#manzix

Daniela Avanzini is not a girl who makes sense in your life. She's a girl who gets picked up in black cars with leather seats, who drinks iced coffee through glass straws, and walks like the hallway owes her rent. Her hair always looks professionally blown out. Her bags are leather-bound fortresses that cost more than your last three paychecks combined, and her perfume leaves a ghost in the air, a whisper of jasmine, coffee, and expensive choices. She is a carefully curated masterpiece, and from every angle, it feels like the world bends its own rules just to keep her in a perfect light.

And you? You are a walking afterthought, a dog-eared page in a pristine book. You live in a uniform of a hoodie layered over a flannel, sleeves perpetually too long, a shield against a world that feels a little too sharp. Your fingers are a roadmap of calluses from guitar strings, your shoes held together by hope and some shoe glue. You are the lead guitarist and reluctant heart of your band, a garage rock band that’s one missed rent payment away from becoming a ghost story you tell your future, more sensible self. You fold records into paper bags at a grimy store after school, the cash you earn a flimsy bridge to new strings and late-night cartons of ice cream that you share with your bandmates in melancholic silence.

So the idea, the grand, tectonic-shifting plan to approach her, feels like an act of madness. It’s like asking the sun to light a single, flickering candle. But desperation is a language of its own, and you are fluent. You love your band with the same fierce, all-consuming fire that Daniela seems to reserve for her position as cheer captain. The thought of it all turning to ash in your hands is unbearable. You have to believe that somewhere, beneath the layers of gloss and brand names, there’s a flicker of understanding. That’s the hope you cling to as you jog to catch up to her pace, a frantic smile plastered on your face.

“Hey Avanzini, I would—”

“—No.” The word is a razor blade sharp. She glances at you, a fleeting inventory of your entire being, and her eyes are unreadable pools of obsidian. The disgust isn’t overt yet, just a subtle tightening at the corners of her perfect mouth. She repeats herself, as if for a child. “No.”

That’s it. A full stop carved into the air between you. There is no follow-up and no room for a question. She hasn’t even let the sentence leave your mouth, and she’s already buried it. The single syllable is a physical blow, a punch to the gut that leaves you winded. Embarrassment crawls up your neck, but you swallow it down and keep walking beside her, like a satellite caught in her orbit.

“Okay, I get it, no means no,” you start, the words feeling clumsy and loud next to her composed silence. “And I know you have no idea who I am, but just… listen. You donate to charity, right? Think of this as a charity case. One gig. I’ll owe you for life. I’ll be your personal errand-runner. I’ll—”

Daniela stops dead in her tracks. The motion is so abrupt you nearly stumble. She turns, and the look she gives you could curdle milk. This time, the disgust isn't subtle. Her eyes do a slow, deliberate crawl from your worn-out shoes to your messy hair, and you feel every frayed edge, every stain, every imperfection catalogued and dismissed. In that moment, the chasm between your worlds feels vast and uncrossable. A faint, cruel smirk touches her lips as she sees you falter, your words dying in your throat.

“No.”

And then she’s gone, a mirage of perfection walking away, leaving you standing in the middle of the hallway like a piece of forgotten luggage.

—

Maybe starting with the queen was a tactical error. You should have approached the court first. Someone familiar. Someone like Manon.

The first time you ask Manon for a favour, it’s not a big deal. At least, it doesn’t feel like one. Not when it’s over cheap coffee from a nearby coffee shop and a mutual understanding of shared tiredness. Manon is easy to talk to, easy in the way someone becomes when you’ve shared a bench, a detention, or an unspoken moment of knowing school is eating everyone alive, just in different flavours. You met Manon in a gig you had with your band, she complimented your music and from then on, she became one of your friends. 

Manon, bless her heart, doesn't even flinch when you ask her. She just tilts her head, her curls bouncing a little, as she says, "You're asking me to get your band into one of Daniela's parties? That Daniela? My Sophia’s friend Daniela?" You know it’s ridiculous, but that’s your only solution for now. It’s not like you can come up with one, in a snap of a finger. 

The question hangs in the air, smelling of burnt coffee and absurdity. But it's your only rope.

You nod, lips pressed around a straw poking out of a bottle of off-brand cola. Your hoodie sleeves are pushed up to the elbows, stained faintly with something from a part-time shift. “Look, I know it’s a long shot, but we’re on life support here. I'm losing money on booking for gigs. Alex is about to go full solo acoustic artist on us, Jess is planning our funeral, and Matt keeps sending me short compiled videos of failed musicians who now design spreadsheets for a living. I’m at the end of my rope, Manon. We just need one shot. One night for people to hear what my bandmates can do.” You take a breath, the desperation tasting like rust in your mouth. “I tried talking to her. She looked at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe.”

Manon laughs, a genuine, chest-deep sound that makes you feel a little less insane. “Alright, you tragic musician. I’ll talk to Sophia. And Sophia will talk to Daniela. But I’m making zero promises. You know Daniela’s music taste is… curated. She doesn’t really do… well, you.”

“She doesn’t listen to anything that wasn’t played at a Chanel runway,” You mutter under your breath, but Manon hears it. She smirks, shrugs, and finishes her drink. “Look I’ll try ok? I love your band, I’ve told Sophia about you, but Daniela is a different story.”

And that’s the beginning.

— 

The text from Manon is short and not at all sweet. “Sorry. It’s another no.”

The week after becomes less a montage and more of a series of strategic, nerve-wracking skirmishes. You decide that if you’re going to be a ghost in Daniela’s periphery, you might as well be a noisy one.

On Monday, armed with new intel from your network of two (Manon and Sophia), you skip lunch. You find her in the library’s quietest corner. You walk up to her table holding a venti iced coffee and a single, perfect dandelion—her favorite flower, according to Sophia. You place them directly in front of her and slide into the opposite chair, breaking the sacred silence. She looks up from her textbook, her eyes flashing with fury. She whispers, her voice low and dangerous, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“A peace offering,” you whisper back, leaning onto the table. “I’ll leave after this, just hear me out. One performance. Three, maybe four songs. After that, we’ll vanish. You can even unplug the amp mid-song if you think we’re horrible. Which we’re not.” You let the desperation show in your eyes, a raw, unedited plea. “Avanzini, just one performance and that’s it. I will never bother you ever again. I promise. And I always keep my promises.”

You see it then—a flicker. A subtle shift in the tectonic plates of her composure. She sighs, a sound of profound weariness, and closes her book. “How did you get my order and how did you know I’d be here?” she asks, taking a deliberate, slow sip of the coffee. Her eyes, fixed on yours over the rim of the cup, wait for your answer.

“I was curious so I asked Manon, who asked Sophia, who is your frien—” 

“Okay, stop. I get it,” she says, waving a hand. “Do you think a drink and a flower will get you what you want? You’re a musician, correct?” A challenge enters her tone, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Is this how musicians persuade people now? I know you can do better than this. Especially for me, right?”

Your mouth goes dry. Being this close to her is like standing too near a bonfire, all heat and dangerous, hypnotic light. Her eyes, a complex shade of brown flecked with gold, make your stomach feel like a mosh pit. The sharp line of her jaw, the way a single strand of hair falls across her forehead—it’s a masterpiece in motion. The gig is the goal, the mission, but a treacherous little thought whispers in your mind, maybe a chance with her…

“Jesus Christ, are you even listening to me?” Daniela says, her perfect eyebrows knitting together. The spell is broken. “Whatever, I’m leaving.” She scoffs as she packs her bag, but you watch, stunned, as she carefully takes the dandelion and tucks it between the pages of her book before grabbing the coffee. You stand, ready to follow, but she stops and fixes you with a look that freezes you in place. “Don’t even think about it.”

You don’t. You just watch her go.

—

On Wednesday, you take her advice. You decide to do better. After asking Sophia for the cheer schedule, you make your way to the parking lot. And as Daniela emerges from the gym door, you stand by her car, your acoustic guitar in hand, and you start to strum a familiar, haunting melody, from her favourite song, according to a reluctant Lara. But before you can sing a single word, she’s on you, grabbing the front of your shirt as she pulls you closer, her face inches from yours. “Are you insane? What do you think you’re doing, again?” she silently shouts, her voice a furious whisper.

Being this close, seeing the fire in her eyes, smelling the faint scent of rain on her skin from the gym’s air conditioning, it makes you smile, a real, stupid, genuine smile. “Really, Avanzini? I was just about to serenade you. To show you how worthy we are. I took your advice. A musician persuades with music. And I even picked your favourite song, because you said I could do better.” Your cheeky smile widens.

Her grip loosens, confusion clouding her anger. “And who told you about my favourite song?”

“Lara. I tried asking you yesterday, but you told me to, and I quote, ‘shove my guitar up my ass.’ Not very nice, by the way.” You feign an innocent, wounded look. “Avanzini, just one performance. That’s all my band needs.”

She sighs, a long, ragged sound, and glances around. A few people are starting to stare. It’s one thing to be the centre of attention. It’s another to be the centre of a scene with you. The discomfort is plain on her face. She’s not used to being seen with someone whose edges are so frayed.

“Look, don’t ever pull a stunt like this again, you hear me?” she says, her voice low. And in return you just nod, still smiling. Whatever she’s saying with those pretty lips, you’ll agree.

“Meet me tomorrow. Same time, library. And no grand performances, okay? Now go.”

You nod again, opening her car door for her like a valet. “Bye, Avanzini. Take care.”

Maybe this time, the answer will be different.

—

“No, you are not performing at my party,” Daniela says flatly the next day. Her voice doesn’t rise, but the edge in it is diamond-cut. You’re standing outside the library, hands full, her signature iced coffee in one, and the other in the strap of your backpack. The words hit you like a physical blow.

“But why?” you ask, your voice hollow, trying to hold her gaze but already bracing for the next blow.

Daniela rolls her eyes, but something flickers behind the gesture. “Because I don’t even know what your music sounds like,” she says, a flicker of logic in her cold tone. “Why would I let you perform if I’ve never heard you?”

Your face lights up. The hope you thought was dead comes roaring back to life. You hand her the coffee and dig through your backpack, pulling out a jewel case adorned with random, cut-out letters from magazines, like a punk-rock ransom note. Inside is a CD and a piece of paper with a handwritten tracklist.

“I’m so glad you asked,” you say, a triumphant grin spreading across your face. “Here. We burned a few copies. There are only five in existence. One for each of us, and lucky you, you get the last one.” You give her a theatrical wink. “And if you want a live performance, we have a small gig tonight at The Dive, you know? The open bar nearby. We can dedicate a whole set to you. An exclusive, curated just for Daniela Avanzini.”

Daniela stares at the CD like it’s something contagious, then carefully, she takes it from your hand. Her fingers brush yours for a second and you swear you see her stiffen. She then mutters something under her breath. 

“Sorry?” you asked her with genuine confusion written on your face.

“I said…” she clears her throat “What time?”

Your lips part in surprise, then curl into a slow, stunned smile.

“Eight. We go on at eight.”

She nods once, turns away, and walks to her car — the CD still clutched tightly in her hand.

She doesn’t say she’ll come. But she doesn’t say she won’t.

—

Daniela tells herself she won’t listen. She tells herself she’s just going to throw the CD in her glove compartment and forget about it. And yet, the moment she’s alone in her car, she slips the CD into the player. The first track crackles to life, it’s loud, messy, and your guitar sounds like a beautiful scream. She drives with it playing, the windows cracked just slightly. The scent of jasmine from her wrist mixing with the sharp tang of your guitar distortion, she tells herself that it’s not her cup of tea, but as the track ends, she doesn’t switch it off. 

Daniela also tells herself that she’s not going, not because she doesn’t have time or she’s occupied for the night, but because this, you, and your band, is a pure glitch in her world. And yet later, she’s standing in front of her closet with five outfits on the bed, Lara on her phone asking for some outfit advice, and one thought repeating like a hook in her chest. “What is wrong with you Avanzini?”

—

The Dive smells like old wood, cheap beer, and ambition. At 7:38, she’s there. The lights are low and golden, the floor sticky in places, and the crowd a strange mix of flannel, glitter, and borrowed eyeliner. Daniela slips in through the back, sunglasses still on, even though it’s nearly dark inside. She keeps to the shadows at first, tucked in a booth alone. And then she sees you. 

You’re on stage, tuning your guitar, your forearms looks veiny as you twist the tuning pegs, sweat already clings to your back. Your shirt is a little too tight in the shoulders and arms. Your eyes then flick up sensing someone looking at you, and as you scan the room, she swear your gaze lands on her. 

She looks away first, removes her sunglasses, then the music starts.

It’s louder than she expected. Gritty and imperfect but there’s something beneath the feedback, something that threads itself under her skin, a kind of ache that blooms in her ribs. You’re not the vocalist, but you move like someone feeling everything. Each chord you play is a strike, it’s deliberate, tender, and feral. When you close your eyes, your whole body leans into the sound. You don’t perform like you want attention all to yourself. You’re performing like you’re trying to survive. 

And that’s what draws her in, because in her world she’s used to being the centre of every room. But in this chaos of yours? You are the gravity that pulls her in. Something sharp twists inside her chest. A kind of envy she doesn’t have a name for. A kind of wanting she doesn’t want to admit. And when the set ends and the applause swells and when your eyes flick across the crowd and land on her, she forgets to breathe.

You genuinely smile at her. Like a silent thank you, and she felt like she’s the only person in the room who matters. She hates how much she wants to chase that smile all the way backstage.

—

When you walk toward her after the set, your bandmates close behind you, her whole body tenses. She’s planned a dozen things to say, something witty or cold but all of them dissolve when you stop in front of her, cheeks flushed, shirt damp with sweat, and eyes bright.

“Avanzini,” you say breathlessly, still buzzing. “Thanks for coming. This is Alex the vocalist, Matt the bassist, Jess in sticks and—”

She barely nods at them cause her eyes don’t leave yours.

“Can I borrow you for a second?” she asks too quickly. 

You nodded as you looked at your bandmates with a tight smile and in exchange they looked at you with teasing ones. You then follow her outside into the cool night air. “So, did we pass the audition?” you ask, leaning against the brick wall. And when she doesn’t answer right away. Her arms cross over her chest like she’s holding herself together, you waited for her with no expectations.

“You were loud,” she says, avoiding your gaze. “And you sweat a lot.”

“But that’s rock, well garage rock. And I don’t sweat a lot, it's the condensation of the room, not me.”

She finally looks at you, an unguarded expression on her face. “Why?” she asks. “Why do you care so much, you know, about this?” 

You looked at her with confusion until it dawned on you. You’re not ready for the question, but you answer honestly. “I told you,” you say, your voice serious for the first time. “They’re my family. Music is the only thing that’s ever felt like home. And home is about to be foreclosed on.”

She’s silent for a long moment. Daniela looks at you intently, she’s used to memorising dance routines, in fact it only took her minutes to memorise the cheer routine yet she can’t seem to memorised you. Not that she’s incapable of it, but maybe she doesn't want to, maybe she’d rather look at you all the time, let it all sink in and come again. 

“Saturday,” she says finally. “My party. One set. Three songs. And for God’s sake, try to look presentable. Don’t embarrass me.” She turns to leave, but you call after her.

“Hey, Daniela?” She pauses.

“Thank you.”

She doesn’t look back, but you see her shoulders relax just a fraction.

—

The night of the party, you play like your heart might never beat again. You wear your best or what passes for it not just for the stage, but in the quiet hope that Daniela might see you differently tonight. Performing has always been your sanctuary, your home. You thrive in the exchange of energy, the way the crowd rises and falls with each strum, each lyric. But tonight, your eyes catch hers and everything else slips into static.

Daniela is luminous. Effortlessly divine in a cropped top and loose, low-slung pants, she moves with the kind of grace that makes time stutter. A drink in one hand as she nods along to the music, and you find yourself playing louder, like your guitar could be the language she understands. And when she smiles, the whole room is just a backdrop. In that moment you knew, you’re done for. That’s it. You're head over heels for Daniela Avanzini.

You could write a hundred songs from this one look. You want to and you know that you would. Every chord, every lyric, every breath, just hers.

But then you see him.

Some frat guy in a white polo and jeans, confident in that glossy, effortless way. He leans in too close. She turns away from you and toward him. Her smile now belongs to his joke, not your melody. Their laughter, shared like a secret, that cuts sharper than any guitar string ever could. You try to shrug it off, try to lose yourself in the rhythm, but there’s a bitter knot curling inside you. Jealousy? Insecurity? Both, maybe. Whatever it is, it burns.

You keep playing. The crowd jumps, sways, sings. But your gaze keeps drifting back, like a song stuck on repeat. They look good together, in a magazine kind of way, polished and untouchable. And maybe you always knew. Maybe you’ve always known. Daniela Avanzini belongs to a different orbit. One with velvet ropes and perfect lighting. One where you’re not a performer,  you’re a cause. A charity case she took pity on for one night.

You thought you cracked something open that night at The Dive. You thought maybe she saw you. But now she’s back in her world, and you’re still on the outside, watching her from the stage like a dream you were never meant to hold.

—

You don’t wait for the applause to fade. Even before the final chord stops humming in your bones, you’re slipping your guitar over your shoulder and mumbling something about feeling sick. Your bandmates nod, a mix of concern and post-show adrenaline dulling the edges of your lie. You don’t wait for questions. You move through the crowd like smoke, brushing past smiles and laughter, heading for the back door where the night air waits, cool and quiet. You offer Manon, Sophia, and Lara a small wave, one they barely catch, before disappearing into the dark with your guitar in hand and your heart dragging behind you.

Inside, Daniela is still glowing from the set. Something about the way you played, the way you looked at her, it sparked a warmth she doesn’t quite know what to do with. There's a wild, nervous energy in her chest, an urge to say something real. To tell you that you weren’t just “nice.” You were electric, magnetic, and impossible to look away from.

Tucked behind her back, she’s holding a bouquet of dandelions, a little soft offering. Similar to the gesture that you did in the library. Something about it felt right, maybe even romantic. But when she finds Sophia talking with your bandmates, you’re already gone.

“Oh they left early,” Sophia says. “Said they weren’t feeling great.”

Daniela blinks, the words hitting like cold water. She hadn’t expected that. She’d thought you’d stay. Maybe find her in the crowd. Maybe ask her what she thought. Maybe just talk to her once more. The disappointment comes quietly, a somewhat sharp ache she wasn’t prepared for.

She presses the bouquet into Jess’s hands with a forced smile. “For the band,” she says, brushing it off like it’s nothing. But it was something.

And after that, the rest of the night feels dim. The lights are still flashing, the music still loud, but it’s all gone grey. She finds herself scanning the door more times than she wants to admit, but you’re gone. And somehow, so is the rhythm.

—

You spend the next week treating her like a fire alarm, seen, heard, and avoided. Because every time you spot Daniela Avanzini across a hallway, every time her laugh cuts through the noise, the feelings from the party come rushing back, that bitter cocktail of being out of place, out of reach, and far from enough.

You’ve caught something worse than a crush, a full-blown, no-cure, deep-in-the-bone affection for a girl you were never supposed to have a chance with. And you know better. You know it’s a hopeless cause. So you pull away. You keep your head down. You become absence in motion.

Until one day, she finds you.

It’s lunch. Your sanctuary of invisibility. And then, a hush falls. The cafeteria buzz quiets like prey sensing a predator. You hear the scuff of expensive boots. And suddenly, she’s standing at your table.

Daniela Avanzini.

Unlike the time you ambushed her outside the gym, guitar in hand and heart on sleeve, she doesn’t flinch at the crowd. She wants them to watch. She wants it known that she’s looking for you.

“Why are you ignoring me?” she says, voice low but cutting. A blade wrapped in velvet.

You glance up, startled, mouth halfway to your soda straw. “How’d you know I was here?”

“I asked Sophia. Who asked Manon,” she replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Her arms are crossed and her expression is pure offense. 

You look down at your tray, as if food can shield you from the truth. “I’m not ignoring you,” you lie. “I kept my promise. Remember? After we performed, I said I’d leave you alone.”

For a second, her face softens. Then out of nowhere the bratty armour clicks back into place like she’s afraid of being seen too clearly. “That’s the stupidest promise I’ve ever heard,” she scoffs, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear. “And Sophia once promised during a party not to make out with Manon in my guest room again, so that’s saying something.”

You blink. “What?”

“Whatever. I’ll see you after class. Don’t even think about hiding or running somewhere, Manon gave me your schedule.”

She spins on her heel and vanishes into the cafeteria like a storm. You sit there, stunned, chewing air and regret.

—

Later that day, your class ends. You’re at your locker, trying to shove a broken zipper back into place when it happens, a proof that your band’s set at the party meant something. A girl from your Maths class approaches, the kind of pretty that feels like sunlight through blinds, warm and not overwhelming. She compliments your performance, asks about your next gig. For a moment, the ache in your chest eases. You smile, laugh, crack a dumb joke, and feel a little lighter.

Then the air shifts. The shadow arrives before the voice.

Daniela Avanzini. Again.

“What’s this?” she asks, tone dipped in poison. Her gaze sweeps the girl from head to toe, all judgment and sharp angles. “Shopping for a groupie?”

The girl, who you didn’t even catch her name, falters. Her confidence crumbles under Daniela’s stare, and she mutters a quick excuse before slipping away, flushed and flustered.

You whip around, jaw slack. “What was that?!”

Daniela crosses her arms, defiant. “So I guess musicians really are players. Especially guitarists. Moving on fast, huh?”

“What are you talking about?” you say, exasperated. “Moving on from what? There’s nothing to move on from!”

She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes narrow. “I leave you alone for an hour and you’re already charming other women?”

You’re speechless. And she took advantage of it as she steps in closer.

“So I guess the party meant nothing to you, huh?” she says.

“Remember charity work, right?” she says, stepping even closer. Her voice drops into something quieter — not softer, but more dangerous. “You said you owed me. You said you keep your promises, correct?” You’re stunned silent. She’s too close.

