"Fine, Fabian. You'd better keep your word."
That night, to make amends, he cooked dinner himself—a whole table full of dishes.
But the next day, everything fell apart.
I had taken the day off from the Pruitt Research Center. Then, around noon, my assistant called.
"Professor Pruitt, something's happened with your paper. You've been accused of plagiarism!"
I gripped my phone, my head buzzing.
"Plagiarism? That's impossible."
Those papers represented countless hours of painstaking work and dedication. Several of them were at the cutting edge of the field—concepts I had pioneered myself.
How could anyone accuse me of plagiarism?
There was no time to think. I rushed to the Research Center.
But before I even reached the entrance, I froze at what I saw.
Fabian was carefully opening a car door, then ceremoniously scooping up a girl in a white dress, carrying her bridal-style.
"Professor Morton, I'm so sorry to trouble you." Doris had her arms wrapped around his neck, gazing up at him with starry eyes. "I'm so clumsy—I twisted my ankle. Otherwise I wouldn't have bothered you like this."
Fabian looked down at her, his gaze soft as it rested on her face.