely issuing a warning; he was pleading in his own, gruff way.
Tod closed his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening. His reply came without hesitation, his voice low and unflinching. "Then you'll just have to find someone else to handle it."
There was steel in his tone now—an edge that hadn't been there before. This wasn't hesitation or a temporary retreat. It was resolve. Real, unshakable. The kind of decision a man makes when he's no longer willing to be dragged back into the very life he's trying to outrun.
"I've…" Tod paused, the image of Maggie's anxious face flashing before him—her trembling hands, her breath catching as she tried to be strong. The way Melinda had clung to her even in sleep. That single memory cemented his next words. "I've got my hands full here."
A beat of silence followed. Then, a shift in the voice on the other end—still sharp, but softer around the edges now. Almost wounded.
"Tobby… are you actually walking away from this?" Liam asked, the disbelief heavy in his voice. "After everything we've been through?"
The question lingered, hovering like smoke in the air between them. It wasn't just a tactical concern anymore—it was personal. Years of shared missions, close calls, laughter and bloodshed… all of it condensed into one aching sentence.
"Yes, Liam," Tod said clearly. His voice didn't waver. "I'm done. I want out. Take what you've got and walk away too. Don't call me again."
And with that, he ended the call.
No second thoughts. No dramatic pause. Just a clean, sharp break.
The silence that followed was profound.
For a long moment, Tod stood alone in the moonlit garden, the cool air brushing against his face as he stared down at the phone in his hand. It felt heavier now. Not because of its weight, but because of what it represented—a past soaked in danger, in sacrifice, in shadows he no longer wanted to walk in.
Finally, with a steady breath, he turned and began walking back. His footsteps echoed faintly as he made his way to the hallway where Edgar still stood patiently, a quiet sentinel.
He handed the phone to the butler without ceremony.
"I assume this means I should cancel your scheduled flight for tonight, sir?" Edgar asked, his tone neutral, his professionalism unshaken by what he'd undoubtedly overheard.
Tod nodded once. "Cancel it forever, Edgar. And destroy that phone."
There was no hesitation in his voice now. No lingering doubt. Just finality.
For a brief moment, Edgar's ever-composed expression shifted. The older man raised a single silver brow, a rare flicker of concern shining through the otherwise unreadable calm in his eyes.
"The client is… a particularly dangerous individual, sir," he said cautiously. "Are you quite certain about this course of action?"
Tod allowed himself a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing I can't handle, Edgar."
It wasn't arrogance. Not entirely. It was the steady confidence of a man who had faced death a dozen different ways and had finally chosen to live.
Without waiting for a reply, Tod turned and made his way back toward the girls' room.
At the door, he paused.
His hand hovered just above the cool brass handle. His reflection stared back at him faintly in the polished surface—tired eyes, faint lines from sleepless nights, a man older than his years and weighed down by more than just memory.
A thousand thoughts collided in his mind. Faces from the past. Mistakes. Regrets. Choices made in moments of panic, or pride, or cold efficiency. He had done terrible things—some necessary, some not. But underneath the layers of grit and guilt, there was a man who still believed in redemption.
He wanted to change. He needed to.
Not just for himself—but for Maggie. For Melinda. For the people who still looked at him like he could be something more than a weapon, more than a shadow in someone else's war.
If he had to fight now, it would be for something real. For peace. For love. For the kind of life he hadn't allowed himself to hope for until now.
With renewed purpose, Tod opened the door gently and stepped inside.
The room was still bathed in soft light, warm and still. His eyes immediately found the girls. They hadn't moved. Maggie's hand still rested on Melinda's, their breaths still synchronized in quiet peace. Seeing them there, untouched by the danger that waited outside this room, his chest tightened.
He was home.
And this time, he wasn't going to run.
She was, in the relatively brief time he had known her, a genuinely sweet girl. That much had become abundantly clear to Tod. There was something disarmingly pure about Maggie—an unguarded kindness that seemed untouched by the jagged edges of the world. It wasn't just that she was good; it was the way her goodness felt effortless, instinctive, as if she had never been taught cruelty or indifference.