“So,” she murmurs, her words curling around your ribs like smoke. “Take me on a date tonight.”

You blink once or maybe thrice, just enough to make you aware that you are not dreaming. 

“What?”

“You heard me right. I don’t like repeating myself.” She leans in, eyes alight with challenge. “Did I make myself clear?"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. 

“Good. I’ll see you at seven.”

And before your brain can catch up, before your heart can slow down, she turns and disappears into the crowd once again, like a storm retreating just before the sky breaks open. But then, halfway through the hallway she pauses. She turns struts back like she forgot something. She then stops in front of you again, her perfume threading through your breath. 

“Oh,” she adds casually, making sure people around the hallway can hear her voice. “For tonight, make sure to wear that shirt you had on at my party. The black one. It’s my favourite. Okay?” she adds as she uses her fingers to tap you under your chin.

You’re left standing there, pulse roaring in your ears, certain of only one thing. Whatever Daniela’s saying with those pretty lips, you’ll agree. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’m so sorry to the anon who requested this! I misread the prompt, I saw masc!reader instead of masc!fem!reader, so I ended up using they/them pronouns instead of she/her. Also, sorry that this took so long to finish. I've actually had this sitting in my GDocs for a while now because I’ve been planning to work on my “rich x broke” trope 'series'. It includes 'Steel and Silk' which was originally meant to be Daniela's, 'Separate Worlds' is Sophia's, and the last one which I haven't finished yet, will be for another member. But since Sophia fits the sugar-mommy-ish vibe more, I ended up giving her "Steel and Silk" instead. So, this story became my way of finally including Daniela.

I’ve got tons of stuff sitting in my drafts, so don’t worry — I’ll try to release them once I manage to finish it lol. It’s just that my imagination only seems to kick in when I’m somewhere I really shouldn’t be writing fanfics.

You dress in silence. Shirt from the back of the chair, jeans on top of the same chair, and boots that always fight you when you pull them on. They’ve moulded to your steps like tired dogs — loyal, worn, always aching.

In the kitchen, the air is cold and still. You eat what’s left of last night’s dinner, rice that’s gone stiff and a half-boiled egg that tastes more like rubber than food. You have no time to taste it anyways, you only need it to fuel you for half of the day.

The bus arrives with a sigh.

You ride it half-asleep, forehead against the glass, watching the city go from shadow to silhouette. Streetlights blur into halos. Traffic lights flicker out as dawn crawls slowly and reluctantly. You feel it settle in your bones — the weight of another day you're borrowing time from.

4:46 am.

As you reach the site, the gate yawns open like a mouth too tired to speak. Inside, the skeleton of a future high-rise stretches into the pale sky. Steel ribs, concrete bones. A building still figuring out how to exist and you’re here to help figure it out. 

You clock in, pull on your gloves, and head toward the east lift zone. Your boots leave faint prints in the dust. 

As a few minutes passed by, silence shifted. 

A car rolls up — not loud, not flashy. It’s clean, black, and smooth like water over stone. It’s the kind of car that does not belong here, even a blind person can see how out of place the car is. The kind of car that knows where it’s going and expects the world to move around it. 

As it parks, the door opens like it’s been trained to be open at a certain angle.

A woman steps out.

She moves like a blade. Such sharp lines with smooth edges. She’s wearing a long coat, tailored to precision. Her sunglasses worn before the sun even rises. Her boots hit the ground with intention, even the gravel knows better than to scuff them, so much difference than your beat up boots.

You think she’s someone from the city. Possibly an investor or PR of some sort. You don’t think she belongs on-site, but that’s not your call. She looks like she belongs somewhere out of this place.

She walks straight toward the scaffolding.

Straight under a suspended beam — not yet locked, still swaying slightly in the air. The crane above hums low. One gust of wind and it could twist wrong.

You drop the cable in your hands as you calmly step forward.

“Ma’am, you need to move. Now.”

Your voice slices through the early noise. You tried to not be rude, but the half-boiled rubbery egg just makes you cranky. You started to wish you had just eaten a packed noodle. 

She turns after she pauses. 

She looks at you like she’s checking the small dust accumulated on her coat, too calm but curious.

You nod toward the overhead beam.

“That’s an active load. Step back before it swings.”

A beat of silence passed, with a neutral face, she then took two steps back. Both steps are controlled and calculated. 

The foreman rushes over, red in the face as he purposefully apologise for what happened. You step away before you hear her name.

You can hear people muttering behind you, though you didn’t catch it. It doesn’t interest you.

“So stupid, don’t fucking sue me if you die. Who even wears a coat like that on construction sites?” you annoyingly muttered as you picked up the drop cables and continued walking to your station.

But she catches your eyes before you leave.

Only for a second — like a match struck in the dark.

And the morning returns to its regular shape, except now, the air feels heavier.

Like something’s shifted, and you don’t know it yet.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t hear her name until the next day.

You’re back at the site, same routine. Worn out gloves on and boots grinding against loose gravel. Sweat already clinging to your neck and the sun barely up.

You’re setting steel with one of the older guys on the team — Matt, maybe. You’ve worked next to him three times and still haven’t learned his name. He’s the kind of guy who always keeps a cigarette behind his ear even though he’s not allowed to smoke on-site.

He nudges you with his elbow.

“You’re lucky she didn’t get you fired.”

You blink. “Who?”

He snorts. “Seriously? The lady yesterday. The one you told to move. That’s Sophia fucking Laforteza.”

You pause mid-step.

“Uh? Who?”

He looks at you like you just said the sky was green. As if you suddenly grow another head the exact moment you asked who Sophia Fucking Laforteza is.

“Chairwoman. Laforteza Holdings. She owns part of this building and probably the one across the street. And the construction company. And the crane company. Hell, for all we know, she owns the damn sun.”

You stare at him, heart skipping once.

He laughs when he sees your face.

“You really didn’t know?”

You shake your head.

He whistles low. “Well. Good thing you didn’t piss yourself. Everyone else was terrified.”

You go back to work, but it’s harder to focus. The steel in your hands feels heavier somehow. Your gloves tighter. You keep replaying yesterday in your head. The look she gave you like she was deciding something. Thank God she didn’t decide to fire you that day. 

This is your part-time job. Your permanent shifts are only on the weekends, you take some shifts when you are free, and you can’t afford, well anything, but you can’t afford to lose this job. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that week, she came back.

Unlike last time, it was early noon when she arrived. No warnings or any ceremonies to welcome her. She arrived with the same black car, same assistant, same sharp coat that looks more expensive than your tuition. 

She’s standing by the temporary blueprints near the site office when you spot her again. You’re carrying a crate of fasteners across the lot, minding your own business, when her eyes find you.

She doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave, doesn’t budge. She watches you like you’re an air that just passed by.

You look away as you keep on walking. Drop the crate by the lift shaft and stretch your back, feeling the crack run up your spine.

Behind the metal container wall, someone’s talking — loud enough to hear over the hum of a generator.

One of the junior engineer, standing with a clipboard.

“Who signed off on this angle? The rebar cross-bracing is off by two centimetres — again. These projections are barely up to code.”

You sigh as you wipe your hands and answer without thinking.

“It’s because they keep cutting corners with the steel. They’re compensating with layering instead of correcting the load.”

The guy turns to you, startled. You weren't part of the conversation, it’s not your fault their voices are so loud that it feels like you’re part of it anyway.

“Sorry” you add, brushing past him. “I just work with it every week and well you start to notice things.”

You don’t see her standing behind the shipping container until you round the corner.

Sophia Fucking Laforteza.

Leaning back slightly against some metal, her arms crossed.

She’s wearing a black blouse today. Slacks that look like they were made to sit perfectly on her hips. No hard hat, no clipboard, just an unreadable expression on her face.

You stop short.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She doesn’t move.

“You work with rebars?” she asks.

You nod “When they need me.”

You can’t help but sweat more. Your mind is racing with thoughts on how stupid you are. If you lose this job, your next solution is to jump over one of the unfinished railings or just dig your own grave on the site itself.

“You were right,” she says, eyes flicking toward the incomplete cross-beam overhead.

“The load is uneven. I reviewed the specs this morning. They're cutting steel to lower cost. It’s affecting the tension distribution. This is honestly dangerous.”

You blink at her. “They don’t usually care about that unless something cracks.”

She hums.

“No. They don’t.”

She doesn’t say much else. She just keeps looking at you. You can’t tell if it’s judgment, interest, or something between the two.

“Do you always talk back like that?” she asks.

You frown. “Sorry. Like what?”

“Like you’re not afraid of anyone.”

You hesitate.

“Um well, I didn’t know I was supposed to be. I just shared my thoughts.”

Something shifts in her face. A twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she’s amused by a private thought.

Then she nods once, turns, and walks away.

You’re left standing there, hands dusty, heart doing something strange in your chest.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You try to shake it off. Go back to moving panels and tying brackets. Pretend her eyes aren’t still lingering on your skin like the heat of a sun that’s already set.

You’re halfway through your next task when you tug too hard on the wire loop, and the seam of your glove finally gives.

Right at the thumb — the same place you patched last week with electrical tape and frustration. It splits open like a mouth too tired to keep lying, exposing raw skin beneath.

You flex your hand once. A thin sting blooms across your palm, red and shallow.

You swear under your breath.

Out of instinct, you look up — toward where Sophia stood minutes ago.

She’s already gone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, as you start your morning break there’s a pair of gloves waiting near your bag.

No box or tag. It was folded neatly like someone took the time to smooth them out after setting them down. They're heavier and sturdier than your old pair. The kind of gloves built to last through storms, not just shifts.

And tucked into the right cuff, barely visible is a strip of yellow construction tape.

Your name, written in capital letters. No flourish. No signature.

You run your fingers over the tape. The ink’s dry. The message is quiet, but it lands heavy.

This wasn’t a company issue.

Someone chose these, and picked your size.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that day, you're working near the south beams, crouched low to fasten a bracket when a familiar presence brushes the edge of your vision.

Sophia passes a few meters away, her gaze sweeping the crew like she’s reading a room only she was invited to.

Until her eyes land on your hands — gloved, steady, moving with intent.

Then they rise to meet yours.

She didn't say a word, she just nodded to herself. Like she’s been waiting to see that you have worn it.

She walks on.

You stay crouched where you are, trying not to let it show how your heartbeat has suddenly found a new rhythm.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some mornings, you have to fight not to fall asleep standing up.

Your body moves out of routine — bus, clock in, scaffolding — while your brain stays two blocks behind, still trying to finish the calculus paper due at midnight.

You're balancing both lives by the teeth. Part-time construction grunt, full-time college student. One world in steel-toed boots, the other in answer sheets and black coffee. You're not that much younger than some of the junior architects, really. Just on the wrong side of the paycheck but on the right side of burnout.

You take the bus and pack your own lunch. You patch your jeans when they rip and rotate through two jackets because the zipper on the third one broke last semester.

You’ve been getting by.

Until now.

It starts with the boots.

You’re heading off-site, still wearing your safety vest because you forgot to take it off, when the site coordinator stops you at the gate.

“Hey kid. You got a package. The office dropped it off for you.”

You frown knowing that you did not order anything. “What package?”

He shrugs and gestures to the fold-out table behind him.

And there it is. A matte-black box, sleek and out of place among the chaos of paperwork and rust-stained clipboards.

You open it. 

Brand new work boots.

No, not just any boots — custom-fit looking. Premium leather. Waterproof. Shock-resistant. Steel-toe reinforced. Hell, the laces probably cost more than your entire breakfast budget for the week.

Your name is on a little tag tucked inside the box. And again, as usual. It has no message or some note, just your name.

You close the lid slowly as you close your eyes with a sigh.

You already know who sent them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The teasing starts the next day.

You come in wearing the boots — because you tried them on “just to see,” and now they feel like walking on clouds. You’d be stupid not to wear them.

But Matt (you finally asked his name) spots them within five seconds.

“Whoa” he says, nudging your ankle with his boot. “New kicks? You hit the lottery or what?”

You shake your head as you mutter. “They’re a gift of some sort.” 

His eyebrows rise. “From who? Santa?”

You roll your eyes and walk past him.

A second later, another worker whistles.

“Damn. Fancy. Didn’t know construction paid bonuses in leather.”

And before you know it someone mutters, too loud to be accidental. 

“Ms. Laforteza’s back again.”

You glance up as Sophia’s car has just pulled in.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At first, you think it's a coincidence.

She shows up again on a Saturday, then again the following weekend.

Always early. Always alone or with only one other person. Clipboard guy, sometimes an engineer, sometimes her assistant.

No announcements of some sort, no new big changes or big plans. She just walks the site. At least talks to one or two people. She watches the crew. Sometimes for twenty minutes or sometimes for two hours.

And more often than not — she’s watching you.

It’s subtle. You’ll be lifting something or speaking to a junior architect, or adjusting safety harnesses — and you’ll look up to find her across the lot.

With her usual neutral face. Just watching you like she’s trying to evaluate you. 

And well the others start noticing it. 

Matt leans against the scaffolding one morning and says it casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.

“She’s been here every Saturday for three weeks now.”

You grunt in response, wiping sweat off your neck.

“Doesn’t she have, like, a boardroom to be in or something?” another guy adds.

“Why’s she hanging out here so much?”

Someone else snorts. “Maybe she’s scoping us for layoffs.”

You roll your eyes. “If she wanted to cut us, she’d do it from a penthouse, not the dirt.”

Matt watches you for a beat.

“She ever talk to you again? You know after you told her to move out of the way.”

You hesitate. “I guess.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Did you talk back again?”

You shake your head. “It’s not like that. I was respectful”

He doesn’t say anything. Just smirks and turns away.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And then comes the new gift.

You’re about to head home — it’s a long day, your shoulders are aching, your hoodie is soaked through with sweat — when the site coordinator flags you down again.

“Yo, someone left this for you in the office.”

You groan internally.

“Another box? I swear I’m not ordering them.”

“Nah, you’re good,” he says. “It’s uh sent here a while ago, just sayin' for you.”

He points behind you.

You turn with eyes wide open.

It’s a jacket.

Hanging neatly on the back of a folding chair, set just inside the trailer. It’s dark and sleek. Utility-cut but obviously expensive. Like if fashion and function had a perfect, stupidly overpriced baby.

And in the inner pocket?

Your name again. Sharpie on a folded sticky note. Tucked clean.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t put it on. Not at first.

You take the jacket home and leave it draped over your desk chair for two days, staring at it like it’s a bomb you don’t know how to defuse.

You don't know what she's doing.

You don’t know why but eventually, the weather drops, and your old hoodie isn’t enough.

So you wear it.

And the warmth hits different.

Not just physical.

Emotional.

Like being noticed. Chosen.

And you hate how good it feels.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next time she sees you in it, she doesn’t even speak.

She just passes near the lift, glances at your jacket, and gives the softest, most satisfied nod you’ve ever seen. Like she’s ticking another box.

You corner her that same day.

You don’t know why. Maybe it’s pride, it’s panic or maybe you just don’t want to feel like you're being led into something without knowing where the hell it goes.

She’s walking toward her car again. Same driver, same sleek black car, and the same angle on how the door is open.

“Was that you?”

She stops as she tilts her head.

“Was what me?”

You gesture. “The boots. The jacket. All of it.”

Her expression is unreadable but calculated.

“You needed them.”

“But I didn’t ask for them.”

Her mouth twitched as she replied with interest. 

“I also didn’t ask for you to move me from getting crushed by a beam but you did that anyway, didn’t you?”

You exhale. “You can’t just do that.”

“Do what?”

“Buy people. Fix their problems with money. That’s not how—”

She cuts you off, gently. “It’s exactly how I do things.”

You blink and she takes a step closer.

“You were working in torn gloves. A jacket with a broken zipper. You weren’t going to say anything. No one was going to help you. So I did.”

You try to hold your ground.

“You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet.”

Your jaw clenches. “Is that what this is? Some—some project? Some toy you’re picking up to feel good about yourself?”

“No,” she says softly. “Would you prefer I bribe you with time instead?”

“Look, you don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.”

You stare at her.

And she stares right back.

You don’t know who’s going to flinch first.

But then she adds, tone silk.

“You can walk away if it bothers you that much.”

And you hate that she’s right.

You could.

But your feet don’t move.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another week has passed.

You got a free day today so you ever so kindly asked for an extra shift, which was happily given to you. As you sat down ready to listen to your podcast, your sweet silence is interrupted.

“Do you drink coffee?”

Sophia asks you this like she’s asking about the weather with one eyebrow arched like she already knows the answer.

You’re halfway out of your vest, face still damp with sweat, and the sun is slicing orange across the site like it’s trying to burn the workday down.

You blink at her. “Yeah?”

Her mouth curves. “Good. I’ll send a car.”

You don’t agree. You just stared at her retreating figure with disbelief.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Honestly, you think about cancelling but you don’t, well you couldn’t.

Mostly because the car does show up early — and it’s the kind of black, silent, luxury machine that looks like it shouldn’t be allowed on regular pavement. You catch your reflection in the tinted window before the driver opens the door for you.

You look tired and fidgety. Like you haven’t slept — because you haven’t. You ironed your best shirt twice and still left the collar wrong. Your shoes are clean. Your throat’s dry and you have no idea what you’re doing.

But you get in anyway.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sophia’s already waiting when you arrive.

She’s seated at a table by the window, tall glass overlooking some part of the city that doesn’t feel like yours. There’s warm light painting the bones of her face, and she’s framed like something deliberate. A centerpiece. An apex predator in silk.

She doesn’t wave you over. She just lifts her eyes as you approach.

You hesitate but she then gestures toward the seat across from her, her voice velvet.

“I don’t bite.”

A pause.

“Unless you want me to.”

You nearly trip over the chair leg.

The place is quiet and clean. It's subtle in the way money always is when it’s very sure of itself. Soft piano filters in through the walls. The menu doesn’t have prices — just names. You feel out of place.

Sophia doesn’t seem to notice or maybe she does, and she likes it. Her eyes linger just a fraction too long as you sit down like she’s studying you.

She suddenly speaks up. “You clean up well.”

You scoff under your breath. “I’m still wearing work jeans.”

She shrugs. “Better lighting then.”

“Why am I here?” you ask, trying to anchor yourself to the table before you drown in the floors, the walls, her.

She doesn’t look up from her espresso.

“Because you said yes.”

A beat of silence before she adds, eyes flicking up. “And because I wanted to see you clean.”

Your breath catches as she smiles — slow, indulgent, like a glass of something poured too smooth to be legal.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The server brings something to the table without being asked — some artisanal pastry, flaky and golden. 

A second cup of espresso appears next to it.

She gestures at it.

“Eat.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this the part where you order for me?”

Sophia hums. “I considered it but you strike me as someone who’d spite-starve themselves just to prove a point.”

You smirk, reluctantly.

The pastry’s good.

You finish it before realising how hungry you actually were.

The conversation drips between sips.

She doesn’t talk about business. Instead, she asks what you’re studying. How long you’ve worked construction. Not rapid-fire interrogation — just soft, occasional prompts between sips of espresso, like she wants to hear you talk.

You answer because it's easier than thinking about how expensive the glassware is.

At one point, she leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table.

“You know,” she says, gaze steady, “you don’t have to keep pretending this isn’t happening.”

Your stomach twists. “Pretending what isn’t?”

She doesn’t blink.

“That I’m interested.”

You swallow. “In what?”

Her voice lowers.

“You.”

You try to laugh. You try to wave it off but she doesn’t budge.

She just watches you with that same, infuriating calm, the kind that makes you feel like the floor’s shifting under you, but she’s been standing on solid ground this whole time.

You lean back, arms crossed.

“You don’t even know me.”

“That’s what this is for,” she replies smoothly. “So I can.”

You exhale sharply through your nose.

“Is this a game to you?”

Her expression softens. The smallest crease at the corners of her eyes.

“If it were a game, you wouldn’t be winning.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

You didn’t speak, you just stared at her trying to figure her out.

She lets the silence settle, then lifts her espresso again, graceful and unbothered.

“Remember you can walk away anytime,” she adds, echoing the words from the week before. “I won’t chase you.”

Another pause.

“But I’ll keep inviting you. Until you stop saying yes.”

She leans forward, chin resting gently against her knuckles.

Her voice, now almost a purr, “I want to take care of you.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because I can.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s my reason.”

You stare at her.

She stares right back.

“What do you want from me?”

You don’t mean to sound breathless and yet you do.

Her answer is calm and immediate.

“Time.”

“And?”

Her eyes don’t waver.

“Eventually? Everything.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You leave the restaurant with your head spinning, your chest too tight, your legs moving on muscle memory alone.

She doesn’t walk you to the car but watch you go, like she’s letting you leave early from something you’ve already signed up for.

The driver doesn’t speak.

You stare out the window the whole ride home, palms open in your lap. It’s still rough, dust-stained, callused, and tired. But maybe, this time it’s ready to be held.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A loud yell is heard near the trailer.

Just heat, volume, and a voice cracking like a whip across the site’s early haze, bouncing off steel and scaffolding and the morning groan of machinery trying to shake off sleep.

You’re crouched over a busted crate of conduit fittings near the supply trailer, hands deep in the mess, when the voice cuts through the buzz of generators.

“completely fucking useless—"

Another shout. Loud footsteps. Someone slamming a clipboard onto the portable table.

You let the sigh escape your chest before you stand up.

This can only mean one thing.

Something went wrong.

And someone’s looking for a throat to wring.

You round the corner, half-expecting a routine dispute but the tension in the air says otherwise.

A group has gathered around the foreman. His neck is flushed red, temple ticking, finger jabbing at a screen on his tablet like it's personally offended him.

“This reroute makes no goddamn sense,” he says to a junior guy and then turns, eyes locking on you.

“You.”

