“I’m not late, am I?” Ethan said as Inka opened the door.
Half his face was hidden behind a bouquet of roses. He did this deliberately to avoid looking like a fool head over heels in love. After all, Ethan’s fair skin—a result of his mixed Asian and Caucasian heritage—was prone to sunburn and irritation, and it flushed red easily when he was embarrassed or angry. Such is the plight of being born fair-skinned.
“Yellow roses?” Inka asked as she accepted the flowers.
She stepped back, allowing Ethan to enter her unit. The atmosphere inside felt entirely different from his place. It was clear this space belonged to a woman—it was cozy and impeccably neat. Ethan’s unit, on the other hand, felt cold and impersonal, resembling a freshly built hospital. Clean and tidy, but utterly lifeless.
“Do you know what yellow roses mean in the language of flowers? I bet you’ve never been given yellow roses before,” Ethan said with a playful smirk as Inka sniffed the bouquet.
“What do they mean?”
“Friendship. Let’s start our relationship as friends.”
Inka laughed, then walked toward the kitchen. Ethan followed, his eyes widening in awe at the variety of dishes spread out on the table. She hadn’t been joking about preparing a full salmon-themed meal for him. Thankfully, Ethan wasn’t a picky eater—he could eat anything as long as it was edible. Growing up with the struggles of losing his father had left a lasting scar on his life, pushing him to fight harder to become the man he was now. There was a time when even bland food was a blessing as long as it filled his stomach.
“Did you make all of this yourself?” Ethan asked, taking a seat. He surveyed the dishes with a look of admiration.
“Hopefully, you’ll like my cooking. Sorry, I’m not a chef, so don’t expect the taste to be anything amazing.”
Inka busied herself arranging a few stems of the yellow roses into a vase. Ethan watched her intently. Outside of work, Inka seemed like any other woman, yet there was something about her—a warmth Ethan couldn’t ignore whenever he looked at her.
“I’m not picky about food, really. I can eat anything as long as it’s not poisonous. By the way, you can just call me Ethan,” he said.
Inka’s gaze shifted from the bouquet to Ethan, blinking a few times in surprise. “Sorry?”
“I’m serious. We both grew up abroad, right? It’s no big deal if you call me ‘Ethan’ without the formalities,” Ethan explained.
Maybe this was too sudden for Inka, but Ethan felt the need to be bold for the sake of their relationship. Since she’d invited him here, it was a sign she was opening up, and he didn’t want to hold back anymore.
“I feel old being called ‘Mr. Ethan,’ Ka. We’re not at work, and you’re not directly under me in the office. It’s okay—just call me by my name and feel comfortable about it.”
She smiled sweetly and nodded hesitantly, signaling her agreement. Ethan gestured to the chair across from him, and Inka placed the vase in the middle of the table. This simple dinner suddenly felt more special with the small centerpiece amidst the spread of dishes.
“Try calling me by my name now. Just Ethan. Go on, Ka,” he urged.
Inka lowered her gaze briefly, taking a deep breath before looking back at him. Oh, come on—they were only four years apart. Besides, Ethan wasn’t the kind of man who demanded admiration or liked being dominant in a relationship. He always prioritized his partner’s comfort for their mutual happiness.
“Ethan,” Inka said shyly.
“I didn’t hear you,” Ethan teased.
The long-haired woman rolled her eyes in mild irritation. “Ethan.”
“Good girl.”
A wide grin spread across Ethan’s face. He much preferred being called by his name without any formalities. Having grown up abroad and only recently moving to Indonesia a year or two ago, he wasn’t accustomed to the country’s rigid cultural etiquette. Though, of course, in a professional setting, he appreciated being addressed as ‘Mr. Ethan’ or similar titles.
***
They talked about many things. Ethan felt they could truly connect, and for other aspects, he was willing to work on them as they went along. As a gesture of gratitude, Ethan offered to help Inka with the dishes.
Initially, she refused, but Ethan insisted, and eventually, they ended up washing dishes together. Well, it was more like Ethan handled the dirty plates while Inka stood to his right, drying the clean ones.
“I used to wash dishes at a restaurant during college,” Ethan said, reminiscing. He wasn’t sharing this story to win Inka over with a sob story; it just came to mind while tackling the pile of dirty dishes.
Ethan didn’t immediately start washing them; he first soaked the plates in soapy warm water. Earlier, Inka had given him a puzzled look, but he just smiled. That’s why he felt the need to explain his actions.
“I don’t believe you’ve ever had it rough, Sir,” Inka said skeptically.
“Inka,” Ethan interjected, feigning offense at the formality.
“Okay, sorry. Ethan, I don’t believe you ever struggled enough to work part-time at a restaurant. I thought you were born with a silver spoon.”
Of course, he’d experienced hardship. Ethan allowed himself a proud smile. At least he wasn’t a spoiled brat like Indra Hendrawan, who acted like he owned the world. He resumed washing the dishes, handing them to Inka one by one. She still looked curious, as if she needed a more detailed explanation.
“I did grow up privileged, but circumstances forced me to start from scratch on my own, without anyone’s help,” Ethan said, handing her a glass and holding her gaze for a moment. “So? Do you feel sorry for me now? Sympathy is often the seed of affection, you know,” he teased.
“Not really. More like respect.”
“I usually don’t like sharing this part of my life. I hate being pitied—it wounds my pride. I’m glad you didn’t look at me like that. You just seem … shocked.”
Inka chuckled softly, glancing at the remaining dirty dishes that needed attention. Ethan rolled his eyes but resumed washing, genuinely happy to be doing this. It had been a while since he’d done household chores like this. Ever since his mother fell ill and required extended care, Ethan had been eating out to save time.
Their time together didn’t last much longer—Ethan realized he’d been in Inka’s unit for over three hours. She subtly hinted that it was time for him to leave, which Ethan found amusing. There would be other days to flirt with her, especially since they lived in the same building. A future relationship seemed entirely plausible.
“Playing hard to get, huh?” Ethan muttered as he made his way back to his unit.
But his good mood vanished instantly when he spotted Bella fiddling with his apartment’s keypad. The building had two entry options: a manual password and an access card. Ethan cursed under his breath. Bella showing up unannounced was beyond irritating—her usual audacity at play.
“Ethan! Why did you change the password?” Bella whined.
Ethan hurried toward her, immediately clamping a hand over her mouth. He quickly used his access card to open the door, ensuring she wouldn’t learn the new code. The idea of a married woman might sound thrilling in some men’s fantasies, but in reality, Bella was nothing but trouble for Ethan. No one could find out about their secret affair. It didn’t matter if Ethan Allan Saputra’s personal reputation took a hit, but he’d never allow Fast Cargo to be tainted by a scandal as petty as infidelity.
“Can you shut up? You’re so loud,” Ethan hissed, dragging Bella inside.