Mission Forensic
Part 25: Sunday Lilies
Sunday dawned like a secret meant only for them. The city outside was restless as ever—vendors raising shutters, buses coughing to life—but in their flat, time seemed reluctant to move. Curtains breathed with the morning breeze, the air touched with the faint fragrance of last night’s lilies still in the vase by the window.
Catherine stirred first. Her lashes fluttered, then settled again against her cheek as she curled closer into Edward, her palm pressing softly to his chest. He opened his eyes only to find her already watching him through the veil of half-sleep.
“You stare even when you’re dreaming,” she whispered, her lips brushing into a smile.
Edward’s hand slid into her hair, brushing back the unruly strands. “And you accuse me even when you’re half-asleep.”
Her laugh—low, throaty, unguarded—warmed the space between them. She kissed his shoulder lightly, then buried her face there, as if willing the morning to delay its march.
They lingered until the clock insisted, but even rising was slow—tea brewed in unhurried rhythms, biscuits shared absently on the balcony as they watched the society below unravel into day. Children carried cricket bats bigger than their arms; the milkman clattered steel cans at each gate; the sky, pale blue, hung wide and benevolent. Catherine sat cross-legged on the chair, her hair loose, her eyes softened by that particular serenity she wore only on Sundays.
***
By late afternoon, the flat had begun to change with them. The table, once scattered with half-read notes from the morning, was cleared; the curtains were drawn wider to welcome the molten gold of the setting sun. A faint hum from the ceiling fan gave rhythm to their unspoken preparations.
Edward stood by the mirror, fastening the striped shirt with an unhurried calm. The fabric—soft red streaked with clean, vertical white lines—caught the light in subtle ripples, the pattern elongating his frame with a quiet sophistication. The sleeves, rolled just past his wrists, gave the look a relaxed precision, as though he had thought about every fold but refused to appear overstudied. He tugged gently at the hem before tucking it neatly into olive-gray trousers, their slim cut sharpening the easy rhythm of his movements. The trousers broke just above his ankles, a deliberate crop that revealed a hint of bare skin before meeting the clean leather of his sneakers.
The sneakers themselves were spotless, their bright white surface almost reflective, laces tied in a casual knot that looked effortless yet exact. They lent balance to the outfit, softening the sharp lines of his shirt and trousers, grounding him in something unpretentious. He smoothed the collar once more, running a thumb along its edge as if measuring alignment, then adjusted the cuffs until they sat just so. A faint glint from the watch at his wrist caught the fading sun, understated yet precise, like the man himself.
He rolled his shoulders, testing the fit, then let his hands fall to his sides, exhaling quietly as though settling into both the clothes and the evening ahead.
From the bedroom came the soft scrape of a hanger, and then Catherine appeared in the doorway. She wore a deep burgundy skirt that clung to her hips before falling straight and clean, ending high above her knees as though cut by intention rather than chance. The color was rich, like wine catching firelight, and it warmed her skin in contrast. Tucked neatly into the waistband was a black long-sleeved top, its high neckline sculpting her frame with quiet elegance. Black suede boots climbed far past her knees, their daring height balanced by a measured grace in her stride. At her side rested a small black purse with a chain of gold, glinting faintly whenever she moved. Her hair, loose in waves, slid across one shoulder, soft against the boldness of her clothes.
Nothing about her seemed forced. Even the way the evening light found her, brushing her steps, felt almost complicit in her presence. She wasn’t dressed to command attention, but attention came all the same—drawn not by effort, but by ease.
Edward turned, and for the space of a breath, forgot the cuff of his sleeve. She noticed.
“What?” she asked, her brows lifting slightly, a smile beginning to form.
“Observation,” he said, though his voice softened against the word.
Her smile widened, a spark playing in her eyes. “Obsession,” she countered, stepping toward him with a deliberateness he could not mistake.
He gave no denial. Instead, he straightened the last fold of his shirt, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth. She shook her head, amused, and reached to adjust his collar.
“You’d leave like this if I didn’t check,” she murmured.
He leaned closer, voice low. “If I’m with you, nobody else is looking anyway.”