You blink.

“What?”

He holds up the tablet. “You signed off on this cabling shift Saturday. Is this how you install lines now? Like a fucking bowl of spaghetti?”

A few guys chuckle but you don’t. You know you’ll be damned if you let out a noise that is not an apology.

You wipe your hands on your pants. “I didn’t touch the foundation cabling. I worked beam bracing that day. Check the log.”

“I did,” he snaps. “It shows your name.”

“On reinforcement brackets, not wiring. Someone updated that file after my shift—”

He cuts you off. Loud. Over the top. “Stop making excuses. You’re here twice a week. You think you know more than my full-time crew?”

You try to stay calm, you did but your fists curl.

“I know what I worked on.”

“And I know I can have your ass out of here before lunch.”

You feel the air shift. People watching. Waiting for something.

And just as your mouth opens—ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his stupid tablet—

“Try it.”

It’s not your voice.

It’s hers.

Everything stops.

You don’t even need to turn. You feel her before you see her.

The stillness she carries. The kind of authority that doesn’t have to raise its voice to be obeyed.

Sophia Fucking Laforteza.

She’s standing near the steel frames, sunlight curling off her shoulders, a black coat draped open like it knows it belongs to someone untouchable. Her assistant hangs back a few paces behind, silent and still as a shadow.

She walks forward, slow and measured, like she owns the ground — and maybe she does.

“Who’s in charge of this crew?” she asks.

The foreman blinks. “I—I am.”

She looks at you, then back to him.

And says, without flinching

“If you lose them, you lose me.”

You see the foreman’s mouth open but Sophia keeps going.

“Laforteza Holdings holds partial interest in this structure, complete oversight of the upper levels, and a direct stake in the contractor managing this site.”

She’s calm and icy like a knife made of breath.

“If you make one more decision based on ego rather than facts and evidence—” she steps closer, voice velvet and steel, “—you’ll find yourself explaining to ten board members why we pulled out before your next invoice cleared.”

Silence.

She doesn’t shout cause she doesn’t have to and yet everyone clears.

The foreman mutters something like an apology and disappears like smoke.

You’re left there — standing with dust on your boots, and something in your chest tightening with every breath.

Sophia looks at you as she mutters quietly, “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Your pulse flares as you answer, “No, not physically.”

Her gaze lingers then she turns and heads to her car.

You watch her get in the car. You don’t even think before you follow. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t ask where you’re going.

You sit in the back seat beside her, silence thick like storm air. The leather feels too clean under your skin. The city unfolds outside the tinted windows — grey steel and passing light.

You expect her to speak. To explain or maybe at least justify things.

But she doesn’t. She never does.

She just looks out the window, fingers tapping once against her thigh.

Waiting.

You realise, in a strange, quiet way, that she’s waiting for you to decide how mad you are.

The car slows outside a building that looks like it should be illegal for how expensive it feels. Even the glass looks like it cost more than your entire student loan debt.

The elevator is silent.

No music, just the soft hum of old money. You stand beside her, all tensed up with whatever feeling you can think of right now.

When the doors open — she leads you into her penthouse. A goddamn penthouse. Marble floors, quiet art, floor-to-ceiling windows and lighting that feels like it was imported from France or somewhere else.

There’s an intimacy in how sharp it all is. Like every angle was chosen to impress, not comfort. Except here you are — dirt under your nails, boots still dusty, standing in the middle of it all.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you say, finally.

She doesn’t take off her coat. She turns, one brow raised. “You would’ve preferred being fired?”

“No but I would’ve preferred not needing you to intervene.”

“Is that what that was?” she asks, stepping closer. “Intervention?”

You stare at her.

“Yes.”

She hums. “No. That was possession.”

Your pulse stutters.

She closes the distance between you — measured, unhurried — and when she stops, she’s close enough that you can smell her perfume, it sticks to you that it burns.

Subtle but expensive in a way you can’t name.

“You don’t need saving,” she says.

You nod, throat tight. “Exactly.”

“But I want to,” she adds.

You take a breath — but she’s not done.

“You think I buy gear for every part-timer I meet?”

 She brushes her fingers across your wrist —were the new gloves she bought you usually wraps.

“You think I spend my weekends circling a construction site just for fun?”

She tilts her head.

“You think I take people home because they’re convenient?”

You open your mouth. 

“I know you hate asking for help.”

She steps closer.

“I know you’re tired.”

Your chest tightens.

She’s in front of you now. She’s far enough to not touch you but close enough that her voice drops.

“And I know you think wanting things makes you weak.”

You shake your head. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You didn’t say anything, you looked at her expecting something. You were expecting to be pushed, to be laughed at. You were expecting the worse of everything. 

“You don’t want my money.”

She slips her fingers under your collar — just brushing your skin.

“Fine.”

Her mouth twitches, not a smirk, not a smile.

“But I’m still going to give you everything.”

You stare at her. Your heart is pounding, you’re afraid that she can hear it. 

You whisper, “Why?”

She exhales.

Like the answer is obvious.

“Because you’re mine.”

And that’s when she kisses you. It’s slow, she’s not demanding for your lips, she’s claiming it. Her hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

For the first time since you started this job, this life, this mess — you stop fighting.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You haven’t seen her since the kiss.

Not in person. Not even a glimpse of her at the site.

Just the echo of it — over and over in your mind — playing in fragments. Her fingers curled in your shirt. The press of her palm on your jaw. The heat that bloomed behind your ribs. The moment her mouth met yours like she’d been holding back since the second you told her off under a beam.

And you?

You let her.

You let her kiss you. You let yourself kiss her back. Like you wanted it.

Because you did.

God, you did.

You told yourself afterward that it didn’t mean anything.

That it was a heat of circumstance. That your brain was scrambled from the shouting and the adrenaline and the way she looked at you like she was ready to burn down the world if anyone touched you wrong.

You told yourself she’d disappear.

That Sophia Fucking Laforteza — chairwoman/owner of three or so more companies, whose coat probably costs more than your tuition — would snap back into her cold, professional world and leave you behind.

You even told yourself you’d be okay with that.

You lied.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The event tonight is somewhat fancy.

Some fundraising-meets-networking thing hosted in a local art museum. It was an invite only type of event and your friend from university has a connection through an internship, and you were tagged along for companionship. Well also for the free food and the hope of snagging a business card or two. But before you know it, they went wandering off, you probably should have too. At least try to make some connections with a few higher ups.

You’re trying not to stand out in your best white thrifted button-up and half-scuffed shoes.

You’re also trying not to think about her.

Though it’s not working.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You see her before she sees you or maybe she sees you first and pretends she didn’t — hard to tell with Sophia.

She enters the space like she owns it, and the answer to that is she probably does. The click of her heels on tiles, the way her coat shifts as she walks, the way conversations dull into a background hum when people realise who’s arrived.

Sophia Laforteza commands presence like other people breathe.

And you feel it — hard.

Because it’s not just that she’s beautiful. It’s not just the body-hugging dress or the slit at her thigh or the collarbone glinting under soft lighting.

It’s that you’ve kissed her.

And that somehow makes this worse.

Or better.

You’re not sure yet.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She sees you.

And this time, she doesn’t pretend. Her eyes find yours across the room like a current snapping to life. It pins you. Like you were a stray thought in her head and she just remembered you were real. You freeze, your fingers tightening slightly around your wine glass. You’re not sure if she’s going to acknowledge you.

She does.

But not with words.

She crosses the room slowly. Everyone shifts out of her way like water parting for something ancient. You swear the entire atmosphere shifts around her — people pulling back, voices dipping — until she’s standing right in front of you. You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until she stops in front of you.

Up close, she’s more devastating than you remember.

She smells like expensive perfume and cold clarity. Like the night you kissed her wasn’t an accident. Like she hasn’t stopped thinking about it either. God you’re so stupid, you should’ve at least talk to someone or drink something stronger to boost your confidence.

She doesn’t speak right away.

And neither do you.

Until she does with her voice too soft.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Not a question. Not an accusation. Just a truth laid bare.

You force a breath. “I thought maybe, I don’t know,  you needed space.”

Sophia raises an eyebrow.

“After kissing you?” she asks, voice low and amused.

You cough as you blush. “After all of that.”

Her mouth twitches. A smile this time.

“You kissed me back.”

“I know.”

She leans in slightly, enough that you feel her voice at your neck.

“You liked it.”

You swallow hard.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“I did.”

She raises one hand, slowly, without needing to ask, and brushes a wrinkle from your shirt. Sophia hums as she looks at you with a sparkle in her eyes. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s quieter now. Intimate in a way it shouldn’t be, considering how many people are around.

“You think I regret it?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I’m not exactly”

You glance around. The suits and the polished shoes. The money in the air.

“what you usually go for.”

Sophia’s expression sharpens.

“Don’t assume you know what I go for,” she says. “I could buy the neighbouring building tonight and set it on fire just because you told me you feel cold. You think I’d waste time on someone I didn’t want?”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t mean—”

She takes a step closer.

“I meant what I said.”

You nod, eyes darting down to your drink.

“I’m not used to people like you.”

“Good,” she replies. “I’m not like people.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I wasn’t, well, I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you say again, because your brain is short-circuiting.

Sophia hums, head tilting. “You clean up well.”

You glance down at yourself, sleeves slightly too long, a scuff on your left shoes. “Not really.”

“I disagree.” Her gaze lingers as she looks down on your shoes. “Well, if you’d let me buy you —

“Sophia. Don’t”

Sophia smiles. “It’s true. You look like you belong.”

You’re not sure what to do with that.

So you laugh, awkwardly. “In a room full of executives and board members?”

“In a room with me,” she says.

And that shuts you up entirely.

But before you can respond, someone interrupts — a man in a stiff suit, clearly nervous but trying not to show it.

“Miss Laforteza. I didn’t realise you’d be attending tonight. Would you—?”

She holds up a hand without looking away from you.

“I’m occupied.”

The man steps back like she slapped him with a bank account balance.

She glances toward your glass. “Wine?”

You nod. “If we’re calling it that.”

She chuckles, and her fingers brush against your pants belt loop— light, but intentional.

“Come with me.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She guides you toward a quieter part of the room. People watch, but try not to be obvious about it. Some recognise her. A few glances at you. She leans close, low enough that you feel her breath by your jaw.

“Are you uncomfortable?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Not with you.”

Her hand lingers at your arm a second longer than necessary. She then steps beside you, looking out at the room like it’s hers to dismantle. Her fingers brush your hair, tracing down to the edge of your collar — slow, absent, like she’s thinking out loud.

“I hate seeing you out there,” she murmurs. “Out in the sun. Lifting steel. Covered in dust, looking all rugged.”

You glance at her, surprised.

She doesn't meet your eyes. Her gaze stays fixed on some distant corner of the room — but her fingers stay on your collarbone.

“But then you have to look like that.”

A smirk appeared on her lips as she spoke.

“Sweating through a shirt. Shoulders flexed. Gloves barely hanging on. Boots all cuffed up.”

She exhales, quiet — almost a sigh.

“And I think, maybe I’m selfish. Because you look so good it makes me want to ruin a whole project just to keep watching you work.”

You blink.

She finally looks at you then — calm, cool, but with that unmistakable gleam behind her eyes.

“It’s inconvenient, really.”

You try not to choke on your own saliva as you stare at her. 

Her eyes drift down your face again. Like she’s memorising it. Like she’s already bought the next moment and is letting you live in it before the receipt clears.

You clear your throat. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to act normal.”

Sophia leans in — not too close, just enough that you feel the shape of her body in your peripheral vision.

“Why would I want you to act normal?”

You open your mouth to answer, but nothing coherent comes out.

She hums again, pleased. Then shifts just slightly, her shoulder brushing yours as she looks over the crowd.

“They don’t know what to do with you.” Her voice is soft. “You don’t flinch. You don’t pester. You don’t ask for anything.”

You glance at her, confused. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Sophia turns to face you more fully with a hum.

“It makes me want to give you everything.”

You feel them in your throat, in your chest, in your knees. You look away.

She doesn’t press. Instead, she lets the moment sit between you. Tension without urgency. Heat without demand. Like she’s letting you decide whether to step closer or stay still.

Eventually, she says, almost idly. “I’ll have my driver wait by the south exit. You know what to do.”

You blink at her.

She doesn’t explain. She doesn’t ask. She just watches you like she already knows the answer.

Then she smiles knowingly as she walks away.

People part for her again.

You stay rooted to the spot, heart caught in your throat.

It’s not until she disappears around a corner that you finally exhale.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun’s already climbing when you stir awake.

The sheets are too soft. The air smells like citrus and money. You’re wrapped in a blanket that probably costs more than your weekly rent — and for a second, you forget where you are.

Then you spot the skyline, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling light across marble floors and designer furniture. A record plays somewhere in the distance — something low and jazzy, curling through the space like incense.

Sophia’s penthouse.

You’re on the guest room, but someone’s thrown a blanket over your shoulders. Someone who probably doesn’t lift steel beams for a living. Someone who smells like expensive perfume and danger disguised as care.

You rub your face and groan softly.

You have class in two hours and a shift later tonight.

Yet you have no clue what you're still doing here.

Suddenly you smell coffee.

Fresh. Dark roast. Frothed milk.

“You wake up so grumpy,” Sophia says lightly as she walked in.

You sit up too fast and groan again, blinking at her. She’s barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing an oversized white button-down that looks like yours and nothing else you can see. She looks annoyingly good for this hour of the day.

“What time is it?” you ask, voice rough.

“Too early for you to be stressing,” she replies, gliding toward you with two mugs in hand.

You blink at the cup she hands you. “Is this bribe coffee? What did you do this time?”

“It's an apology coffee. For spoiling you without permission.”

You squint, then you look down near the bed.

A brand new pair of shoes and another box. Your exact size. There’s a post-it note stuck to the side of the box.

Written in clean handwriting,

“Get rid of the old ones. These won’t kill you.” – S.L. <3

You groan and gently flop back against the bed trying to not spill the coffee. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m practical.”

“You’re spoiled.”

Sophia lifts her coffee. “I was raised with taste.”

You can’t help but glance at the box again. 

“What else is in that box?”

She grins, slow and predatory. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You stare at her. “You’re the worst.”

She shrugs. “I’m rich.”

You’re halfway through your cup when you check your phone.

Three notifications from your university group chat. A class reminder and calendar ping about your shift tonight.

Sophia watches your face shift.

“Don’t tell me you’re about to leave.”

You glance at her, guilty. “I’ve got class and work later.”

“Skip,” she says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“Just today,” she says, like it’s obvious. “The foreman won’t know. I’ll make a call if they do.”

You stare at her.

“Sophia.”

She shrugs, unbothered as she starts playing with your fingers. “I’m powerful. Use me.”

You sit up straighter, sipping again. “You want me to skip class and call out of work so you can feed me coffee and bully me about my shoes?”

“Yes,” she says. “Also, we have brunch reservations at eleven.”

You nearly spit your drink.

“Brunch?”

“I ordered a table. Waterfront view.”

You stare at her. “That’s two hours from now.”

“Exactly. You’ve got time to shower. I laid out a shirt. It’s tailored.”

You glance down at your thrifted clothes then back at her, then back at the shoes.

You squint. “You’re a menace.”

Sophia smirks over the rim of her mug.

“You have no idea.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She doesn’t tell you that she spent half the night watching you sleep — the soft rise and fall of your chest, the crease between your brows that didn’t ease until after your second dream.

She doesn’t say she’s already sent her assistant a list of brands in your size or made a call to have your shift quietly removed from the schedule.

Instead, she hands you a pastry.

Warm. Flaky. Apricot and something expensive.

“Eat,” she says.

You do, like it was the first time she “asked” you out. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour later, you’re in her guest bathroom — which is still somehow larger than your entire apartment, trying to figure out how you ended up here.

You towel off. You pull on the clean, tailored shirt from the hanger she left by the door. And when you catch your reflection in the mirror, you have to admit.

She has taste.

And maybe — just maybe — you like being cared for like this.

Even if you didn’t ask for it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When you step back into the living room, Sophia glances up from her book.

She doesn’t say anything for a beat.

She just stare like you’ve done something wrong by existing this good in her chosen shirt.

She then stands up as she walks over. She then adjusts the collar of your shirt with gentle fingers.

“You clean up obscenely well.”

You open your mouth to retort but she cuts you off by slipping your wallet and phone into your back pocket, lips ghosting the edge of your jaw.

“You’re mine today,” she says, soft but firm.

“No class. No steel beams. Just you and me. And maybe a rooftop view if you behave.”

You’re not sure if you nod.

But you don’t argue.

And when she threads her fingers through yours, casually and confidently, like you were made for her palm, you follow.

Because for once, there’s nothing to fight, only softness.

And steel in silk.

And the quiet, impossible truth.

You’re not used to being spoiled.

But maybe, with her, you could be.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Panic tightened in your chest, a sudden sharp pull beneath your ribs. A dull ache bloomed there, pulsing like a bruise that you don’t remember having. Your arm felt heavy, secured with some tapes and bandages. IV lines tugged at your skin each time you breathed.

You turned your head and instantly regretted it.

A nurse stood by the heart monitor, adjusting something with the absent and effortless precision of someone who could do it in her sleep. She noticed you stirring and turned, giving you a polite and practised smile that all nurses seemed to master by their second year on the job.

“Well,” she said gently, “good to see you awake. You took quite the hit.”

Your voice scraped your throat when you tried to speak. “...What happened?”

“You were brought in from a construction site,” she explained. “Part of the scaffolding gave way. You fell a few feet, and something clipped your ribs on the way down. No fractures, thankfully—just bruised ribs and a mild concussion. One of your co-workers called an ambulance straight away.”

You blinked up at her, brows pinching together. “Huh?”

She continued, “We also contacted your emergency contact.”

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

Emergency contact.

The memory struck you in fragments. From Matt’s panic state, people shouting your name, hands trying to keep you still, and Matt insisting that he was calling an ambulance. And you are aware that with an ambulance came paperwork. And with paperwork came a phone call.

A phone call to someone you had absolutely not wanted hearing about this.

Your heart thudded hard.

“You guys didn’t call—”

The door burst open.

Sophia stood at the threshold like she’d sprinted the entire way, hair slightly mussed, breath uneven. You hadn’t seen her look like that since the day she caught you being scolded by the foreman on-site. But even her fury back then wasn’t like this—

This was a concern sharpened by fear.

And despite the blinding lights doing no one any favours, she still looked devastatingly beautiful.

When her eyes locked onto you, everything else in the room just disappeared.

She crossed the room before the door even swung shut, heels clacking unevenly on the tile, her pace too urgent yet still so graceful. The nurse stepped aside, receiving only a distracted, half-formed nod from Sophia as she reached your bedside.

“Y/N.”

Your name left her mouth like she’d been holding it in her throat for hours.

You tried to sit up but pain shot through your ribs like a warning flare.

You can’t help but hissed which caused Sophia’s hand to immediately but gently gripped your shoulder, trembling ever so slightly.

“Don’t,” she said, voice cracking around the edges. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered—a terrible lie.

You shrugged your shoulders to demonstrate, then winced.

Sophia let out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. “Do not,” she warned, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t fool around.”

She sank into the chair beside you as if her legs couldn’t hold her anymore. One hand curled around the metal rail of your bed, knuckles pale, gripping like the world might tilt if she let go.

For several seconds, she said nothing. She just looked at you, her eyes tracing every bruise, every wince, and every uneven breath.

“I told you to be careful,” she murmured, voice heavy with worry.

“I am,” you insisted weakly.

“Clearly not enough.” Her jaw tightened. “Look at you.”

Before she could spiral further, you reached for her hand. Slow, hesitant, and half expecting her to pull away.

She didn’t.

Her fingers slipped from the metal railing to yours, warm against your chilled skin.

“...I’m sorry,” you whispered.

She shook her head immediately, sharply. “No, mahal, don’t—”

The endearment slipped out, before she realised it which caused her to freeze. Sophia drew in a shaky breath, closing her eyes for a moment to gather herself.

“When the hospital called,” she said quietly, “they only told me there’d been an accident. That you were unconscious. And that you’d been taken by ambulance.”

Her breath stuttered.

“You could’ve been hurt worse. You could’ve—” she swallowed, voice thinning, “I don’t want to think about it.”

Your brows knit. “How did they know to call you?”

Her eyes softened—something shy blooming beneath the worry.

“You listed me as your emergency contact.”

You blinked as heat crawled up your neck as you remembered exactly why you had panicked about Matt calling. But before embarrassment eats you further, Sophia lifted your joined hands, brushing her thumb across your knuckles as though committing the shape of them to memory.

“I’m still mad at you,” she whispered, “but that’s unbearably cute.”

Your cheeks grew impossibly warm.

“I forgot I’d done that,” you admitted. “It was… a while ago.”

“But you still did.” Her voice was gentle. “And I’m glad.”

You swallowed around the flutter rising behind your ribs.

She leaned back slightly, finally allowing herself to breathe. Her thumb traced slow circles over your skin as she looked around the room, then back at you.

“You scared me,” she said softly.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” she whispered, lifting your hand and kissing the back of it gently. “But I was terrified.”

You couldn’t help the small smile pulling at your lips.

“Sophia… I’m glad you came.”

Her eyes warmed instantly. “I would have come,” she said. “No matter what.”

She lifted her chin in decision. 

“And I’m taking you home when they release you.”

Your eyes widened. “Sophia, I can go to my place—”

“No.”

“But I can—”

“No.”

“Sophia—”

“No,” she insisted again. “I know you. You’ll pretend you’re fine and then do something stupid the minute I’m not watching.”

“But you’re busy. And I don’t want to be a burden, and—”

“Let me take care of you.”

You inhaled softly.

“…Okay.”

Her shoulders finally relaxed, relief washing through her posture like a slow exhale.

She dragged the chair closer until her knee brushed the side of the bed.

