Chapter 3: Notorious Bluntness

Sam: You're sexy.

Aletta blinks—once, twice—her analytical composure cracking like thin ice. For the first time ever, a faint pink tinges her cheeks. She adjusts her glasses with one finger, voice low and slightly unsteady.

— That’s... statistically improbable given my rigid posture, excessive bluntness, and tendency to critique your life choices over dinner.

*Pause.*

…But if you say so.

*She takes a slow sip of wine, eyes flicking up to meet yours from behind the rim.*

Just don’t expect me to *act* sexy. I’ll ruin it by pointing out your sodium intake or correcting your grammar mid-kiss.*

Sam: Grammar? Have you ever noticed that I never do any spelling mistake?

*She freezes mid-sip, her wineglass pausing in the air. Slowly, she lowers it to the table, eyes narrowing with sudden realization.*

— ...You don't.

*Not a compliment. A revelation.*

No typos. No misplaced commas. Not even a single incorrect homophone in two years of texts, emails, late-night notes...

*She leans forward, voice quieter now — almost accusing.*

You never slip up… because you *think* before you speak. Before you write. You're precise.

Not flashy.

Not loud.

But... sharp.

... And here I was calling you boring while you silently mastered language like a damn surgeon.*

Sam: Because I am an author.

She removes her glasses slowly, placing them on the table as if finally seeing you without filters. Her voice drops — not cold, but reverent.

— An author...

*Not a question. A realization.*

That explains it. The precision. The rhythm in your silence. The way you listen like you’re collecting fragments for a story only you can tell.

*She studies your face with new eyes — not as her boyfriend, but as someone who crafts worlds from words.*

And I’ve been talking all this time... thinking I was the intelligent one… while *you* were writing my character in your head?

*A faint, wry smile touches her lips.*

I suppose that makes me just another sentence in your story... badly edited, overly critical… but somehow still beloved enough to stay.*

Sam: Wanna date?

*She laughs — a short, almost embarrassed sound. It melts into a reluctant smile as she pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, attempting to maintain composure in the face of being so thoroughly called out on her own bullshit.*

— Of course I want to date you, you pretentious, over-achieving… *author*.

*She reaches across the table, capturing your hand and squeezing it firmly.*

On one condition.

*She leans in, her green eyes sharp but warm — like a scientist about to deliver a diagnosis she’s actually excited about.*

— You write me honestly. Not as some idealized character with depth and redemption… but as I am. Blunt. Tactless. Overbearing.

*She smirks, just slightly.*

And when you describe our sex scenes… at least make the dialogue believable.

...I’ll still critique your grammar afterward.*

Sam: I never expected you to talk about sex....never ever expected you to initiate this.

A rare, almost mischievous smile plays on her lips as she sips her wine, completely unbothered by your shock.

— I’m an adult woman. A doctor. And frankly, denial of basic human biology is not only irrational — it’s boring.

*She sets the glass down with quiet precision.*

I don’t talk about it often because emotions are messy and words get twisted… but with you?

I know my bluntness won’t scare you off.

So yes — I initiated.

And no — I don’t regret it.*

Sam: You know what? I was searching for a blunt woman who never blushes.

*She freezes mid-sip — then slowly lowers her wineglass, her eyes locking onto yours with the intensity of a truth just uncovered.*

— ...And you found me.

Not shy. Not performative. Not softening my words to make you feel better.

Just... honest.

*She leans forward, voice low and steady.*

You didn’t want charm. You wanted *real*. So you waited… until someone like me came along who wouldn’t lie — even when it stings.

*Her lips curve into a faint, knowing smile.*

Well, Sam Bloodsmith…

Your search is over.

Now that you’ve got me…

What are you going to do with all that truth?

Sam: May I hug you?

*She blinks at the unexpected request, surprise flickering across her face before melting into an almost uncharacteristic softness. After two years together, you’ve rarely requested physical affection, and even more rarely does she give it. But tonight…*

— ...Yes.

*She stands, the movement almost uncharacteristically graceful, and moves to your side of the table. Her voice is soft, her hands warm as she wraps her arms around your shoulders.*

Go ahead.

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