Her hand stilled on his shirt for a second before she laughed—quiet, touched, though she tried not to show it. Slipping into her sandals, she caught his keys from the counter and tossed them lightly in his direction.
“Drive,” she said, glancing back with a smile. “Roselyn Café won’t wait forever.”
He caught the keys in one hand, still watching her. “Neither will I.”
The flat fell back into its Sunday quiet as the door closed behind them, leaving the air scented faintly with lavender and anticipation.
***
Roselyn Café in Rohini was their chosen sanctuary. Its sign, painted in deep rose letters, glowed softly against the gathering dusk. Inside, amber light poured from hanging lamps, pooling on the wooden tables like melted honey. The café smelled of fresh beans, sugar, and something faintly citrus—like zest cut just moments ago.
They chose a corner table by the window. Outside, the street carried its chorus of scooters, honking cars, and passing chatter, but the glass muted it, leaving only a low hum beneath the strains of soft jazz.
Edward ordered a large cappuccino and a chocolate croissant, his familiar pairing. Catherine, as always, went for cold coffee, piled with cream, and a slice of mango cheesecake bright as a captured sunbeam.
“You and your sugar addictions,” Edward teased, as the plates arrived.
“You and your bitter fixations,” she countered, already cutting into her cake. “Between us, the universe balances.”
They shared bites—her fork stealing a piece of croissant, his spoon scooping more cheesecake than courtesy allowed. Catherine laughed, her laughter drawing stares from the next table, though she never noticed. At one point, she leaned across to brush a crumb from the corner of his lips.
“See?” she murmured. “Without me, you’d walk around marked like a child.”
Edward caught her wrist lightly, kissed the inside of it, then let it go. “Without you,” he replied, low, steady, “I’d walk around lost.”
Her eyes softened. For a while, the world narrowed to their table, their cups cooling between forgotten sips, the air golden and alive with the silence only lovers can share without needing to fill it.
***
When they stepped outside, evening had deepened into velvet indigo. Roselyn’s sign glowed behind them, its pink letters humming like a small star in the street’s chaos. They walked without aim, Catherine’s hand resting easy in his, their steps slow, the night too tender to rush through.
At the corner, a florist’s stall spilled colour into the air—buckets of roses, marigolds, carnations, their fragrance thick as music. Edward paused only briefly before his eyes found the lilies, their petals curved in soft white arcs, luminous even under the streetlamps.
He bought a small bouquet without asking, the gesture so familiar it needed no words. Turning, he held it out to her.
Catherine’s smile unfolded slow, certain. “You and your lilies,” she whispered, lifting them to her face. “Every time.”
“And every time,” he said, his gaze steady, “I’d choose them again.”
It was no grand surprise—he had done this often, white lilies for Catherine, because they were her favourite, because they had become theirs.
Yet that was the beauty of it: the ritual, the constancy, the quiet declaration repeated until it became language. Catherine pressed the flowers against her chest, their faint perfume rising between them, and in her eyes was the unspoken knowledge that this—these small, recurring gestures—were the truest vows of all.
***
They drove home through streets softened by night, neon signs bleeding into puddles, the air carrying the smell of spice from roadside stalls. The bouquet lay across Catherine’s lap, her fingers stroking the stems absently, as though even in its silence the flower carried a pulse. She leaned her head lightly against the window, her smile lingering not for the lilies alone but for the day itself—slow, ordinary, extraordinary in its simplicity.
At the flat, she placed the bouquet in a tall glass by the window. The lilies seemed almost luminous in the dimness, pale petals catching what little light the night offered. Catherine turned, her hair falling across her face, her smile soft and knowing.
Edward reached for her, drawing her close until the faint scent of lilies mingled with the warmth of her skin.
No words followed. None were needed. The day had already spoken for them—in coffee, in cheesecake crumbs, in a bouquet of lilies offered not as novelty, but as love worn into ritual, made stronger with every repetition.
And as the city hummed restlessly beyond their walls, their home held stillness: the kind of stillness that was not absence, but fullness—two hearts, one quiet rhythm, infinite in its simplicity.