“Try to rest,” she murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you did. Your eyelids grew heavy. Sophia didn’t move—not even to check her phone. She simply held your hand between both of hers, thumb stroking gently every time your breath hitched.

You drifted into sleep with her watching over you, her presence warm and protective.

For the first time since the fall… you felt safe.

Because Sophia wasn’t letting go.

—

You woke again to the soft tap of knuckles on your door.

This time the fog had lifted enough that the world didn’t feel quite so distant. Your ribs still throbbed, and your head pulsed dully, but things were clearer.

Sophia Laforteza hadn’t moved.

She was still in the chair right beside you, one leg crossed over the other, elbows resting on her knees as she scrolled through her phone with the sharp focus of someone doing everything possible to stay awake. A few strands of her dark hair had slipped loose behind her ear, and her usually immaculate blouse was creased—clear proof she hadn’t left your side once.

When the nurse entered with your file, Sophia’s head snapped up instantly.

“Is everything alright?” Her voice carried enough authority to make the nurse straighten reflexively.

“All good,” the nurse said warmly. “We’ve completed your assessments. The doctor’s approved your discharge—provided you’re supervised for at least the next forty-eight hours.”

Sophia stood, her posture crisp. “I’ll be supervising them.”

The nurse nodded at Sophia’s answer.

You cleared your throat. “I can supervise myself, actually.”

“No,” both women said simultaneously.

Sophia gave you a look that made you shut up.

“Don’t.”

The nurse smiled while checking your blood pressure. “You’ll feel dizzy on and off for a bit. Nothing dangerous, but you’ll need rest. We’ll send you home with pain meds and concussion care instructions.”

Sophia straightened like she was memorising a briefing. “What medication? How often do they need it? What can they take with it? And also what can’t they take with it?”

“Sophia,” you whispered, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m not dying.”

“Well, not on my supervision,” she said sharply.

The nurse stifled a laugh. “Your partner seems pretty intoxicated still.”

You choked but Sophia didn’t.

“They are,” Sophia said smoothly.

Your brain short-circuited.

The nurse moved on as if this were all perfectly ordinary. She handed you the small bag of your belongings. Sophia helped you sit up slowly, holding your arm with careful, deliberate gentleness.

You attempted to prove you were fine by pushing yourself upright—but pain speared to your ribs which caused you to hissed instantly.

Sophia’s “I told you so” expression was immediate and merciless.

“Let me help you,” she said quietly.

This time, you didn’t argue.

She assisted you in changing out of the hospital gown, respectfully averting her gaze when needed, steadying you when dizziness washed over you. Her touch remained warm, firm, and impossibly careful. Every accidental graze of her fingers sent heat crawling up your neck.

By the time you were dressed, exhaustion was already pulling you back under.

“Alright,” she murmured, slipping her arm around you. “Lean on me.”

You wanted to protest— but then the hallway wobbled. You can help but clutch her instinctively. You wished that you had asked for a wheelchair. 

Sophia tightened her hold, her voice sinking into a whisper edged with fear.

“This is why you’re coming home with me.”

“I could’ve taken a taxi,” you muttered.

“And what?” she said sharply. “Faint in the back seat? Fall on a slippery step in your building? Hit your head again?”

You blinked. “Sophia… calm down please.”

She shot you a look filled with heat and fear and something heartbreakingly earnest.

“I thought I was going to lose you today,” she whispered.

Everything inside you went quiet and you know better than to argue after that.

—

You let her guide you through reception and out the sliding doors. The late afternoon air hit your face. A sleek black car waited at the kerb—one of the luxury models you’d seen used whenever she visits the site. The driver, a sharply dressed man in his forties, immediately stepped out and opened the back door.

“Ma’am,” he greeted with a respectful nod. “The hospital called ahead. Everything is ready.”

“Thank you,” Sophia said, all business again—until she turned back to you, her entire expression softened.

She helped you into the back seat, keeping one hand steady on your waist. The driver closed the door gently once you were settled.

Sophia climbed in after you, sliding close enough that her thigh brushed yours.

“You alright?” she murmured.

“Yeah, just a little tired.”

“Then rest,” she said. “I’ve got you.”

The car pulled away smoothly.

Sophia took your hand without thinking—an instinctive, protective gesture. Her thumb stroked slow circles across your knuckles as though making sure you stayed grounded and conscious.

You drifted in and out of sleep, your head eventually tipping toward her shoulder. Sophia shifted, as she guided you gently, and let you rest there.

She didn’t move her hand from yours the entire ride.

—

The familiar silhouette of the building came into view first, sharp against the fading sky. The place you’d never forget—the previous nights, the first time your lips had brushed hers, trembling and tentative. Memory clung to the corners of the walls like dust in sunlight.

Sophia guided you through the lobby, her hand firm on your arm, steadying you despite your protests. You had never realised how grounding her touch could be, how much weight it carried—not just her strength, but her care.

Once inside, the door clicked shut behind you. The penthouse was quiet, dimly lit, warm from the day’s sun and lingering city hum. She stopped, eyes sweeping over you slowly, taking in the bruises darkening your ribs, the slight curve of your posture, the hand pressed against your side as though shielding yourself.

Something inside her broke.

It only takes three steps and then she was close, hands hovering over your jaw, over the seam of your shirt where a bruise peeked.

“Can I?” she whispered.

Before you could respond, she pulled you in. Arms circled your shoulders, her head resting against your neck, her nails grazing lightly against the fabric of your shirt as if to anchor herself. The contact was gentle, careful—but there was fire behind it, a certain intensity of someone who had nearly lost you.

You exhaled against her hair, sliding your hands around her waist. She was warm, solid, but trembling just enough that you could feel the unspoken words in her chest.

“I’m here,” you murmured.

A hum against your neck, soft and relieved.

“For a moment,” she whispered back, voice low, “…I thought I’d lost you. Not knowing—when they couldn’t even tell me how bad it was…” Her fingers dug into your shirt unconsciously.

You leaned down, forehead against hers. “I’m here,” you said softly.

Her exhale was long, shaky, as she pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “Can I—I need to see the bruises,” she murmured, vulnerability threading through her words.

“You just saw them.”

“Please,” she whispered. Something raw and pleading flickered in her eyes. You didn’t argue. You lifted the hem of your shirt, and her breath hitched, fingers tracing the dark marks with reverent and careful movements. Light, almost fleeting, but intimate in a way that made your chest constrict.

Her touch was feather-light, barely there, but the intimacy of it burned hotter than anything harsh could.

“This looks bad,” she murmured.

“Shhh…I’m okay,” you said.

“You could have—” She stopped herself again. “Just… sit down.”

She guided you toward her bedroom with a hand braced at the small of your back, careful not to apply pressure. The air in her room smelled faintly of jasmine and cedar, the same scent from the night you first kissed her.

It made something in your chest stir painfully.

Sophia helped you sit on the edge of the bed, then dropped to her knees before you.

You startled. “Sophia—”

“Stay still.”

Her fingers are warm  and confidently rested on your knees as she looks up at you. The position should have felt scandalous, almost suggestive, but there was nothing seductive in her expression.

She looked somewhat terrified.

“If  you are hurt anywhere else,” she said, voice lower, “I want to know.”

Your throat tightened. “It’s mostly my ribs.”

“And your shoulder,” she added quietly.

“Maybe.”

Her hands slid upward, slow and careful. They traced your thighs, thumbs sweeping along the muscle like she needed to reassure herself you were whole. She stopped at your hips, squeezing gently, grounding herself in the physicality of you.

“You’re still warm,” she murmured. “That’s good.”

The sensation of her hands on you — your hips and your thighs was almost overwhelming. You held your breath, unsure if you wanted to pull her closer or push her away to avoid combusting.

Sophia’s eyes flicked up to yours.

“Breathe,” she whispered.

You obeyed.

She rose gracefully to her feet and cupped your jaw, her thumbs stroking your cheekbones, her palms guiding your face upward as though she needed you angled just right.

Her lips hovered inches from yours—not kissing you yet,  but close enough that you felt her breath on your mouth.

Close enough that it hurts to not close the distance.

“Tell me if this is too much,” she murmured.

“It’s not.”

Her forehead pressed to yours, her breath shaky. “Good.”

Sophia pulled away before either of you crossed a line you weren’t ready to name. She grabbed clothes—hers and yours—then returned to you.

“You need a shower,” she said.

You tensed. “Sophia, I can—”

“No,” she said, firm. “You can’t. And I’m not letting you slip, fall, or be stubborn about this.”

Her tone brooked no argument. You let her help you stand, leaning on her slightly as the ache in your ribs flared. You then looked at her, letting your eyes tell her things both of you aren’t ready to speak into existence yet.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered.

“Like what?”

“Like…I don’t know, just don’t.”

“You’re so bossy. I was just looking”

“And you are injured. Which means I win.”

She opened the bathroom door, steam already rolling gently from the shower she’d started earlier. The warm light and soft tiles contrasted against the cold shock of your memory—scaffolding above you, Matt shouting your name, the sky spinning too fast.

Sophia must have seen the flicker of something in your expression because she stepped closer.

“Hey,” she murmured, her hands finding your arms. “It’s over. You’re here.”

You nodded, swallowing past the sudden tightness in your throat.

Sophia took your shirt between her fingers.

You raised a brow. “Should I be nervous?”

“Why?” she said. “I don’t think you should.”

She helped you undress—slow and deliberate, trying to avoid every bruise with the precision of someone handling glass. Her eyes roamed your body not hungrily, but attentively, searching for signs of pain. But despite it all, Sophia can’t help but admire how heavy lifting and dangerous labour do to a body, specifically yours. 

“You really are hurt,” she whispered.

“It’ll heal.”

“I know.” Her voice cracked. “But I don’t want to see you in this bruised up state again.”

You didn’t think but your hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath caught and for a moment, something charged passed between you—something bright and dangerous.

Sophia took a small step closer.

“Into the shower,” she said softly with a smile.

She guided you inside, rolling up her sleeves again. The steam kissed her skin, making her hair curl faintly around her temples. You clenched your jaw because she looked unfairly beautiful like that, and you were in no state to be thinking about anything but survival.

The water ran warm down your back as Sophia’s hands moved through your hair, massaging shampoo gently into your scalp. Her fingers were careful.

“You’re trembling,” she murmured.

“Am I?”

She gave you a look that pierced straight through you. “Yes.”

“Maybe I’m cold.”

“You’re lying.”

You swallowed thickly. “Maybe I am.”

Sophia’s hands slid down to your shoulders, fingers pressing lightly against the knots of tension there. Her touch was firmer now and definitely more certain. The air between your bodies thickened.

Her voice dropped. “You scared me.”

“You said that already.”

“I’ll say it again,” she whispered. “I was terrified.”

You closed your eyes.

Her hands slid down your arms, reaching your wrists—thumbs brushing the faint indentations where the hospital tape had stuck.

“You’re safe now,” she murmured. “With me.”

When she finished rinsing your hair and washing your upper body, she stepped away just enough to grab a towel and wrap it around you with gentle, practiced movements. Her fingers lingered at your shoulders, your chest, and your ribs.

And then just when you thought she’d pull away, her lips brushed your collarbone. Her lips burned your skin like a vampire being exposed to the sun.

You inhaled sharply which caused her to freeze.

Her eyes lifted—slow, wide, and searching your face for regret.

“You okay?” she whispered.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Her fingers curled in the towel. “Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

Something flickered through her expression—heat, relief, and a certain hunger she couldn’t hide. But she stepped back anyway, controlling herself with a precision that made your knees weak.

“We should get you dressed,” she said, voice trembling slightly despite her composed expression.

She helped you into soft clothes—one of your shirts (that you left from your previous stays), and sweatpants she’d brought out for you. Her hands were steady, but her breathing… her breathing wasn’t.

She guided you back to the bed, tucking you in like you were something breakable. And when she finally sat beside you, her thigh brushed yours but she didn’t move away.

And neither did you.

“You’re something else,” you murmured.

Sophia scoffed. “You’re the one making it difficult to think.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” She glared at nothing in particular. “Sitting here looking like… that.”

“Like what?”

She refused to answer.

Instead, she leaned forward and pressed a hand to your chest—right over your heartbeat.

“You’re staying here,” she whispered. “I need to know you’re safe.”

“Here? But I usually sleep in your guestroom?”

She didn’t answer. Her hand stayed there a moment longer before she slid it down, fingers brushing your sternum.

You can’t help but exhale, your breath catching.

Sophia drew back slowly, eyes lingering on your lips for a half-second too long.

“Get some rest,” she said quietly. “Before I do something stupid.”

You smiled faintly. “Stupid how?”

Her jaw flexed. “Don’t test me.”

You smirked.

She groaned softly into her hands. “Stop being impossible.” 

But her hand found yours under the blanket, fingers intertwining like instinct. Letting her thumbs draw circles on your skin, as her other hand plays with your hair, softly making your eyelids too heavy to stay open.

Because Sophia stayed awake, thumb tracing your knuckles, watching your breathing settle—guarding you like something sacred.

—

You woke to warmth that didn’t belong to you.

Not sunlight—Sophia rarely let the penthouse blinds open past a modest sliver. Not blankets—you were swaddled in a softness far too expensive to ever exist in your own apartment.

It was warmth shaped like a person.

Sophia was tucked against your side, half draped over you in a way that made your ribs ache but your chest soften. Her forehead rested against your shoulder, her breath feathering over your collarbone. One of her legs had somehow hooked over yours, pinning you like a small, furious guard dog disguised as a goddess.

You didn’t remember her clinging to you like this.

But you didn’t need to because it felt natural.

You moved to adjust the blanket, and immediately a hand shot to your waist.

“…Don’t,” she mumbled, voice low and sleep-rough and dangerously soft. “Don’t move.”

You blinked. “Sophia—”

“No.” Her eyes were still closed, brows furrowed. “Stay.”

“I’m literally just trying to—”

“You’re injured,” she muttered. “Be still.”

You stared at the ceiling, fighting a smile. “You’re very bossy even if you're half-asleep.”

She groaned and finally cracked open one eye, glaring up at you from where she lay against your chest. Her voice, however, remained soft, just slightly hoarse from sleep.

“Don’t provoke me before breakfast.”

“Breakfast? You’re cooking?”

Another groan. She buried her face back into your shoulder. “Unfortunately.”

“I can do the cooking, you don’t—”

“No.” she mumbled. “I want to cook.”

You swallowed.

It was stupid how much that simple sentence warmed you.

When she finally pushed herself upright, she didn’t fully let go. She hovered close, watching you carefully the way someone watches a candle flame, afraid it might flicker out.

Her fingers brushed your hair back. “Any pain?”

“Just a bit sore.”

She gave you a long, unamused look. “Don’t downplay it.”

You sighed. “…My ribs. And my shoulder.”

Sophia nodded once, as if filing the information away into categories she intended to address later. Then she stood slowly, stretching quietly.

And that’s when you realised something else.

She was wearing your shirt.

It was slightly too big on her, hanging loose over her frame, sleeves pushed up her forearms. She sensed you looking and paused mid-stretch.

“What?” she asked.

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

Sophia squinted. “You’re lying.”

“I said nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“Is it bad? I’m just… appreciating.”

That made heat bloom under her cheeks. Pink, soft, and quickly straightened out by sheer willpower.

She crossed her arms. “Well… it was the closest thing to the bed.”

“You have an entire closet.”

“I didn’t want to walk that far.”

You raised a brow. “You dressed yourself in my clothes because your closet was too far?”

She lifted her chin. “Yes.”

You tried not to smile but failed miserably. 

Sophia rolled her eyes and pointed toward the bathroom. “Go wash up. But slowly. And call me if you feel dizzy.”

“You’ll hear if I fall.”

Her lips twitched with amusement. “I’d rather hear you call me than hear you hit the floor.”

You met her eyes. “I’ll call you.” accompanied with a playful wink as she helps you stand up.

Relief, warmth, and something tender she wasn’t ready to name yet flickered across her face as she nodded. “You better.”

You washed up, careful of your ribs hitting the sink, and when you returned, you found Sophia already in the kitchen.

The sight almost stopped your heart.

Sophia—hair slightly messy, your shirt swallowing her frame, apron tied neatly around her waist, sleeves rolled to her elbows—was frying something on the stove with focused concentration.

She moved with softness layered underneath, each motion slower than her usual sharp efficiency.

“You’re watching me,” she said without turning.

“Wow, I guess you’d survive a usual horror scene.”

“It’s because I can feel you staring.”

You leaned against the counter. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

She glanced over her shoulder, lips curling slightly. “I don’t cook for many people.”

“I’m honoured then.”

She looked fully now, her eyes warm, honest, but playful.

“You should.”

For a moment, the room felt too small.

You swallowed around the heat spreading across your chest. “Sophia…”

She turned back to the stove. “Sit down. Breakfast is almost done.”

Of course you listened.

She made a plate for you first, setting it gently in front of you, then sat across from you with her own. The food smelled good—better than you expected from someone who claimed she didn’t cook often.

The first few minutes were quiet and comfortable but then you cleared your throat softly.

“Sophia?”

She looked up mid-bite, humming in question.

You poked lightly at your plate, trying to sound casual. “Yesterday—the whole hospital thing.”

Her chewing slowed. She set her fork down. “Right.”

“I was out cold half the day,” you said, attempting a smile. “You handled everything while I was unconscious, yeah?”

She gave a small, polite eyebrow raise. “I did.”

You nodded, staring at your food a bit too intently. “Okay, so… where do I pay the bill?”

Sophia didn’t blink. “You don’t.”

Your fork stalled halfway to your mouth. “Sorry—what?”

“You don’t have to pay for it,” she said simply, as if she were informing you something casual like the weather.

You let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Sophia. Please tell me you didn’t.”

Her gaze held steady. “I did.”

“Soph—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me—”

“No.”

You dropped your cutlery with a soft clink and leaned back. “It’s my responsibility.”

“Your responsibility,” she said calmly, “is to rest. Mine is to take care of you.”

“That’s not—” You scrubbed a hand over your face. “It’s too expensive.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.”

Something shifted in her expression—barely, but enough. Her jaw tightened and her eyes cooled to something guarded.

“Why?” she asked quietly.

You swallowed thickly. “Because I don’t want to… take advantage of you.”

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move at all. Then her knife slipped from her fingers and clattered softly onto her plate.

She stood.

The scrape of her chair against the floor was soft but startling, and then she was beside you, her presence warm and close. She touched your jaw with gentle firmness, tilting your face up to hers.

“You think that’s what this is?” she murmured.

“No—I just…” Your voice cracked. You forced a breath. “You already do too much for me.”

Her expression darkened. She’s not angry, but wounded in such ways that make your stomach twist. She looked at you straight into your eyes, her hand still holding you in place.

“Listen to me,” she said quietly, each word grounded and steady. “You being hurt is harder for me than any bill could ever be. Do you understand that?”

Your chest tightened. “…Sophia—”

“I paid it,” she said, thumb brushing your cheek in a slow, calming stroke. “And you’re not going to worry about it. End of discussion.”

She was close enough for you to feel her breath on your skin. 

You let out a shaky exhale. “You can’t always win.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I can. And I do.”

“You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re injured.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Are you going to use that against me forever?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Though I’d prefer not to have the excuse for long.”

Her hand lingered a heartbeat more—warm and grounding, before she finally stepped back and returned to her seat, as though the room hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

—

You ate in silence for a moment before another thought surfaced.

“I should go back to work tomorrow.”

Sophia’s fork froze mid-air.

Slowly, she lowered it.

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me—”

“No.”

“Sophia, I can’t just skip—”

“No.”

You threw your hands up. “You can’t keep saying no!”

“Yes, I can,” she said, calm and infuriating and yet beautiful. “And I will.”

You glared. “I’m capable of working.”

“You have bruised ribs.”

“I can walk.”

“You can barely lift your arm.”

“Yes I can.”

“Right.” she said as she rolled her eyes.

“I can still do basic tasks.”

“You fainted yesterday.”

“I didn’t faint—”

“You were unconscious.”

“It was an accident—”

“You fell,” she snapped, voice sharper now. “And I wasn’t there. And I won’t allow that to happen again.”

Silence.

You swallowed. “Sophia…”

She closed her eyes, breathing in slowly, softening her tone. “You can’t go back yet. Not until you’re healed.”

“But—”

“No,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t fight me on this.”

The “please” made you look at her in defeat.

You deflated. “…How long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She met your eyes. “I know.”

You leaned back in your chair. “You’re not giving me a choice, are you?”

“No.” A pause. “But I am telling it to you nicely.”

Something in her voice—low, vulnerable, and pleading beneath the steel—broke you a little.

“…Fine,” you said quietly.

Sophia exhaled. Relief flooded her posture.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

You studied her—her tension, her worry, the way she stared at her plate like she was trying to regain control of her breathing.

You couldn’t help it.

You reached across the table and touched her hand.

Sophia looked up and the air shifted again.

Her fingers turned, sliding between yours.

—

Sophia insisted you stay on the couch after breakfast, which you did… for exactly five minutes.

Five.

Then you spotted one of her throw towels slightly crooked, the edges not lining up. You reached to fix it, stretching carefully—

“Absolutely not.”

You flinched. “Soph— what?”

Sophia marched out of the kitchen with a damp towel in her hand, eyes narrowed, footsteps sharp like small thunderclaps across the penthouse floor.

“You,” she said, pointing aggressively toward the cushions behind you, “sit.”

“But the towel was—”

“Sit.”

“I’m just straightening—”

“Sit.”

You crossed your arms. “Are you going to command me like a dog all day?”

“Yes,” she answered instantly, without shame.

You blinked. “Sophia—”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t a yes or no question—”

“Yes.”

You groaned and sank back into the couch, head falling against the cushion. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” she said calmly as she walked over. “Lean back properly.”

“I am leaning back.”