He'd seen kindness before, of course. But usually, it came laced with expectation or burdened by obligation. Maggie's didn't. Hers radiated from somewhere deep within her, natural and honest. It glowed in the way she listened, in the quiet concern behind her eyes, and in how she never looked at him like a man made of sharp corners. She made it easy to forget, even for a moment, how much blood stained his past.
Tod hadn't lived in a world where people like her existed. His was a reality painted in shades of gray and ruled by necessity, where the lines between right and wrong blurred more often than not. But Maggie—she stood as a contrast to that chaos. A bright, stubborn contrast. And in that contrast, he found something unexpected. Not just hope, but a longing. A fragile, tender longing to be more than what he had been.
He didn't yet know every part of her—didn't understand all the thoughts that swam behind those thoughtful eyes or the weight she quietly carried. Their connection was still new, delicate like the first green shoot after a long winter. But there was already something in him that responded to her presence with a kind of fierce protectiveness and the aching desire to change.
Not out of guilt. Not just to make peace with the man he used to be. But for her. For the warmth she brought into his shadowed life. For the way she reminded him that honesty could still exist, that kindness hadn't yet gone extinct, and that maybe—just maybe—redemption was possible.
He stood still for a moment at the threshold of the room, inhaling deeply. The night air was cool and grounding, filling his lungs with a calm sense of direction he hadn't felt in years. There were no orders in his ear, no target in his sights—just the sound of his breath and the soft echo of his heartbeat reminding him he was still here, still human.
With quiet resolve, he pushed the door open slowly.
But before he could take a full step inside, he collided—softly but unexpectedly—with Maggie.
She had been walking out, perhaps in search of him, perhaps just to clear her mind. Their bodies met in the narrow doorway, and she stumbled back with a startled gasp, her balance thrown by the sudden impact. Her eyes went wide in surprise, and for a fraction of a second, panic flickered in her expression as her heel slipped against the wooden floor.
Instinct took over before thought could catch up.
Tod's arms moved automatically, driven by the muscle memory of years spent reacting to danger in milliseconds. He reached out and caught her firmly, pulling her toward him just before she could fall. Her body collided with his chest, and his grip tightened protectively around her waist.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice low and steady, though his heart was hammering in his chest like a fist against a locked door.
The contact jolted him—more than just physically.
It was the feel of her so close—fragile yet grounded, warm, alive. A surge of something unfamiliar and intense swept through him. It wasn't lust, not exactly, though her nearness certainly left its mark. It was… intimacy. A raw, undeniable connection that felt more personal than anything he'd experienced in a long time.
"You certainly do," Maggie replied after a beat, her voice teasing, her surprise quickly giving way to a mischievous smile.
There was a glint in her eyes now, a sparkle that hinted at something playful and perhaps a little curious. Her hand rested lightly against his chest, and she leaned into him just enough to blur the line between accidental closeness and intentional invitation.
"But if you don't mind terribly," she added, her lips curving slightly, "you could perhaps assist me in regaining my upright posture now."
Her tone was light, playful even, but there was something else beneath the surface. A fluttering tension. A shared awareness.
The moment lingered—charged, silent, yet full of things unsaid.
And though he eventually let her go, gently helping her find her footing again, part of him didn't want to step away.
Not yet.
Tod's laughter filled the room, genuine and warm, a sound that seemed to spill from him effortlessly, as if her presence alone had unlocked something in him that he hadn't realized he'd been missing. There was a brightness to it—an unexpected joy that bubbled up in response to her, a joy that surprised him, even more so given the weight of the life he was trying to leave behind.
His hands moved instinctively to help her up, lifting her gently onto her feet. But they lingered for a moment longer than was necessary, his fingertips brushing the soft fabric of her arms in a quiet, almost imperceptible gesture. It wasn't just about steadying her; it was a wordless acknowledgment of something more. An unspoken connection. Something uncharted, but real, between them.
"There you go. All safe and sound," Tod said softly, his voice a little rougher than usual, carrying the weight of emotions he hadn't expected to feel.
"Thank you," Maggie replied, her voice low, and she met his gaze with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. There was something about the way she looked at him—almost as if she could see right through him, into the quiet places he usually kept hidden. In the stillness of the moment, something passed between them, a silent conversation that needed no words to be understood.