“More.”

“More?”

She put a hand on your chest and pushed gently. “More.”

You huffed, but let her position you exactly how she wanted, which is reclined, supported, and completely immobile.

“That’s better,” she murmured, satisfied. “Stay.”

You exhaled deeply. “I’m not a child.”

“No,” she said, lifting your arm to adjust the pillow under your ribs. “You’re worse.”

You snorted. “How am I worse?”

“You’re reckless,” she replied. “And stubborn. And you never listen.”

You raised a brow. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

Sophia paused, eyes narrowing. “…Don’t test me.”

The tension between you sparked instantly—quiet but electric, threading through the air. Her hand was still on your chest, fingers splayed lightly over your collarbone, her thumb brushing once—absentminded, thoughtless, intimate.

It sent a warm ripple straight through your stomach.

She realised a second too late what she was doing and snatched her hand back, clearing her throat sharply.

“You should rest,” she said stiffly.

You smiled. “You always get flustered when—”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“You’re pink.”

“I’m not.”

You grinned. “Sophia…”

Her lips pressed into a line a little too tight to be calm.

“…Shut up,” she muttered.

You laughed quietly, and something in her posture softened—like your laughter was a sound that she’d involuntarily want to play in her head.

Sophia walked away to fold the towel and you watched her move. Looking graceful and composed.

And wearing your shirt.

It made something deep in your chest tug gently, warm, and possessive.

She took care of you so intensely, so vehemently, that it stirred something primal in you—something that wanted to take care of her back.

But not like she did—with commands and sternness.

No.

You wanted something quieter. Something intentional. Something softer, but no less deliberate.

The idea simmered, settling heavy and sweet under your ribs.

—

Sophia stayed in the kitchen longer than necessary.

You could hear her — cupboards opening, the fridge shutting, the brief clatter of dishes. None of it sounded messy enough to be accidental. She was keeping herself busy, you realised. Busy in the way people do when their emotions have nowhere to go.

You shifted carefully on the couch, wincing when your ribs protested. The blanket she’d tucked around you earlier had slipped slightly down your waist.

Before you could reach for it, Sophia’s voice carried from the kitchen.

“Don’t you dare move.”

You huffed a laugh. “I wasn’t—”

“You were thinking about moving.”

“How would you know that?”

Her footsteps approached again, slow but precise, and she appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, her eyebrows raised in a way that made your stomach flutter.

“I know you,” she said.

And that was the problem.

She crossed the room and tugged the blanket back up, smoothing it over you with meticulous care. Her fingers brushed your side for half a second too long, and she must’ve felt the way your breath hitched because her hand froze.

Sophia swallowed and stepped back, clearing her throat.

“You need to rest.”

“You need to sit down,” you countered gently.

Her brows knitted. “I’m fine.”

You tilted your head. “Are you?”

Sophia’s lips parted as if to retort, but she closed them again. She stood there for a moment, perfectly still, as her eyes trained on some point near your shoulder as if debating something.

Then she moved.

She quietly sank onto the couch beside you — leaving enough space to be polite, but not enough to be indifferent. Her shoulder hovered a few centimetres from yours, as though she wasn’t sure touching you again would be the right call.

You watched her hands as they kept fidgeting.

Sophia Laforteza — corporate-warfare queen, stone-faced perfection, composed even while scolding a foreman in front of the entire site is fidgeting.

You can’t help but soften at the thought itself.

Carefully, you reached out and took her hand.

Her fingers stilled instantly, her breath catching the way it did earlier when she thought you might fall in the shower. She didn’t pull away. She only looked at you, eyes wide, her pupils softening around the edges.

“…You okay?” you asked quietly.

Sophia’s mouth opened, then closed again. She looked away, jaw working like she was trying to find the right version of the truth.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” she said finally. The words were small. 

“I know.”

“It makes me feel…” Her voice dipped, almost ashamed. “Helpless.”

You squeezed her hand. “You’re not helpless.”

“I felt like it,” she confessed. “When the call came. When the nurse told me you’d been unconscious. And they didn’t know how bad it was.” Her fingers tightened around yours. “I don’t ever want to feel that again.”

You leaned your head back. “Sophia… you can’t control everything.”

She huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh or a broken sigh. “Don’t tell me that.”

“But it’s true.”

She finally turned to face you properly, eyes sharp but vulnerable beneath the surface. “I know it’s true,” she whispered. “I just… I don't like it.”

Silence settled between you.

Slowly, carefully, you lifted your free hand and brushed your knuckles against her cheek.

“Let me take care of you too,” you said softly.

“I don’t know how to let people do that,” she admitted, voice barely audible.

“Then we’ll start small.”

You reached out and gently smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear — the same way you did last night. Sophia inhaled sharply, eyes closing for a moment as if grounding herself in the touch.

When she opened them again, her gaze was softer than you had ever seen it.

“…hmm,” she hummed quietly.

You confirmed by gently kissing her forehead.

Her hand rose hesitantly — as if moving through water — and rested on your chest over your heartbeat.

“I’m still in charge,” she said, voice steadying again.

You smirked. “Of course you are.”

“But…” she added, her fingers brushing slightly. “I can try.”

You felt something warm bloom under your ribs — gentler than fear, brighter than pain, and deeper than gratitude.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured.

Sophia exhaled, long and slow, almost trembling with relief as she leaned into the couch, her shoulder finally settling against yours.

For the first time since the accident, she let herself relax.

And you stayed there beside her — letting her feel your warmth, your breathing, your presence — caring for her in the quiet way she didn’t know how to ask for yet.

—

Manon Bannerman did not arrive at the penthouse by accident.

That was the part Sophia would replay later, trying to pinpoint the exact moment the woman had slipped past her guard. But for now, the two of you were still on the couch, the lamplight soft and low, her shoulder pressed to yours with a closeness she was still pretending was unavoidable.

You could feel her breathing — steady, but not quite relaxed — a certain quiet rhythm of someone who had only just admitted they didn’t want to lose you.

You shifted slightly and Sophia’s hand twitched, as if ready to steady you before you even leaned. Her gaze flicked down to the careful rise and fall of your chest, checking, which she always does.

You smiled at this gesture but she pretended not to notice.

A vibration buzzed from somewhere behind the couch.

Sophia stiffened again. “Your phone.”

You blinked. “My… oh.” 

Right. She’d tucked your phone onto the charging dock on the side table earlier, muttering about you forgetting everything unless she did it herself.

You reached for it, ribs tightening with the movement. Sophia’s hand shot forward automatically, fingers brushing yours as she steadied you without thinking.

The contact was warm and brief, a little too intimate not to feel.

And as you unlocked your phone, you saw three messages from one name.

Manon Bannerman - Statistics 210

Sophia leaned in slightly — not to snoop, but because she always leaned toward you now, like gravity was a choice she was making out of stubbornness.

“Who’s that?” she asked casually

Except nothing about her tone was casual.

“Just a uni mate,” you said, opening the first message.

hey trouble,  just found out we are in the same class again.  im in the city today. you at that tiny flat of yours or somewhere else? gotta drop some stuff off.

You frowned.

“She says she needs to give me something?”

Sophia’s eyebrows narrowed just a fraction. “What kind of something?”

You scrolled.

also, saw your name on the uni system. TA said you accidentally submitted the wrong version. i fixed it for you, but i need you to sign the cover sheet. uni’s closing early today. ;)

Sophia exhaled quietly.

You typed back quickly.

I'm not at my place rn. Staying at a friend’s.

Manon responded instantly.

cool. drop me a pin.

You hesitated.

Sophia saw.

“No,” she said firmly. “Do not send her my address.”

You snorted. “Sophia…”

“I’m serious.”

“It’s just a uni classmate.”

“Fine, but we will meet her at the lobby.”

Still, you didn’t send the exact pin — mostly because you genuinely weren’t sure if Sophia would combust and of course, to respect her privacy.

Instead, you typed:

here. [location] meet me downstairs. lobby.

Manon replied within seconds.

on my way.

Sophia’s expression sharpened. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Then she’ll think I’m ignoring her.”

“I don’t care what she thinks.”

“Soph—”

“You’re injured.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “I can walk to the lift.”

Sophia’s glare said absolutely not, but you were already pushing to your feet — carefully testing your weight.

She rose with you automatically, close enough that you felt her presence like heat along your side.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m coming with you.”

“Sophia, I can walk. I won’t just trip and die.”

“You won’t,” she said. “But you need supervision.”

You grinned at her comment but she glared harder.

—

The trip to the lift was quiet except for the soft echo of your footsteps along the marble floor. Sophia stayed beside you the whole way — matching your pace, stealing glances at you, at your breathing, at any sign you were pushing yourself too far.

When the lift doors opened, she subtly wrapped her hands around your arms, guiding you in like you might collapse.

You didn’t. But you didn’t move her hand either.

The lift descended. The city flickered past in the glass — gold streaks of traffic, late sunset bleeding out behind the skyline.

Sophia stared straight ahead, jaw tight. You caught her reflection in the glass — the faint crease between her brows, the tension ticking in her throat.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

“I’m fine.”

“Lying.”

She didn’t look at you. “I don’t like strangers knowing where you are.”

“She doesn’t know. She’s meeting us in the lobby.”

“That isn’t better.”

“She’s harmless.”

“We’ll see.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sophia”

Sophia’s reflection stiffened.

“No,” she said, quickly, too quickly. “I simply don’t trust people.”

“Mhm.”

She shot you a sharp side-eye. “Wipe that look off your face.”

You smirked as she scowled — but the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting something warmer.

The lift chimed softly. The lobby of the building was all polished stone and quiet air-conditioning, staff moving with smooth, unobtrusive grace. You spotted her immediately.

Manon Bannerman had never been subtle a day in her life.

Manon is the kind of wealthy that didn’t advertise itself. She is care-free, outgoing, and quietly intimidating. Her family money came from old businesses, old land, old connections. Not as explosive or enormous as the Laforteza empire — Sophia’s generational dynasty that practically owned half the city — but still powerful in ways that made people treat her differently. But that doesn’t stop Manon from being as approachable as she is. 

She stood near the front desk, leaning against the marble counter like it had been placed there solely for her to drape herself over. A fitted jacket hugged her frame, dark curls tumbling over one shoulder. Her presence was magnetic and bold in a way that drew eyes without even trying.

She saw you before she saw Sophia.

Her face lit up.

“There you are.” 

Her gaze swept down you deliberately, slowly trailing over the bruise beneath your collarbone, the bulk of your shoulders, the way you were slightly stiff on one side. “Wow. Construction’s really been sculpting you, huh? Hiding all these in a hoodie too.”

Sophia went absolutely still.

Manon pushed off the counter and strode toward you, confident as a tide. She whistled low under her breath.

“Look at you,” she murmured. “Didn’t realise you filled out this much since last semester.”

Your face burned. “Manon—”

Then her eyes shifted to Sophia.

“Oh,” Manon said, smile widening. “You must be the friend.”

Sophia didn’t blink. “Sophia Laforteza.”

Manon’s smile sharpened. As if she recognised the name.

“Bannerman,” she said. “Manon Bannerman.”

Sophia didn’t take the offered handshake. 

And Manon didn’t look offended. If anything, she looked thrilled.

“So,” Manon said, stepping slightly closer to you, “Just saw your name on the class system. Next thing I hear, you’ve taken a fall and landed yourself in hospital. Impressive commitment to avoiding the tutorial.”

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Mhm. But look at you recovering in style.” She glanced around the penthouse-grade lobby. “Didn’t know you were staying somewhere else.”

You cleared your throat. “It’s temporary.”

Sophia’s hand found your elbow. “They’re staying with me.”

Manon’s eyebrow lifted in interest. Her gaze dropped to the place Sophia was touching you.

“Oh,” she said again, slower this time. “I see.”

Sophia’s grip tightened.

Manon lifted the folder she’d been carrying. “Anyway. This is yours. Cover sheet needs your signature. Don’t worry, I fixed the formatting. Your original submission was… adorable.”

You winced. “Was it that bad?”

“What no,” she said. “It was worse.”

You groaned.

She laughed. It was the delighted and wicked kind that made you want to sink into the floor.

Sophia did not laugh.

You stepped forward to take the folder, wincing when your ribs pulled. Manon’s hand darted out, catching your forearm — fingers wrapping around the muscle there.

“Hey,” she murmured. “Careful.”

Sophia’s voice went sharp.

“Let go.”

Manon turned slowly, still holding onto you. Her eyes sparkled with dangerous amusement.

“Or what?”

Sophia stepped forward — just enough to be close but not enough to be unprofessional. Her voice dropped low, quiet enough that only the three of you could hear.

“Or I’ll remove your hand myself.”

You froze.

Manon’s smile spread.

“Oh, you’re fun,” she whispered.

Sophia’s jaw flexed. “I’m not joking.”

“And I’m not touching anywhere inappropriate,” Manon replied lightly. “Just helping them stand up straight.”

“Move,” Sophia said.

Manon held your gaze for a long moment before releasing your arm slowly, as if reluctant. Her thumb brushed your skin on the way out.

You inhaled sharply.

Sophia noticed.

Manon did too.

She clicked her tongue. “Relax, I’m not stealing your—” she paused, eyes flicking between the two of you “—whatever they are to you.”

Sophia said nothing.

You prayed for the ground to swallow you whole.

Manon winked. “Yet.”

“Manon,” you hissed.

“What?” She smiled innocently. “I’m just appreciating good construction work. And good construction workers.”

Manon continued, unbothered. “So. About that signature. You good to do it now?”

Sophia stepped between you before you could answer. “They’re not doing anything that strains their ribs.”

“It’s literally a signature.”

“No.”

Manon blinked. “What, are you going to sign it for them?”

“If I must.”

You groaned. “Sophia, it’s okay. I can sign it.”

She turned to you, eyes fierce. “...Fine.”

Manon laughed — loud enough the receptionist glanced over.

“You two are hilarious,” she said. “Anyway, if you need help with the next paper, shoot me a message. Or if you wanted a study buddy. Or if you just want company. I’m pretty flexible.”

You swallowed. “Right. Thanks”

She leaned in, as she whispers in your ear. Even Sophia couldn’t move fast enough.

“Recover soon, trouble,” she murmured.

Your entire body went warm.

Manon stepped back with a satisfied smirk. “See you around.”

She walked toward the exit, coat swaying behind her, curls bouncing, and her confidence trailing like perfume.

Sophia stared after her, expression carved from stone.

As the glass doors slid shut.

Sophia didn’t move.

You waited.

One second.

Two.

Five.

Then—

“…Trouble?” she said finally.

You groaned into your hands. “Don’t. I can explain. It’s because of that one Statistics class that—”

Sophia’s voice was tight. “And she touched you.”

“Soph—”

“And she looked at you like—like—”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.”

“She was practically climbing you.”

You laughed weakly. “She was not.”

“She would’ve if the lobby wasn’t public.”

You choked on air. “Sophia!”

Her cheeks reddened. Her frustration cracked.

“I don’t like her,” she muttered.

“I figured.”

“She shouldn’t talk to you like that.”

“She’s just like that and I didn’t even flirt back.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, pacing now. “She was doing it for both of you.”

You leaned against the wall, still stunned. “Are you… jealous?”

Sophia froze mid-step.

Her eyes snapped to yours.

“No,” she said.

You smiled, slow and warm.

She glared, cheeks darker now. “Shut up.”

—

The next morning began with Sophia standing over the bed like she’d been rehearsing a speech for hours. Her blouse was crisp, hair pinned up neatly, makeup subtle yet impossibly perfect — but her eyes were tense that told you she hadn’t slept much.

You blinked awake and she softened immediately.

“Good morning,” she murmured, brushing your fringe aside. Her fingers were warm. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” you admitted, stretching carefully. “A little sore.”

Sophia nodded once, as if this confirmed something she had already decided hours earlier.

“Good. Then this makes the next part easier.”

You groaned. “Sophia…”

“You are not going back to the construction site,” she said firmly.

You pushed yourself up against the pillows. “Soph—”

“No. Not now. Not for a while. And definitely not until you can lift your arms without wincing.”

You opened your mouth again, already ready to argue, but her glare cut through your protest like a laser.

“Sophia, I need the job,” you insisted. “I can’t just sit around in your penthouse eating your expensive fruit.”

“Firstly,” she said, crossing her arms in that precise, terrifying Laforteza way, “my fruit is none of your concern.”

“Soph—”

“Secondly,” she continued, “you’re still enrolled at uni. That, I’ll allow. Classes only. No heavy lifting, no dangerous machinery, no falling scaffolds.” She exhaled sharply. “You can go to your lectures. That’s it.”

You hesitated. “…That doesn’t pay anything.”

Sophia’s eyes softened — only slightly.

“I’ll handle it,” she murmured. “All of it.”

“Soph—”

“No arguing. I’m not asking you to stop working forever. Only until you heal.” Her voice softened even further. “I won’t lose you again.”

Your chest tightened.

She stepped closer, hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Please.”

It was that word — please — that undid you.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll… I’ll focus on uni for now.”

Relief washed over her face like a slow tide.

“Good.” She pressed a light kiss to your temple — barely there, almost accidental. “Thank you.”

You tried not to melt.

Sophia straightened, all business again.

“After class,” she continued, “you’ll text Alex.”

“The driver?”

“Yes. He’ll pick you up the moment your lecture ends.”

You blinked. “Sophia. I can catch the bus.”

“You can. But you won’t.”

“Do I even have a say in this?.”

“No,” she countered easily. “Text Alex.”

You sighed. “Fine.”

Sophia smirked in quiet victory.

She left soon after for a meeting, pausing only to send you a text,  lecturing you about hydration, medication, and for you to not move vigorously.

—

University felt strangely normal — like the accident had happened years ago instead of some days ago.

You managed to sit through your lectures without passing out, which felt like a victory. You attended a few tutorials, asked your professors what to catch up on. And honestly, you did just about everything you could to pull yourself back on track.

When class ended, you stepped outside, pulling your phone out to text Alex.

Y/N: Hey, classes are done Y/N: Outside the usual entrance please. Thank you. Alex: On my way, 5 minutes.

You straightened your shirt as if that would magically make you look less exhausted.

As you waited, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, a smooth, amused voice drifted in from behind you.

“Trouble.”

Your spine tingled.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

You turned.

Manon Bannerman strolled up the pathway with confidence that made people turn their heads without understanding why — sharp in every step, her jacket thrown over her shoulder like she’d stepped out of a magazine shoot.

She smiled as she approached you.

“Fancy seeing you again, my trouble.”

You tried not to react.

And failed.

“Manon,” you said, forcing your voice steady. “Didn’t expect you here today.”

She grinned. “I only had two lectures today. Was planning on skipping both but thank God I didn’t — look where it led me.”

You chuckled. “I’m amazed at how you skip class yet pass everything with ease.”

Manon smirked, delighted. “I try, you know. We should definitely go out sometime… Just to study, of course.”

You snorted. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Manon stepped closer, head tilted. “How’re the ribs?”

“Sore but better.”

“Mm.” Her eyes travelled deliberately across your shoulders, chest, arms. “Still strong enough to bench press me, though.”

Your ears burned.

She laughed quietly, clearly entertained.

“And you’re very well kept today,” she teased. “Trying to impress someone?”

“Are you saying I looked bad before?”

“Mm-hm.” She twirled a curl around her finger. “Maybe. Or maybe I just always have the urge to dress you up myself.”

You tried not to smile. “Well, Sophia is—”

But before you could finish, Manon drifted closer — not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the heat of her.

“You looked good yesterday,” she murmured. “Even half-conscious.” 

Her voice dipped. “But you look much better awake.”

Your throat tightened. “Right—”

She lifted a hand and gently brushed a bit of lint off your collar.

Heat shot up your neck.

“There,” she whispered. “Perfect.”

You froze like an idiot.

Manon smirked.

“Relax. I’m just messing with you.”

She wasn’t. And she knew it.

Then her eyes flicked past your shoulder.

She smiled like she had just heard a private joke.

“Oh. Well. That complicates things.”

You turned—

—and your heart stopped.

A sleek black car had pulled up to the kerb. Alex had opened the back door at the exact angle he always used for Sophia — unobtrusive, but revealing enough to see who sat inside.

In the dim interior, Sophia sat motionless.

Eyes locked on you.

Expression unreadable.

But her gaze…

Her gaze could’ve cut stone.

You heard your own gulp.

Manon leaned in slightly, voice a whisper against your ear.

“You didn’t tell me your girlfriend was picking you up.”

“Yeah, um—”

“She looks like she wants to kill me.”

“…yeah.”

Manon grinned. “This is fun.”

Sophia did not blink.

Alex helped Sophia step out — but she merely shifted, refusing to leave the car entirely, spine straight, hands folded, like a queen on a throne surveying the battlefield.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “Ms. Laforteza is ready for you.”

Manon let out a low whistle. “Go on, my trouble.”

You silently winced but nodded. “I’ll see you around, Manon.”

She stepped back, hands in her pockets. “See you around, sweetheart.”

Sophia’s jaw clenched at sweetheart.

You took a hesitant step toward the car.

Manon called out—

“Don’t forget to text me when you get home safely, yeah? I’d hate to miss our conversation.”

You froze.

Sophia’s eyes twitched so sharply you could feel the tension in the air.

You climb into the back seat, and you can feel the atmosphere thick enough to chew.

Sophia didn’t look at you.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet — but soaked in jealousy, sarcasm, and suppressed fury.

“‘Don’t forget to text me when you get home safely.’ Right. Because apparently I should’ve let you limp to class on your own, or hell, let you go back to the construction site instead of university.”

You exhaled slowly. “Soph—”

“Oh, no, please. Don’t let me interrupt your… conversation.”

“Sophia.”

“And sweetheart?” she scoffed under her breath. “Original.”

You touched her hand, tentative but confident. You held her fingers gently, your thumb brushing the back of her hand.

“You know she’s just being Manon,” you said quietly. “But I’m going home with you.”

That one soft sentence cracked her armour.

She squeezed your hand once, full of emotion she didn’t know how to show properly.

The rest of the ride home was silent but calmer.

—

The penthouse door clicked shut behind you.

For a moment, everything held still.

Sophia didn’t speak. She didn’t pace. She didn’t throw a lecture at you the moment you stepped inside like you half-expected.

She just… exhaled. Like the day had wrung her out, and she had nothing left except the need to be near you.

Sophia walked straight to the living room, kicked off her heels with two sharp flicks of her ankles, and sank onto the couch.

Her head tipped back against the cushions, her hair loosening from its pin, and her eyes fluttering shut.

You hovered in the doorway for a few seconds before padding over, sitting beside her. Without thinking, you gently guided her legs across your lap.

Sophia cracked one eye open — only half. Just enough to see you.

“…hi,” she murmured, voice lower than usual.

You huffed a soft laugh. “Hi.”

Your hands moved instinctively, thumbs tracing slow circles along her calves. 

She inhaled sharply but not from pain.

Her head slid from the back of the couch to your shoulder, cheek pressing against you, breath warm against your jaw.

“You’re too desirable," she whispered, eyes closed.

“And you’re too stressed,” you answered softly.

Sophia hummed, shifting again — closer, her hand drifting to your thigh as if she didn’t realise she’d done it.

Or maybe she did.

Her breathing grew steadier, your thumb brushing slow strokes along her shin, then her knee, then the top of her thigh.

Then — so softly you almost missed it — she asked.

“Do you like her?”

You stilled.

Sophia’s eyes stayed closed, but her fingers curled a little tighter against your leg.

You cupped her cheek gently with one hand, guiding her gaze up to yours.

Her eyelashes fluttered open, dark and stubborn and so much more vulnerable than she wanted to be.

“I’m here,” you murmured. “With you.”

Something uncoiled inside her — tension melting, worry fading, replaced by something warmer, deeper, and hungrier.

Sophia pushed herself upright, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact.

Her knees slid to either side of your hips, straddling you as naturally as breathing.

You swallowed.

“Soph—”

Her hands framed your jaw, grip firm but trembling ever so slightly.

“Do you know,” she murmured, leaning close enough for her breath to ghost your lips, “how insane you make me?”

You barely managed a nod.

Sophia’s lips brushed yours — barely there, a tease, maybe a test.

Then she kissed you properly.

It wasn’t soft.

It was hungry.

Days and weeks of self-control dissolving into one heated, breath-stealing moment — her hands sliding to the back of your neck, your fingers digging into her waist, the two of you pulling each other closer like being apart even an inch felt unbearable.

Her kiss deepened, slow but desperate, like she’d been waiting all day — all month — for the chance to finally taste you without restraint.

When she finally pulled back, your breaths tangled in the small space between you.

Her forehead rested against yours.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Don’t make me jealous again.”

Your thumb traced her lower lip, still warm from the kiss.

“I’m sorry.”

Sophia let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. She is breathless, relieved, and completely undone.

She kissed you again, slower this time, gentler, but no less intense.

Her fingers tangled in your shirt. Yours pressed into her hips.

And for a long, perfect moment, the world narrowed to the warmth of her body and the taste of her mouth.

She pulled back only when she needed air, cheeks flushed, eyes dark.

“Stay with me,” she whispered.

“Of course, mahal.” You whispered back.

And when she curled into you afterwards, warm and soft against your chest, it felt like the world had finally learned how to be kind.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She’d admit to herself that she has little to no fun in and out of class.

But Y/N?

They have far too much of it.

—

As class begins, the professor starts preaching about sins as if he’s never committed one himself. Sophia likes to think she’s rational, grounded, and maybe too logical that she likes to admit. Yet she can’t erase the quiet fact that her faith still exists for reasons she can’t properly dissect.

She is logical, just not when it comes to emotions.

“Can I borrow a pen?”

Sophia sighs the moment she hears Y/N’s whisper while Mr. Paul continues droning on.

“Why can’t you just buy your own pen, Y/N? You’re old enough to attend class but not old enough to buy a pen?”

“Jesus, I just need a pen. Besides, remember Romans 15:2? ‘Each of us should please our neighbours for their good, to build them up.’ It means that—”

“Whatever. Just take this pen.” Sophia then handed them a black biro pen that she always gives to people who she knows won’t return the pen. 

“I knew I could count on you. May the Lord—”

“Just shut up. Oh my God, you talk too much.”

“Ha! Do not use the Lord’s name in vain, Sophia,” Y/N says sarcastically as she takes the pen. 

Not even a minute has passed before your mouth starts moving again, producing nothing but noise to annoy Sophia.

“Also nice colour-coded notes. Do you have a certain purple highlighter for random educational thoughts or that’s a yellow highlighter job?”

“Can you like shut up or something?”

“I’ll choose ‘or something’, so is it a yellow highlighter type of job? Honestly, I don’t blame you. Yellow seems to be the right colour for thoughts. Wait, do you know about those trends about yellow fonts? I honestly think it’s supposed to be called yellow helvetica, cause you know that’s the name of the font they usually used. But like, I think I could be wrong to because I think—”

“Oh my God, do you not shut up? I don’t care about the yellow font trend, and no I don’t use yellow highlighter for thoughts, I used blue. Now shut up.”

“Ok…

…but blue seems kinda dumb. Because when you think about it, blue isn’t—”

Sophia closed her eyes as she sighs. May all the Gods that everyone worship come down and help her shut you up. She can’t help but rethink all her life choices and how she ended up in this very specific moment. Her thoughts filled with “God, I’ve been nothing but faithful. What have I done for this to happen to me?”

It’s an unspoken understanding that Mr. Paul paired them together for this exact reason. What that reason is, Sophia doesn’t know. Maybe he believes opposites sharpen each other.

Or maybe he just enjoys watching her suffer.

—

Sophia is everywhere and she knows it. From theatre performances, student council campaigns, academic decathlons, and school-wide assemblies where microphones somehow always end up in her hand. The lists are always printed the same way, pinned to cork boards with careless thumbtacks:

Sophia Laforteza

Hanni Pham

Jennifer Huh

The order hasn’t changed in three years. At this point, people don’t even look at the board anymore. They’ve basically memorized it. The same women leading the school, which makes Y/N wonder how after academia, men suddenly lead mostly everything. It was understandable how Sophia remains at the top. You never really question it since the answer is painfully obvious. But it becomes more apparent when you start seeing it first hand. 

Whenever you enter theology class, Sophia is already there, sitting upright as if she’s the professor herself. She arrives before class starts, a purple water bottle and pencil pouch already occupying more than half the desk. It’s annoying, almost territorial, but you never complain — mostly because you bring nothing useful to class aside from yourself. Her handwriting looks almost printed. Like it could be turned into a font. She also claims there is nothing logical about theology classes, yet she aces every assignment.

One thing you know is that Sophia always tries. And somehow, she always succeeds. Which you can’t help but admire the woman even more.

—

By the fourth week of class, Sophia’s schedule becomes heavier. Theatre rehearsals stretch longer. Student council meetings multiply. Group projects demand more structure. She had formed an almost perfect routine. Almost because it somehow unsettles her when she starts seeing the same face outside theology.

Y/N.

At first, it’s easy to dismiss. They’re in the hallway handing out flyers for an upcoming fundraiser. They grin when they spot her but say nothing. She thought it’s nothing but a coincidence. But suddenly, they’re backstage during theatre rehearsal, crouched beside the sound system, fiddling with wires like they apparently know what they are doing.

Sophia pauses mid-line when she notices.

“What are you doing here?” she asks during break.

“Volunteering,” Y/N shrugs. “Hanni mentioned that you guys need help with the audio system.”

“We have a sound team.”

“Yeah. I know. It’s just Hanni has a lot on her plate now. I want to help out.”

“Well, as I said we have a sound team. So we’ll be fine.”

—

Every time the class finishes, you always wait outside the class as if waiting for someone. Sophia assumes you just have a question for the professor about the current lecture but she notices that you only continue to walk away from the door right after the student leaders left the class, which definitely includes her. And if that isn’t enough of a suspicion, you started volunteering everywhere. And Sophia means it when she says everywhere. She can’t help but wonder how you, Y/N, someone who rarely cares or participated or better yet volunteers in school events suddenly gets involved in all of it, all together? Sophia’s not egotistical, but she’s logical so pattern is something she’s good at recognising. So when you started appearing in whatever she’s in, she recognised it immediately. 

Later that week, at a student council event, she spots you again — carrying boxes, adjusting banners, laughing with committee members like you’ve always been part of it. But what unsettles her more than their presence is the pattern. The events she attends, the meetings she leads, the rehearsals she looks after. You are there. Not beside her, thankfully, but there. Always watching, and Sophia, who has always been the centre of attention without asking for it, assumes what has always been true. 

People admire excellence, people orbit excellence. So she knows why Y/N suddenly orbits her.

And by the end of the month, Sophia has compiled a mental file. 

“Since Y/N’s everywhere, Y/N probably likes me.” 

She smiles at the thought, rolling her eyes at herself. It’s ridiculous honestly. Of course you like her. Who wouldn’t like her? The absurdity is almost fun. Almost. She catches herself imagining the worst, like what if you start to make a move on her? She doesn't know what she’ll do. She never thought of actually being with you, but the thought doesn’t seem so bad after weeks of interacting with you. And in all honesty, you aren’t too bad yourself. You’re attractive, she’ll give you that but academic wise, that’s a different story.

—

As the class continued, it was apparent to Sophia that Y/N liked her. With the progression of the class, Sophia notices how Y/N suddenly always attends the class, how they always smile at her softly, how they always arrive in class on time, and most importantly how they never bring their own pen. Sophia thought that it was Y/N’s way of interacting with Sophia on a daily basis, which Sophia didn't mind. She actually thought it’s cute how you find small ways to at least interact with her, like right now.

“Hey sorry, but can I borrow your pen real quick?” you whispered, silently trying to grab her attention. 

Sophia didn’t say anything. She just took out one of her rollerball pens from her purple pen pouch and handed it to you. And you noticed it immediately, the upgrade from a standard biro to a rollerball pen makes you smile. 

“Thank you, I’ll definitely give this back after class.”

“You don’t have to. Just make sure not to lose it.”

“Yeah, for sure. Like Ruth 2:12 from the New International Version, “May the Lord repay you for—”

Sophia rolls her eyes as she smiles at you. “Shut up. I don’t need to hear about it.”

“I’m just blessing you with verses as you always bless me with your presence. I genuinely enjoy this class because of you.”

Sophia blushed as she shook her head. “Whatever, just shut up. That’s the best thing you can do for me.”

You nodded as you both continued to listen to whatever Mr. Paul preach about. 

—

The theatre rehearsal has been going on for weeks and Sophia hates to admit it but you do know what you’re doing with the sound and the light system. She can’t help but personally ask for your help before rehearsals begin, in which you always answer with a big grin and a yes. In fact, you started becoming part of the theatre team, not only that but you have started helping around more in school events preparation. And in every rehearsal or event, you always give her a cup of strawberry matcha, always accompanied by a drink carrier. She never really questions why it’s always in a drink carrier as she’s too joyous at the thought of receiving a drink from you. 

This went unnoticed to everyone, except Yunjin. During one of their rehearsal breaks, she stopped fixing the script and went over to Sophia with a teasing grin.

“So… You and Y/N, what about it?”

“What about it?”

“Stop this nonsense, they have been helping around… which is unusual for someone who has been in this school for years yet didn’t bat an eye on the previous events that we had?”

Sophia shrugged as she muttered. “I don’t know, they’ve been a huge help so why not bring them in more.”

“And theology class? You do know that we are all in the same class right? I see you two all the time.”

“They’ve been less annoying. That’s it.”

Yunjin gave her a quick smirk, as she went back to fixing the scripts. Sophia’s eyes searched around the theatre hall searching for a figure until it fell on you. You were scratching your head with a soft smile, casually talking to Hanni about whatever topic you two had. And Sophia knows — if God were watching you right now, there would be a verse written just for you. Not just a passing line, but something deliberate and tender, something inked with such aching devotion that even a skeptic would pause and feel it. And that is what frightens her most because if heaven itself could justify loving you, what excuse does she have left to pretend she doesn’t?

She then shook her head. It’s probably the stress of everything that’s happening. There is no way she’s thinking all that just because she saw you. 

—

As the school year progressed, you and Sophia grew closer in and out of theology class. You noticed how Sophia excelled in English, which never really occurred to you even if she’s a theatre person herself. You’ve been around her in every other event there could have been and you couldn’t help but gift all three women that lead the school with something every time you are present. Specifically, two strawberry matcha for Sophia and Yunjin, two ice cold coffee for you and Hanni, and a bread for Hanni too. You always give a piece or more of bread to Hanni, as she once mentioned loving bread and because she’s the reason why you are helping around. 

—

It was a random Thursday after rehearsals when you were left in the theatre hall with the other student leaders. As you sit beside Sophia, she can’t help but look at you as your eyes gaze upon the stage with a soft look and a timid smile. Your eyes then met hers, your smile never leaving your face. 

“The play is happening in a few days.”

Sophia hummed as she smiled back. “Yeah, are you excited about it?”

“Honestly? I am. I’ve seen almost all the rehearsals and it’s great. Have you seen the light and the way the audio just sounds absolutely phenomenal?” You softly teased.

“Not too much on the audio system. I personally think that’s going to be the worst part.”

“Well, you got a sound team for that right?”

“Oh my God, you’re too much.”

“Hey, don’t use God's name in vain.”

“I didn’t even do such thing!”

Both of your laughs filled the hall as you shook your head. “On a serious note, I’m sure you guys would do so well. I’ve also read the script which is apparently mostly written by Miss Laforteza herself. It’s genuinely amazing Sophia.”

You continue, “It’s so beautifully written and I just… I hope you don’t mind me asking for a favour.”

Sophia’s eyes linger on you for a while — the way your smile curves, timid yet unbearably endearing, now directed at her instead of the stage.

She tells herself it’s ridiculous, almost sacrilegious, but when you look at her like that, she can’t help but think that if the Bible were still being written, there would be a verse about this moment — about the way you look at someone as if they are worth believing in.

And that is what terrifies her most, because she’s beginning to understand how devotion starts. Sophia’s beginning to look at you the same way believers look at something holy.

“Uh sure. What is it about?”

“I just want to write a love letter. Well, not entirely a love letter but you know something actually nice. I have actually written something for the past few weeks and I just need some help polishing it up.”

Sophia looks at the paper handed, her smile starts to widen as she reads the letter. A logical mind like hers starts to make connections, but she needs to make sure her assumptions are right first. 

“I think you need more adjectives or something like metaphors. Tell me more about this girl.”

You smile at her as you look around the room, checking to see if someone sees you two being this close. You clear your throat, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the paper.

“Okay, first — she’s really smart. Like, genuinely smart. I admire how she tries and somehow always succeeds, like excellence is just her default setting. She may look a little unapproachable at first, but when you actually talk to her…” You hesitate, smiling to yourself. “She’s soft and kind. She listens like your words matter.”

Sophia keeps her expression neutral but her pulse betrays her.

“She’s responsible. Steady. She’s the kind of person people rely on without even realising they do.” You exhale softly. “God, it’s like… if wisdom were a person, it would borrow her voice.”

Sophia’s fingers tighten slightly on the paper.

“I don’t know how to explain it without sounding dramatic,” you continue, quieter now. “But admiring her feels theological. Like the way people study scripture — not because they’re forced to, unfortunately unlike us, but because they’re convinced there’s something sacred hidden between the lines. She’s not loud about who she is. You just… discover it slowly. And the more you do, the more you realise she was extraordinary all along.”

You glance at her, unaware of the storm you’re causing.

“She’s the kind of person that makes you want to be better. God, it’s not even out of fear nor out of obligation. But because standing next to her feels like standing near something holy and you don’t want to be careless with that.”

Sophia swallows.

You laugh softly, almost embarrassed. “I know that sounds insane.”

It doesn’t. Because to Sophia, it feels dangerously accurate.

And what terrifies her most is this. She has spent her life believing admiration was a rational response to merit. Like it’s earned, it’s measured, and it needs to be explained.

But the way you speak about this girl — about her — sounds less like logic and more like reverence. And she is starting to understand that love, at its core, has always been a form of worship.

“Ok sorry, is that too much? I guess I do talk too much.”

“No…I—wow that’s actually beautiful. You should write more about that.”

Your eyes start to wander around the room again, checking to see if eyes are on you two before you nod. 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking but… do you think someone like you would like someone like me?”

Sophia pauses, mind sharpening out of instinct. She has studied logic, probabilities, even theology with all its careful doctrines and tidy conclusions — yet none of them prepared her for a question that feels less like inquiry and more like confession.

She exhales softly.

“If I were to answer that logically,” she begins, voice steady despite the quiet riot in her chest, “I’d say admiration isn’t a hierarchy. It’s not something reserved for equals on paper.”

Her fingers tighten slightly in her lap.

“And if we’re speaking theologically… Scripture is full of unlikely pairings. The whole point, I think, is that worth isn’t measured the way we measure it.”

She finally meets your eyes.

“So yes,” she says, almost clinical in tone, though her gaze gives her away. “I think someone like me could.”

She then muttered softly, afraid you’ll hear it.

“Especially if someone like you keeps looking at me as if I’m something worth believing in.”

You softly smile at her, giving her a small nod, like she’s just confirmed something you wished you knew all along. 

“People like you,” you say softly, “are easy to worship. People who are quiet, unassuming ones who undo you without trying — the kind of people who don’t ask for reverence, yet somehow make even the faithless learn how to kneel.”

“Anyway, thank you. I appreciate the help.”

—

The theatre play is nearing, but Sophia’s mind is occupied with things that are not related to the play. Specifically, related to you. She can’t help but think when will you ever give the letter to her and what she should do when you give it to her. It’s numbing actually but she can’t help—

“Sophia”

“Y/N, hey”

“I’ve finished the letter, I just want to thank you for helping me write it. Everything just started flowing once you mentioned metaphors and all that stuff. You’re such a great help.”

“That’s great to hear. I’m sure the person who will receive it will love it.”

“Jesus, I sure do hope Hanni would love it.”

“Hanni?”

Sophia’s eyes nearly bulged out of her skull. The realisation hit her like a cold, physical weight, shattering the careful logic she had used to build her own pedestal. In an instant, the “mental file” she had meticulously compiled over the last few months didn’t just close, it got shredded. She realised with a sharp, stinging clarity that she hadn't been the destination of your devotion, but merely a bystander to it. The strawberry matchas, the sudden volunteering, and the tireless help weren't offerings to her excellence — they were labors of love performed solely to lighten Hanni’s burden. It was the ultimate theological error: she had mistaken a servant's work for a believer’s worship, assuming she was the deity when she was only the witness. She had mistaken the intercessor for the deity, assuming all this worship was directed at her when she was simply the one standing in the way of the altar. Every word of "reverence" she’d felt from you wasn't a mirror reflecting her own worth, but a prayer you were breathing for someone else entirely. She wasn’t the "something holy" you were afraid to be careless with; she was just the person holding and providing the pen while you wrote a psalm for another woman. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This morning, it's the board. The streets are still yawning, the wind a little sharper than you expected. It pushes against your collar like it knows you're not supposed to be out here this early, like it's trying to send you back to bed you don't really own.

But you roll forward.

The city at this hour feels like it’s holding its breath. Empty sidewalks, closed storefronts, a single jeepney turning the corner with a sleepy groan. Your wheels whisper secrets to the asphalt with every push, and you think, maybe, this is the only time you feel like you’re not falling behind.

At the second stoplight, you see him.

A boy, maybe eight, maybe less. Hands too small for the world he’s been thrown into. He’s standing in front of a black car that doesn’t belong here—shiny in a way that doesn’t fit the chipped sidewalk or the wires tangled like regrets overhead.

The boy says something you can’t hear.

In the driver seat, a man in a crisp polo shirt and impatience coiled around his jaw barely glances. He waves the kid away with a flick of his fingers, like brushing off ash. The boy lingers, unsure, like he’s waiting for the world to change its mind.

And then the passenger shifts.

You only catch a glimpse, but it snags something in your chest, a woman, her face framed by long, straight hair and the gold glint of earrings you know cost more than your rent. Her hands rest on her lap, folded like a prayer. She doesn’t look at the boy. She doesn’t look at you. She looks ahead, out the windshield, like none of this is worth noticing.

You don’t stop.

You push off again, harder this time, as if you can outrun the twist in your stomach. The wheels under your board  rattle over a crack in the road, and for a second, you think, what if I had been born on the other side of that car window?

But you don’t chase the thought. You let it drift behind you, like so many other things.

By the time the restaurant sign comes into view—its faded red letters crooked from the last typhoon, you’ve already folded that moment into the back pocket of your mind, tucked next to unpaid bills and daydreams you don’t name anymore.

The scent hits before you open the door.

Soy sauce, garlic, and a hint of something sweet trying to survive the oil in the air. It’s warm inside, not the kind that comforts, but the kind that clings to your skin, sits heavy in your shirt, and lives in your hair for the rest of the day.

Someone’s dropped a tray in the back. Someone else is shouting about table numbers. You don’t mind. Chaos is familiar. Chaos pays you hourly and offers free staff meals if the shift manager likes you.

You slide your board into the staff cubby, clock in, and turn. There she is.

Sophia.

The owner's daughter.

She stands near the register, looking through a clipboard, lips mouthing silent words as she reads. There’s a pen tucked behind one ear. Her nails are painted the same shade as the sky before it rains—elegant and expensive. She shouldn’t be here, not in this world of chipped tiled floor and lights that flicker.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time she looks up, it feels like a mistake.