"Don't even mention it," Tod replied, his voice deepening just a little, his usual easy confidence tinged with something else now. Something softer, but undeniably present. His own heartbeat quickened, betraying him for a moment. He didn't want to overthink it, didn't want to analyze what was happening between them. But he couldn't help but feel it. The pull. The desire to protect, to be there for her.
"I woke up, and… you weren't here," Maggie said, her voice quiet, almost hesitant. A flush crept up her cheeks, and she brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her fingers moving with a nervousness that hadn't been there before. "I thought… well, I thought I'd come and, you know, save you."
Her words were playful, teasing, but Tod couldn't help but sense the underlying concern in her voice. It wasn't just a joke. She genuinely cared. That thought settled in his chest like a warm weight, and he suddenly found himself wanting to protect that softness in her, wanting to shield her from whatever danger might come his way.
"Ah, just some lingering… client troubles," Tod said, trying to downplay the gravity of the earlier phone call. He didn't want her to worry. He didn't want to drag her into the shadowed world he had been trying so desperately to leave behind. "But it's all resolved now. Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about."
"Oh," Maggie said, her voice almost a whisper, as if his reassurance wasn't enough to erase the doubt clouding her thoughts. Her gaze dropped to the hem of her purple dress, and her fingers absently toyed with the fabric, betraying the unease still lingering in her. She was trying so hard to be brave, to hide her concern, but it was there, in the way she held herself.
"Maggie?" Tod asked gently, sensing the question hanging on her lips, the one she was too afraid to ask. The silence stretched between them, thick with everything that remained unspoken.
"Tod?" she echoed softly, her voice barely a whisper. It was tentative, uncertain—a fragile thread reaching out to him in the quiet of the room.
They both spoke at the same time, their words stumbling over one another in the awkwardness of the moment. The silence that followed was comfortable in its awkwardness, and the tension between them broke when they both let out a nervous laugh, the sound light and shared, a small but significant bond forming between them in that quiet, unexpected moment.
They exchanged warm smiles, and in the softness of their expressions, they both recognized something undeniable growing between them—a connection that neither of them had been prepared for, but both secretly welcomed.
"You go first," Tod said, his voice warm, his smile inviting as he gestured toward the hallway with a sweeping motion of his hand, eager to change the subject, eager to move forward.
"No, you go ahead," Maggie insisted, a playful gleam in her eyes, her expression lighting up with an infectious amusement that made Tod's chest tighten in a way he wasn't ready to admit. There was a pull to her, an energy he couldn't quite explain, and yet it was so real it was almost tangible.
"Jeez, would you two just get a room already?" Melinda's voice broke through the moment with dramatic flair, laced with playful sarcasm. She was now fully awake, sitting up on the bed with a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She was watching them with the kind of knowing amusement that only a close friend could possess.
Tod and Maggie both burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the room and immediately dissolving the last remnants of awkwardness that had lingered between them. It was as if Melinda's comment had served as the perfect catalyst to break the tension and remind them that sometimes, it was okay to just laugh.
Tod extended his hand toward Maggie, palm open, a silent invitation that felt right in the moment. Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his, and the warmth of his touch sent a quiet thrill through her. His fingers closed around hers, strong and reassuring, and for a moment, Maggie felt safe—really safe—in a way that was both surprising and comforting.
He led her toward the door, glancing back at Melinda with a soft, affectionate grin that carried more warmth than he had intended.
"How about we get out of this mausoleum for a while? Just you and me?" Tod asked, his voice lower now, softer—like he was offering her something personal, something he didn't often give.
"That would be absolutely lovely, Tod," Maggie replied, her smile genuine, her voice full of something that could have been anticipation, maybe even excitement. The idea of spending time alone with him, away from the lingering tension of the room, filled her with a quiet eagerness that surprised her. There was something undeniably magnetic about him, and she found herself drawn to him more than she had anticipated.
As they stepped into the quiet hallway, the peaceful stillness of the night seemed to wrap around them, cocooning them in a private moment.
And Maggie couldn't help but feel that whatever had started between them—whatever this was—was only just beginning.
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Note:The Flirtatious Banter advises all Readers that while lingering hand-holding and meaningful glances are encouraged, it's best to clarify your romantic intentions before Melinda starts writing fanfiction about you. Just a friendly heads-up.