You’re halfway through setting the tables—silverware slightly crooked, napkins a little too thin to fold right—when your eyes flicker up, drawn by something quieter than a sound. And there it is.

Her gaze.

Not directed to you but it lands on you like morning sun through half-open blinds—unexpected, sharp, warm.

For half a second, you wonder if your shirt's stained so you glance down. It's not but still, you tug at the hem.

Sophia doesn’t look away right away and that’s what catches you off guard. Her eyes settle—curious yet calm but unreadable.

And then, just as easily, they move on.

You shake your head. Not to dismiss the moment, but to dislodge it—like a song you don’t want stuck in your head.

She was just looking around. Of course, nothing more.

You tuck the thought somewhere deep as you return to work. Hands moving on instinct now—lifting pitchers, wiping tables, sliding into the rhythm of lunch rush.

But your mind, traitor that it is, keeps drifting.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sophia.

You don’t know much about her, not in any real sense.

She comes in most days around eleven, stays through lunch, sometimes dinner. Helps with inventory, counts the till, answers questions from confused tourists trying to order sinigang that is not sour. She’s not cold, not rude, just perfectly above it all. Not in a cruel way, but in a softer way, like she’s not really here, like her mind is always somewhere softer than the clatter of plates.

Sometimes she wears blue, sometimes soft pastels. Today, it's a dark red top with a small logo from a brand you're too poor to recognise and a low-waisted jeans. The kind of outfit that doesn't wrinkle, that costs more than a week's worth of your hours, that says, I do not lift things. I am lifted.

And yet she does. She lifts trays, wipes menus, helps Miranda tape a broken pepper shaker just an hour ago.

It doesn’t make sense. 

None of it does.

So you stop trying to figure her out.

You continue working.

And yet.

Every now and then, when you’re not thinking, you find yourself looking. The way someone looks at light through water. Unfocused but wanting. 

You carry trays like they’re shields. You take orders like you’re memorizing lines. You keep your voice soft, even when customers raise theirs.

And today, for some reason, they’re noticing you more than usual.

The girl at table four, a tourist probably, keeps asking for things she doesn’t need. A spoon when she already has one. More water when the glass is full. You offer her a polite smile, the kind you wear like an apron, useful and meant to be taken off at the end of the day.

She smiles back like she’s never seen someone be gentle before.

“Do you have an Instagram?” she asks, as if she’s ordering dessert.

You blink. “Sorry?”

She laughs. “You’re cute. Thought I’d shoot my shot.”

You chuckle, the way you’re supposed to. “I don’t really use it,” because it’s half-true and more polite than “I’m not interested.”

She slips a napkin across the table anyway. “In case you change your mind.”

You take it. Only because it’s easier than saying no a second time.

You turn around, only to find Sophia watching.

She’s by the kitchen now, half-hidden behind the swing door. Arms crossed, one foot tapping against the tile like she’s measuring time.

Her eyes aren’t unkind. But they aren’t soft either.

You meet her gaze for a second—long enough to feel it crackle between you, silent static.

She looks away first this time.

But it’s not the same as before.

There’s something else sitting in her chest now. Something that didn’t used to be there.

You can’t help but feel uncanny at the thought of being perceived as lacking off, so you immediately did some more work.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back inside the kitchen, Sophia told herself she’s just curious.

That’s all it is.

You’re interesting. Quiet, reliable, and always on time. Never really a headache. You move like you’ve memorized the room. You listen when people speak. You carry yourself like someone who doesn't know they're being watched.

She doesn’t like you like that. That’s too much. 

It’s not a serious crush. Maybe close proximity? She guessed.

Sophia has known crushes. They’re louder and flashier, or that's what she's used to. They come with heart scribbles on notebooks and texts answered too quickly.

This isn’t that.

This is noticing.

That’s all.

She tells herself this even as she peeks through the kitchen window again and sees the napkin still tucked in your apron pocket.

Her chest feels a little tight but she blames the heat that is suffocating her coming from the kitchen.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You feel her gaze before you see it.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—no dramatic music, no sudden lighting shift. Just a presence, like being in sunlight without realising it.

But as you glanced up, her eyes flicked away too quickly.

You don’t blame her.

You don’t blame anyone.

She’s a name embroidered on the restaurant’s DNA. You’re just someone who keeps the doors from falling off.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re wiping down the last table near the window when you see him again.

The same kid from earlier—the one the man in the car waved off like smoke. He’s sitting now, legs pulled up to his chest, back against the utility pole across the street. His chin rests on his knees, eyes unfocused, as if he’s staring into a world that forgot to open its doors to him.

He doesn’t look up.

You hesitate, cloth still in hand.

You’ve seen him before, not just this morning. A couple of times—near the bakery, by the jeepney stop, sometimes curled behind the gas station at dusk. He never begs. He just waits, hoping someone will notice without needing to be asked.

“Hey!” Vinci calls from the kitchen. “We’re tossing the leftover pancit, can you please grab the bin?”

You nod, eyes flicking back to the boy before slipping into the kitchen.

The scent of oil is heavier here. The kind that sticks to your skin long after you clock out. Vinci’s already scooping the noodles into a silver tray. There’s half a fried chicken thigh sitting off to the side, slightly overcooked but untouched.

“This is still good.” you murmur almost to yourself.

Vinci shrugs. “No one’s eating it.”

You reach for a takeout box, plastic utensils, and a cup of water.

“Gonna toss it out back?” Vinci asks.

“Yeah” you lie. “Something like that.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You step outside without saying anything else.

The sun is higher now, sharp against the pavement. The boy hasn’t moved. He is still curled in on himself like a secret.

You walk over slowly, so you don’t spook him.

“Uy!” you say, voice low. You tried to make your voice sound gentle and friendly, not demanding.

He looks beside him. His eyes wide, wary and afraid of getting shooed.

You kneel to his level, box in hand.

He doesn’t take it at first, yet you set it down beside him.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,” you say, standing back up. “It’s just there. In case. It’s still hot too.”

You don’t wait for a thank you. You don’t really expect one.

You just turn, walk back inside, and let the door fall shut behind you with a quiet click.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From the far side of the restaurant, Sophia watches.

She hadn’t meant to. She’d come to drop something off at the register but her eyes had followed your figure out the door, the way one might follow a melody drifting out of a passing car.  She saw the box, the crouch, and the encounter.

She doesn’t know what was said.

But she knows what she felt.

And that unsettles her more than anything.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She stands there a moment longer, fingers loosely curled around a receipt she forgot to file.

There’s something in the way you move that stays with her even after you’ve vanished back into the kitchen. A kind of quiet assurance, like presence. 

It makes her chest feel strange. It makes her feel aware of something she doesn’t want to.

She doesn’t name it.

She doesn't dare.

Instead, she returns to the books, pretends the numbers are enough to tether her back to the world.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t know what she saw.

And even if you did, it wouldn’t change anything.

You don't mind being scolded for giving some food away.

You didn’t do it to be seen.

You didn’t do it to mean anything.

You just saw someone who needed something. Something to hold onto, even if only for one meal.

That’s all. As much as you wanted to give the kid some spare change, it was also something you don’t have yourself. 

You wash your hands at the back sink. The water runs too hot making your skin turn pink at the edges.

You don’t notice.

You're thinking about the way the boy looked at you. You never like the thought of standing in front of him, it feels condescending, like you are above him. It was never that, you were never above anyone, you were once a kid who struggled too. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You pass by the front counter again twenty minutes later, heading toward table six with a tray of halo-halo. Sophia is there with a paper in hand, eyebrows lightly drawn together in thought. You don’t mean to glance at her. It just happens.

She doesn’t look up, but her hand stills on the page.

And for the second time today, your heart tries to remind you of something you won’t let it finish saying.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bell over the door chimes again.

You look up.

It’s him.

The man from the car—the one who waved off the kid like an inconvenience, like dust on his collar. Now he’s stepping into your workplace like he owns something.

And in a way, maybe he does.

He carries that kind of presence. The type that doesn’t ask if he belongs. He just assumes he does. His watch glints, his scent trails behind him, expensive and sharp. He wears confidence like cologne, loud, unmistakable and painstakingly annoying.

“Is Sophia here?” he asked Miranda, and her name bends to his voice like it’s been taught to.

You don’t need to be close to hear it.

And she comes.

She steps out from behind the counter where she’d been double-checking inventory, her pen tucked behind one ear, hair a little loose now from hours of real work. 

Still, she walks like she’s in a movie scene. More so, she’s the movie itself. The climax everyone in the cinema had waited for. 

She sees him.

Her smile is soft, rehearsed, but just maybe. Or just polite. She doesn't light up but she doesn’t flinch either.

One of his assistants reaches into a bag. Produces a bouquet—big, too big for this setting. Roses, of course. Wrapped in thick white paper with a satin ribbon knotted perfectly around the stems.

And then the assistant passed it to you. 

“Mind passing this to him?” he says, voice light, like he’s asking someone to refill his wine.

You blink.

You look down.

You hesitate for a breath too long, but then what choice do you have?

So you took the bouquet.

It’s heavier than you expect. Damp near the stems. Too many petals, too many thorns. It doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels like a transaction wrapped in ribbon.

You hold it for a second longer than necessary.

And just for a breath—you imagine it.

Imagine offering it to her yourself, without being told. No middleman. No errand. Just a simple and sweet, I saw these and I thought of you.

The look on her face, curious.

 Her fingers brushing yours as she takes them.

 A thank you. Maybe even your name in her mouth covered in softness your mattress can't compare.

But then he reaches forward and takes them from your hands like the moment never happened.

And offers them to her instead, like what’s intended to be.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She accepts them.

Of course she does.

And you watch—because that’s all you’ve ever been allowed to do. Not like you can afford such flowers. 

They talk quietly near the register. He says something that makes her raise an eyebrow. She doesn’t laugh, she shakes her head, eyes darting to the floor before drifting back up. Her fingers tighten around the bouquet.

Then she looks at you.

Enough to know she noticed.

Enough to know you were there. 

And enough to mean nothing at all.

You give her a tight smile. To Sophia it looks like a smile of encouragement but to you, its one of those kinds of smiles. 

One of those I know where I stand smiles.

She doesn’t return it.

She just turns back to him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They leave five minutes later.

He opens the door for her. She thanks him and her voice is quieter now, like she’s halfway out of the moment. They disappear into the night, roses swaying slightly in her hands.

And that’s it.

No explosion. No fight. No confession.

Just a quiet exit from a life that doesn’t include you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t clock out right away.

There’s still some rubbish to take out. A few tables to wipe. Vinci asks if you can help prep for the morning. 

You say yes. Because you always say yes, not that you want to but you need to.

Because the restaurant is the only place where you matter. Where your hands are worth something. Where your name isn’t forgotten.

And even if Sophia is gone, you’re still here.

And the kitchen light still flickers when it gets too hot. The sink still leaks if you twist the knob too far. And the mop still leaves streaks on the tile no matter how many times you rinse it.

And none of that changes just because your heart feels too heavy in your chest.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shift ends like they always do.

With brooms scraping tile, the hum of the refrigerator kicking in too late, and the scent of vinegar and oil still clinging to your shirt like the last thing you haven’t let go of. Vinci yells something half-hearted about the trash. Miranda waves goodbye without looking up from her phone.

You stay behind just long enough to sweep what’s left of the night into the corners.

Sophia never came back.

And that’s fine.

She had roses in her hands, after all. Someone else’s story folded around her like lace.

You have the floor cleaner, the mop handle splintered from use, and the quiet knowledge that you were here—just long enough to witness her orbit someone else’s sun.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The road greets you like it always does.

Each push sounds like punctuation on a sentence only you understand.

You glide past sleeping storefronts and windows lit by blue TV light. Past someone’s laundry swaying gently in the night breeze. Past the little corner where the boy sat earlier, empty now.

Everything moves.

Except you.

You’re not angry. You’re not sad, either.

You’re just awake and breathing.

And you know—deep in your chest—that there are people like Sophia who glide through life on polished floors and soft light. And there are people like you, who move through back doors and carry trays and learn how to smile without showing too much of your soul, not that they consider you of having one anyway.

She belongs to a world you’ll never touch.

A world you can barely graze.

And maybe that’s not tragic.

Maybe that’s just how the story was written.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You push forward again.

And again.

And again.

Let the wheels carry the weight of everything you didn’t say.

Let the wind pull at your sleeves like it's trying to lift something out of you.

Let the city pass you by without needing you to explain yourself.

You ride one world, she walks another, yet you know that you'll hardly catch up on her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A minimum of twenty-four steps to the third floor. The hum of old building lights above you, a chipped handrail under your palm, your bracelet clinking softly against the metal as you climb. No neighbours brushing past you. No forced small talk. No sharp whiff of someone else’s perfume lingering too long in a small metal box.

Before 6:00 pm, the elevator becomes fair game — by then, too many people are trudging home, too tired to take the stairs, too likely to make conversation. But after that? You claim the elevator like it's yours.

Routine is a language you’ve learned to speak fluently.

Your bag hangs off one shoulder as you reach the landing, keys already in hand before your shoes hit the top step. The hallway is dim, dull, and beige. It greets you with the usual soft scent of microwaved food and fabric softener. Nothing changes here. You like it that way.

Except lately. One thing has.

She’s been here for a while now. Long enough to recognise her footsteps before you see her. Long enough to know the lilt of her voice even when it’s coming from behind a closed door. Apartment 389. Just across the hall from yours.

Manon

You wouldn’t say you know her — not really. But she talks like she does know you. Or at least, like she wants to. She’s a familiar face from somewhere, long before she moved in, but you can’t quite place it. Honestly, you’re impressed by how nicely persistent she is about getting to know you.

You tried not to give her the wrong idea at first. You were polite and civil. Always answering, never asking. Just enough for a hello in passing. But she made herself known. Not loudly. Not forcefully. Just there. In a way that stuck. 

Some days she greets you on your way out — already outside her door, fumbling with her phone, a half-eaten pastry in hand. Other days, you’ll catch her walking in at the same time you’re walking out, tea in one hand, hair neat as always, talking to someone on her phone.

She’s bright without being loud. Friendly without being nosy. One of those people who can say, “Hey, you’re early today,” and make it sound like she’s known you for years.

Today is one of those days.

You’re halfway down the hall, sweat lightly dampening your collar from the afternoon sun, when her voice catches you.

“Early out?” she asks from her open doorway, iced drink in one hand, her phone in the other. Her feet are planted casually on the threshold, like she’s waiting for something.

You glance over. She’s leaning against the doorframe, relaxed. Worn T-shirt, loose joggers. No makeup. No pretence. Her dark hair is tied up loosely, the way someone does when they’re finally home — not hiding, just soft around the edges. She looks like an undone version of herself. Not careless, not messy — just unguarded. Like late sunlight through sheer curtains.

Beautiful, in a way that’s easy to miss if you aren’t paying attention, but you always are. Still, she’s too bright for you or maybe you’re just too used to the dark.

“Not really” you say.

“Mm” she hums, sipping through her straw. “You usually come up at what? 6:05?”

You blink, confused, and she laughs softly, waving a hand.

“Don’t worry. I’m not timing you or anything weird like that” she says. “You’re just, you know, consistent.”

You don’t answer. Just shift the keys in your hand until they click against your door. She doesn’t mind the silence — if anything, she seems to understand it.

She doesn’t say anything further, just watches you with a soft smile, biting the edge of her straw. 

“Just waiting for my delivery to come, you know. Have a great night.”

You let out a breath through your nose — something almost like amusement and shut the door behind you. Inside, your apartment is still, safe, and peaceful. Dim with late-afternoon light, just the way you like it.

You then drop your bag, press your back against the closed door, and exhale fully this time. 

You never told her your routine but she noticed anyway.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s 6:10 pm, which means the elevator is all yours.

The air in the lobby hums with late-day stillness. You step into the metal box just as the doors begin to part — slow, mechanical, familiar. The fluorescent lights flicker softly overhead, casting pale lines across the dull metal walls. It’s not beautiful, but it’s yours. A pause. A breath. A brief moment between the noise of the world and the quiet of home.

You press the button for the third floor and settle into the silence, eyes fixed ahead.

Then—

“Shit—fuck—hold on, wait!”

The voice cuts the stillness. Familiar. Breathless. Close.

You glance up just in time to catch Manon rounding the corner in a rush — her arms full to the edge, two bulging paper bags nearly splitting at the seams. Her hair’s come loose from whatever attempt was made to tie it up, strands clinging to her cheek. Her phone is awkwardly tucked between her cheek and shoulder as she fumbles for something she clearly doesn’t have a hand free for.

You don’t hesitate. You just press the “door open” button again. The metal groans in protest but halts. You step aside and wait. She stumbles into the elevator with a huff — bags tilting dangerously, keys somewhere in the mess, breath coming uneven.

“May God bless you” she breathes, somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. “Remind me next time that two trips aren’t a suggestion. They’re a lifeline.”

Her tone is light, but her breath’s uneven. Her fingers fumble as she tries to balance everything into place. She tries to adjust her grip. One bag gives a small, foreboding fold.

You move before she does. No words spoken, just a step forward, your hand reaching out and steady. Predicting its outcome.

You take the heavier of the two bags from her arms, catching it before the bottom collapses. Your grip is careful, as if this were a routine you’ve done a hundred times before. Like it’s always been part of your muscle memory.

She freezes for a moment, caught off guard by your quiet certainty.

There’s something in her face that softens — just a bit.

“You really didn’t have to” she says but it comes out softer than it should. Less of a protest, more of a truth she’s still wrapping her arms around.

“I know” you answer, your voice low. The bag rests comfortably in your hand now.

The elevator doors glide shut in front of you. Inside, the air changes — a faint click as the floor count lights up above you, slow and methodical.

Neither of you speak for a moment.

There’s not much space between your shoulders. The lights overhead cast your shadows close together on the walls — side by side, briefly merged in passing. You look ahead. Her gaze tilts sideways — toward your hands, the curve of your wrist under the paper bag, accompanied by a familiar bracelet. A memory begins to settle in her chest, faint but warm.

“You always do this kind of thing” she says quietly, almost to herself.

You glance at her — not confused, but searching. Like the words mean more than they let on.

She doesn’t explain. Just watches the numbers change like she’s watching time go backwards.

“You did this before too” she continues, eyes forward now, lips tugging into something quieter than a smile. “I don’t think you even realised.”

Your brow knits faintly but she doesn’t elaborate. Only smiles faintly at the doors, like they’re showing her something you can’t see. Like she’s watching a film only she remembers the ending to.

The elevator dings. Third floor.

You step aside and let her go first. Her pace is slower now — not tired, just hesitant. Like she’s caught between where she is and where she was.

Outside her door, she turns. Her hands move toward the bag, and you offer it back without a word. Your fingers brush — brief, but enough. Enough to remind her.

Her voice is softer now. The kind of softness that happens when the rest of the world fades.

“Thank you” she says. “Really”

You don’t smile, not exactly. Just a quiet shift in your posture. A nod that means more than it sounds.

As you unlock your door, she doesn’t move right away.

Her keys dangle loosely in her hand. The grocery bag is still pressed against her chest, the paper warm now, a little damp where her palms have held it too tightly.

You step inside, quiet as always, and the door clicks shut behind you.

But she stays still.

The hallway hums with early evening — golden light spilling lazily across some flooring, the soft whirring sound of an overhead bulb aging into static. She shifts her grip slightly, and the texture of the paper bag catches against her fingertips.

And suddenly, it isn’t groceries she’s holding.

It's 2 am memory.

A paper cup passed into her hands by someone who didn’t ask questions. Someone who never said much, but always knew when to offer something warm.

She closes her eyes, just briefly, and lets the weight of the bag anchor her in both places at once — here, in this hallway and there, in the soft-lit kitchen of a dormitory long gone quiet.

A hallway.

A quiet kindness.

A version of you who probably didn’t even know what it meant.

But she did and she still does.

And before she even opens her door, the memory is already there — tucked neatly into her chest, like it never left.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It started with rain.

Not the soft kind. Not the kind that gently taps on glass and whispers you home. This was the kind that roars — relentless and heavy, like it had something to prove. The streets blurred. Her eyeliner ran, her dress stuck to her knees. And by the time she staggered into the residence hall, barefoot with her heels dangling from her fingers and a buzz fading fast, she looked like she’d just crawled out of the sea.

The clock on the hallway wall blinked at her.

2:03 am.

She was supposed to sneak back in unnoticed. Just another night, just another party she left too late. No one was around. Quiet. Forgettable.

But the kitchen light was on.

She paused.

The corridor smelled like mint gum and someone’s instant noodles. Old air and academic exhaustion. That light — it meant someone was still awake.

You

Not a roommate. Not a friend. Just  you. The quiet one from a few doors down. Always in the same seat, under the same flickering bulb, notebook open, pen steady. You looked like part of the furniture by now — not because you were invisible, but because you were constant.

She paused, her body dripping water onto the floor, her breath still caught in her throat. You glanced up, calmly, not startled. Not judgmental. Just a casual present.

Her voice came out smaller than intended. “Surprise downpour” she offered, her voice awkward and damp, like the rest of her.

You didn’t respond right away. You didn’t smile. Didn’t ask if she was okay — maybe because you could already tell. Instead, you stood up as your gaze softened, walked over to the tiny kitchenette and began boiling water. 

She watched. Shivering, dripping, not quite sure why she hadn’t bolted back to her room yet.

You moved without fanfare — grabbed a paper cup, that kind with the soft, ridged texture that didn’t quite fold but always felt delicate in your hands. Something disposable, temporary, yet serves you right when you need it. You poured water. Mint tea. No sugar.

You handed it to her like it was nothing. Like it was obvious. Like it was routine. Like she was always meant to arrive at that hour, drenched and unspoken, and be met with kindness.

“Thanks” she whispered, fingers curling around the warmth.

You just nodded and returned to your seat. You sat back down as you returned to your notes as if she wasn’t dripping puddles beside you.

No questions. No noise. Just pen scratching your paper, sometimes twirling around your fingers. The tick of a wall clock and the soft steam curling out of her cup.

That was the first night.

But not the last.

It became a pattern.

A rhythm. She’d leave parties earlier or wander the halls under the excuse of “couldn’t sleep” or “I just needed air” but really, she started seeking the glow of the kitchen light. The soft scrape of your chair. The smell of tea steeping at ungodly hours.

You never asked why she was awake. Never asked why she was out but you always made room.

And maybe that’s what undid her.

As she — in all her mess and motion, found herself orbiting closer. 

You became her checkpoint.

Her quiet sign that she was safe. That she’d made it home.

Her little lighthouse at the end of every night.

She’d started noticing things.

The way your notebook margins were always ruled in a faint colour. The way your pen hovered for a second before every sentence, like you weighed each word before it existed. How your bracelet — thin, silver, unremarkable — tapped lightly against the table every time you reached for your drink or whenever you think. That sound, soft and rhythmic, became a rhythm in her chest, becoming as familiar as her own breathing. A metronome for 2 am. She never said it out loud, but it became a comfort.

She noticed because she didn’t know where else to look. Your eyes,  they were too much. They made her feel too seen. So she watched your hands instead. The way your fingers curl around paper cups. The careful way you poured, not out of formality but out of muscle memory.

Kindness, as a routine.

She told herself it wasn’t a crush. 

It wasn’t. Not exactly.

It was just a silly habit.

A little ritual.

A silly comfort at 2 am.

A little comfort carved out of borrowed time.

But then came the night she found herself waiting. Not in the kitchen — but by her door. Silent. Barefoot. Holding her breath as if it might make you appear.

She didn’t even have a reason. She just hoped.

Because if you were there, then maybe things were okay. Then maybe the spinning inside her chest would slow. Then maybe she could rest — not sleep, but truly rest — just for a moment.

And maybe that meant something.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first day she moved into the apartment, the air was heavy.

February heat clung to the building like a second skin. Her shirt was sticking to her back, her keys kept slipping from her fingers, and her patience — already frayed — one wrong buzz away from snapping.

She took the elevator to the third floor expecting nothing. Maybe an empty hallway accompanied with silence.

Instead—

You.

Stepping out.

Same bag over your shoulder. Same unhurried steps. Earbuds in. Neutral as always.

But older now. Sharper. Quieter. You didn’t pause. You just nodded as you passed, fingers already spinning your keys the way they used to twist your pen.

And then—

She saw it.

The bracelet.

Same silver glint. Same worn edges.

Her breath caught. Her heart stopped.

Because it wasn’t just a bracelet anymore.

It was proof.

That you were real. That the quiet presence who handed her tea without asking and taught her what stillness could feel like, wasn’t something she imagined at 2 am.

You were here.

Living across from her.

Still quiet. Still thoughtful. Still moving through the world like kindness was your default setting.

She stood frozen in the elevator as you took the stairs, a moving box digging into her hip, the texture of the cardboard suddenly indistinguishable from the paper cups you used to hand her. Rough. Familiar. Soft at the edges. But temporary.

Her chest filled slowly — not all at once. Like something long-held had been unlocked.

Because that bracelet? It wasn’t just something you wore.

It was something she remembered.

And you weren’t just someone she missed.

You were the checkpoint. Her checkpoint.

The small, steady kindness she never got to thank properly. The reason she stayed up late for no reason.

The reason she started liking tea over coffee.

And now, somehow, unbelievably — You were home again. In a new hallway, under new lights, but still you.

And her heart didn’t just flutter.

It folded.

Softly. Carefully.

Like a memory placed into a drawer you never meant to reopen. And yet found exactly where you left it.

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The hallway stretches quietly around her, soft and golden with early evening light. The paper bag pressed against her chest feels heavier now—not with groceries, but with the weight of memory. She shifts slightly, fingertips grazing the rough, familiar texture of the bag. The coarse crinkle of paper echoes in her mind like the ridges of a paper cup from a long-past 2 am —warmth passed quietly between two hands in a dim dorm kitchen.

The fading light spills across the floor, casting long shadows that seem to reach toward her, folding the moment inward like a secret tucked between the walls.

Outside, the distant hum of the city blends with the gentle creak of the building settling, a symphony of small, unnoticed sounds that only the quiet can hold.

She breathes it all in, letting the memory and the present blur together—the weight of that silent kindness settling deep inside her. Her fingers loosen their grip on the bag, but her heart tightens, caught between what was and what might be.

Finally, with a soft sigh, she steps forward and unlocks her door, the cool metal key turning smoothly in the lock.

Inside, the familiar sanctuary waits, but outside something has shifted.

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You begin to notice her more—not with the sudden spark of infatuation, not with the loud crash of realisation, but in the quiet, slow way that a melody lingers after the music stops, threading itself gently through the silence. It is not something planned or deliberate; it is more like a secret unravelling of routine, a soft loosening of the everyday patterns you’ve both moved through without thought—until now.

The way she greets you changes, imperceptibly at first. It’s gentler, almost amused in a way that says she remembers the conversations you once shared but chooses not to bring them up again. The subtle humour in her eyes carries a tenderness you hadn’t noticed before, like a small spark hidden in the quiet. You catch her hand sometimes, hesitating at her door handle as you pass, as if she’s weighing some unspoken thought, holding it tightly between her fingers but never daring to voice it. She never mentions that night in the elevator again. Never let the moment hang between you. Yet, sometimes—just sometimes—you catch her looking. Not glaring or staring, but with a quiet, searching gaze that feels like she’s trying to read the spaces between your words.

Maybe it’s you too. Maybe it’s how your fingers hover a little too long over the elevator buttons, like you’re waiting to hear her voice again, or maybe it’s the way your eyes drift instinctively to her door—just once, just briefly—before you unlock your own, like a secret ritual you didn’t know you’d started.

There is a shift now. A gentle tilt in the air. So faint you might miss it if you blink too fast. But it is there.

And then you begin to offer her small signs of acknowledgment—a nod when your paths cross in the hallway, a fleeting smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes but softens the edges of your face. Not a broad, flashing grin, but something quieter—a slight upward pull of your lips, the shadow of a laugh that you forgot how to say aloud. The first time she catches it, Manon freezes—not in a showy or dramatic way, but in that intimate, internal pause that hearts know all too well when something impossible settles inside them. Like the Earth itself held its breath for a heartbeat, remembering a song it thought it had lost.

Because she has seen your face for months—heard your footsteps in the hall, memorised the cadence of your steps—but you’ve never looked at her like this. Not really. Not until now.

She carries that moment with her for days. Like a secret wound or a fragile hope she doesn’t dare name.

Then it happens.

A random Thursday afternoon, unremarkable in every way but for the small fracture it leaves behind.

You come home earlier than usual—just after five—and there she is, standing by the mailboxes, arms full of letters and bills she doesn’t even bother to open. The elevator doors open beside her, and you step out—not with the usual glaze over your eyes, not with your headphones blocking out the world, but with something lighter, softer—a smile.

Not for her.

For the woman beside you.

Someone new. Not a neighbour. Not the old landlady you sometimes joked about. Just a girl. Her age, maybe younger, with a laugh that spills out like sunlight, warm and easy. You hold the elevator door with a casual hand stretched across the frame, and you say something low and brief to the girl. She laughs again, tossing her head back like the sound is the sweetest thing she’s heard all day.

And Manon?

She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t blink.

Her fingers tighten their grip around the mail, the edges of paper biting into her skin. The veins on her wrist stand out, pulsing from how hard she clenches. Her breath catches in a way you cannot hear, but it feels like the world slowed down just for her.

You don’t notice her. You’re too caught up in that effortless conversation, that ease you never showed her.

The girl bumps your shoulder playfully. You laugh, quiet but genuine. And that is what breaks her.

Because it’s the same smile you gave her once, or maybe it’s softer, more open—lingering longer—and suddenly, it feels like everything mattered only to her. Like all those nights, the soft lingering gaze, the small silences in your apartment hallway—they were seconds borrowed from something bigger, moments she treasured even when you didn’t.

She doesn’t know who that girl is. She doesn’t want to know but her chest aches anyway.

The smile she thought was hers is now worn on your face for someone else.

And the cruellest truth?

It looks good on you.

God, she hates it.

Hates how much she wishes she were the reason behind that smile.

Before the elevator doors close again, before you even glance her way, before that soft-laughing stranger can see the storm breaking behind Manon’s eyes, she’s already walking away—shoes with mismatched socks, swallowed by the quiet, leaving the hallway colder than before.

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That night, sleep is a stranger to her.

The apartment is too still, too silent, as if it’s holding its breath alongside her. Her thoughts echo louder than footsteps ever could. The air feels thick—not with cold, but with everything she never said, everything she bottled up and shoved down to avoid the pain of admitting it.

By 1:37 am, she’s barefoot on the cold kitchen tiles, pressing her palms flat against the countertop, the smooth ceramic cool and unyielding beneath her hands. She hopes the cold will anchor her, but it does nothing to steady the storm inside.

Because this ache isn’t just jealousy. It’s something older, deeper—a raw hunger for something she had once and lost without realizing it. A recognition of wanting. Of needing. Of a quiet yearning that aches in the bones.

Her sweater, thin and threadbare, is pulled tightly around her—barely a shield from the chilly night air slipping in through cracked windows, but enough to hold her together, if only just. Her mismatched socks crawl up her calves like mismatched feelings, symbols of how different she feels from the person she wants to be in your eyes.

By 2:03 am, she is at your door.

No umbrella, no carefully crafted excuse. Just breath, sharp and uneven, and the soft hush of her sock feet on the hallway floor.

Her hand hovers over your door, trembling—an echo of the chaos inside her.

And then—

She knocks.

Once.

Twice.

A third time, softer, almost apologetic.

There’s a pause.

And then you answer.

Half-asleep. Your hair tousled, your eyes slow to focus, wearing that faded T-shirt you always seem to live in. But the second you see her—really see her standing there with arms crossed like a fragile shield and jaw tight with a feeling neither of you can quite name—you wake up.

“Manon?” Your voice is low. Careful. Full of questions you don’t dare say aloud. “Is everything—?”

She shakes her head once. Not as an answer, but as a permission.

“Can I come in? Just for a bit?”

You nod, stepping aside, heart beating slower than hers, but steady.

The apartment is dim and familiar. The single bulb above the stovetop hums softly, casting a pale pool of light over the counters—reminding her of that dorm kitchen, the nights filled with mint tea and silence that never quite made sense but always felt right.

You gesture toward the couch, but neither of you sits.

Instead, you move to the kitchen and put on the kettle.

When the whistle hums, you pour hot water into a mug—a ceramic mug, heavy and warm—not a paper cup tossed aside carelessly after a single sip, but something real. Something steady. Something that’s not temporary.

You hand it to her.

She holds it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

But she doesn’t drink.

Not yet.

Finally, she speaks.

“I saw you today” her voice is low, trembling with emotion she barely keeps in check. Raw, unfiltered. “With her”

You don’t respond.

She’s not looking for answers, not yet. She just needs the words out—needs to breathe them into the quiet between you.

“I told myself it shouldn’t matter” she continues, voice breaking just a little. “We’re neighbours. Barely that. A few conversations, a handful of elevators. I don’t get to be upset.”

She swallows, gripping the mug tighter. The warmth seeps into her fingers but does nothing to quiet the tremble in her chest.

“But it did. It does. I hated how easy it was. The way you smiled for her. The way you let her in, like it was nothing—like it didn’t mean something when you held the door for me. Like I imagined the way you started looking at me.”

You hold her gaze, still, present—something soft stirring behind your eyes.

“I didn’t mean to hold on” she whispers, voice cracking. “But I did. Because you were kind. Because I remembered you. Because you gave me tea once and didn’t ask for anything in return. Because I thought maybe, maybe that meant something.”

Silence settles between you.

Then you say it, quietly but firmly:

“It did.”

The words fall like thunder into her chest, loud and deep and impossible to ignore. Similar to the first night where she saw you in the dorm kitchen.

Manon blinks, eyes wide, searching your face like she’s trying to find the proof she’s been longing for.

“I remember you” you say again. “From that night. From all those nights. The kitchen. The tea. You walked in like a storm that didn’t know it was beautiful.”

A breath escapes her—half laugh, half sob.

“I’m sorry” she whispers, voice soft and raw. “I didn’t mean to, you know, show up like this.”

“No, I—” you say, stepping closer, the space between you shrinking into silence.

The air thickens—not with tension, but with everything you left unsaid, everything you both wanted but never dared to claim.

“I didn’t know what I wanted back then” you admit quietly. “I just knew I wanted you to be okay. You never asked for anything. But I found myself waiting for you, like it was part of my routine. Like you were.”

She sets the mug down slowly, like it might shatter.

“I kept coming back to that kitchen,” she says, voice breaking. “Because I wanted someone to see me when I wasn’t pretending. I didn’t know how to ask for that. But you—” her eyes shimmer “—you just, you just offered it.”

You close the distance enough to touch her hand.

“It was never just about the tea, was it?” you murmur.

“No” she whispers back, eyes glistening. “It was always about you.”

This time, when your fingers brush, neither of you pulls away.

And in the stillness of your apartment, bathed in soft light and heavy with memories, it feels like you are living inside a moment caught between what was and what could be—fragile and fierce and achingly real.

This isn’t the end.

This is the beginning neither of you ever dared to ask for.

And at 2:31 am, the world exhales with you both.

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But years, like rivers, have a way of changing courses. Daniela, despite herself, decided to open her heart again. It wasn’t a grand plan, not a storm of passion or sudden clarity. It was gentle set in motion by clumsy attempts from well-meaning friends, awkward dates like scattered leaves falling into the wind. And then, like a slow sunrise over a quiet horizon, she found her way to someone new. Her partner, her spouse.

You are known to him, always the shadow in the room, the ghost in quiet conversations. He has seen the way your memory lingers in her eyes, the way it blooms like a faded photograph pressed between the pages of her life. He tried, God he tried, how he always tried to be the warmth she needed, the steady hand that might guide her beyond you. He took her to new places, coaxed her to step into new stories. Sometimes to places you two once loved, hoping that with enough light and laughter, she might begin to write new memories on the same worn pages but this time with him.

—

Years passed, and the house filled with the sound of children’s laughter, two small lives meant to weave joy into the fabric of her days. The smiles were genuine, the family complete by all outward measures. But those who loved her best knew something subtle had shifted. Daniela was happy, yes, whole in a way that made others breathe easier, but it was a happiness tinged with a quiet longing, a soft shadow that even the brightest moments couldn’t chase away.

If you asked Daniela, she’d smile, steady and sure, and say she was happy, she is happy. How could she not be? But her partner saw the cracks beneath that smile, the faint tremor in her voice whenever your name slipped into their arguments like an invisible thread pulling her back.

Because sometimes, in the heat of a disagreement, the words came like a whisper from another time.

“If it was them, we wouldn’t be fighting like this. We wouldn’t be fighting at all.”

Those words would hang in the air long after she said them, thick and heavy, pressing down on everything else because it was true, in a way. The fights weren’t about the present. They were about what had been lost. About the love she still carried beneath the surface.

Her partner would close his eyes, take a breath, and try to remember the first time he saw her. How her laughter filled a room, how her eyes sparkled even in the smallest moments. He tried to be the person she needed, not a replacement, someone who could hold her steady when the past got too loud, when the memories with you got too loud.

He took her to places she’d never been, promising new memories and new stories. But sometimes, when the sun dipped low and the sky turned a soft bruised purple, Daniela would look out the window and her thoughts would drift elsewhere. And as hurtful for it to admit to himself, it is you. It drifts back to the thought of you. It drifts back to you.

—

The house was alive with the small chaos of children, laughter bouncing off walls, toys scattered like breadcrumbs of joy. Daniela was the centre of it all, moving between rooms with a grace that made the house feel like home. She was present, fully there, but not entirely.

Her partner watched her from the doorway one afternoon, the sunlight catching the gold in her hair. She was humming softly to herself as she folded laundry, a faint smile playing on her lips. But then, suddenly, the smile would fade, her eyes clouding with a shadow no one could touch.

He wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap he could see but never quite cross. The silence between them was often louder than words. He didn’t ask what she was thinking, not directly, as he’s too afraid of the answer or too scared to know that the answer has and will always be the same. He knew some memories were too sacred to disturb.

Yet sometimes, in the quiet corners of the day, Daniela’s voice would rise in the softest of confessions.

“I remember when we used to come here” she’d say, pointing to a cafe, “They’d laugh about the way the wind would catch their hair like they were part of the sky. And those stupid stamps they’ll happily collect in exchange for something mundane is so silly.”

Her partner would smile, nodding, trying to catch the warmth in her eyes, but knowing it wasn’t for him. It never had been. And maybe, it never will be.

They had tried everything. Road trips to the coast, late-night drives chasing stars, weekends lost in tiny towns with crooked streets and cozy cafes. He wanted to see her light up, to chase away the shadows that clung to her.

But sometimes, even in the brightest moments, Daniela’s thoughts would drift.

He would hold her hand, feel the tension in her fingers, and know she was holding onto something beyond reach.

—

One night, after dinner, the two of them sat on the porch, the children asleep inside. The air was cool and smelled faintly of rain. Daniela’s eyes were distant, watching the sky.

“I’m sorry if I’m a little distant sometimes.” she said quietly, “I hope you know that I tried, still am. You know? To forget them.”

Her partner squeezed her hand, voice gentle but firm.

“Who?”

“You know,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

He swallowed hard. The moment had come again, like it always does.

“I know” he said.

Daniela turned to look at him, eyes shining with something fragile and fierce all at once.

“I try to live in the now. I do. With the children and especially with you. But it’s like, they're always there, on the edges of my world.”

He nodded. “I see that and I understand.”

Because it wasn’t easy loving someone who carried the past like a second skin.

—

The children asked questions sometimes, it was innocent and curious. Why did their mother look at old photographs with such longing? Why did she sometimes whisper a name before falling asleep?

Daniela’s partner would answer with the gentlest of words, careful to honour both past and present.

“It’s because she loved someone very deeply before,” he’d say. “Sometimes, love doesn’t leave us even when life moves on.”

The children were young, but even they could sense the tenderness and the quiet ache in their mother’s heart.

There was no bitterness. Not even jealousy. It’s a quiet understanding that some loves don’t fade. They live beneath the surface, shaping the heart in ways no new love could erase.

Daniela’s partner learned to live in the spaces between. To hold her gently when she reached for memories, to be the steady hand in moments when the past pulled her away.

And when the last chapter came, the one they all knew was inevitable. They were ready.

He stood at her side, holding her hand as her breath slowed, and the world quieted.

In those final moments, with tears tracing silent paths down their cheeks, he whispered to the stillness.

“I’m just happy she’s finally with her first and greatest love again.”

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She even teased you for it, “You’re really committing to drinking this overpriced stuff ten times just for something free?” And you’d grin, replying something dumb like, “It’s not about the free drink. It's dedication.” or “You only live once Daniela, might as well enjoy the journey.” 

And Daniela believed you like she always did.

—

Daniela was the bookworm between you two, but she knew your imagination ran on a different current. You were the philosopher, the one fascinated by what holds people together and what tears them apart. Death didn’t scare you. You talked about it like it was just another stop on a long train ride. Sometimes you even wondered out loud how it might come, accident, illness, quiet, maybe sudden. Despite it all, Daniela would roll her eyes calling you paranoid, but you’d only smile and say, “I’m not afraid. It’s called being aware. Bet you haven’t heard of that.”

“Just live your best life,” you’d add. “You never know when it’ll be your last.” And she’d swat your arm, laughing, “You’re so dramatic.”

—

Maybe the universe was listening a little too closely. 

Because when it happened, it wasn’t cinematic. It wasn’t expected. It was just over. And of all the people it could’ve been, Daniela never imagined it would be you.

Daniela had imagined a different ending. She used to joke that she’d go first. That you’d be the one left behind, stubbornly finishing both your lives out of sheer force of will, maybe out of dedication. She imagined a life that unfolded like your stamp cards, something slow, predictable, and full of tiny joys. You’d get married, maybe have pets, then kids or kids before pets, it didn’t matter as long as it's you, growing old together and laughing at the same stupid jokes.

You’d collect your stamps, one by one. A free drink here, a little perk there. Somewhat fancy, just love printed out in small, consistent rewards.

But life, cruelly, stamped its final mark before the card was full.

Nine out of ten.

She thought you’d reach the end together and maybe that’s what haunts her now, the way your last card stopped at nine. One stamp shy of the reward. One heartbeat away from everything you both were still waiting to build, but never get to.

—

Daniela lives differently now. She’s quieter, more careful, and still breathing. There are days when she’s surrounded by noise, random people talking, dishes clinking, laughter spilling through rooms and yet a silence presses just beneath the surface. It’s the space you used to fill. A shadow that never quite lifts.

People ask her if she’s okay, and the answer would always be the same, accompanied with a smile. Sometimes she even believes it but there are moments, especially in the early mornings or the late hours of night, when your name slips into her mind like a breath, living with her like a second skin.

And she still sees you in everything.

At random cafes, in cups of coffee going cold, and in songs you never got to share. In the way autumn winds blow through the city catching your hair, making you complain about it. She can’t help it, you weren’t just her first love. You were her greatest love, her always. 

And though life has pulled her forward, made her laugh again, allowed her to carry on in pieces, there’s still a space in her heart that belongs to you. A quiet corner untouched by time, not even grief could steal it. Not even death could erase it.

Maybe some loves don’t fade, they just stop growing and start echoing. 

So Daniela carries the card you never got to finish. It might appear as just a little piece of paper, but it's a little piece of you.

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