10

Isabella Leonardo:

I was naked. Completely exposed.

“What the hell!” I grabbed my nightwear from the edge of the bed and slipped it on in a rush. He stood at the door, smirking like the devil himself.

“Come on… I've seen it all before,” Christopher said, stepping inside. The moment he got close, I caught the sharp mix of alcohol and cigarettes on his breath.

“Ugh. You reek. Step back—and get out of my room.” I shoved at his chest, but he barely moved.

“Out?” He laughed, stumbling. “This is my house, Isa. I can be anywhere I want.” His gaze dropped to me, softened. “I missed you. Your face. Everything… just let me hold you.”

He opened his arms, but I stood still, frozen.

“No,” I said, firmer this time. “What is wrong with you? If anyone sees you like this—do you even care?”

“You locked the door, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I did. But that doesn't mean you can act like this. Just… go back to your room, Christopher.”

He swayed on his feet, stubborn. “No. I want to stay. I want to be with you tonight.”

“Chris—” I started, but he stepped closer and gently placed his finger over my lips.

His touch wasn't forceful. It was slow. Deliberate. He looked at me like he was waiting.

My breath hitched. I should’ve pushed him again, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to.

He leaned in, not touching—just waiting.

And I gave in.

I nodded—just once—and he kissed me like a man starved.

His hands didn’t rush. His fingers brushed the side of my thigh, moving higher only when I moved into him. Every touch asked a question, and every answer came from me.

Then he paused, eyes dark, reading my face. “Tell me to stop.”

I didn’t.

Instead, I whispered, “Kiss me again.”

And he did.

Not fast. Not possessive.

He kissed me slow—mindful. The kind of kiss that melts your spine and makes your thighs ache. My fingers curled around the back of his neck, pulling him in deeper, lips parting with his.

Heat spread fast. Damp. Wanting.

I shifted closer, letting my hips roll—pressing against him exactly where I wanted him to feel it.

He was already hard. I smiled into the kiss and did it again, slow, teasing.

A groan rumbled from his chest. Then, suddenly, he spun me around, his hand landing firm on my ass with a sharp smack that made me gasp.

I looked back at him, heart pounding.

He didn’t say a word. Just stepped closer, body pressing against mine from behind. His hand slid slowly over my hip, fingers teasing the edge of my nightwear, then retreating like he was testing a line he didn’t know if he should cross.

I turned around to face him, breath shaky. His eyes were no longer clouded by alcohol, just something darker—regret, craving, everything he couldn’t say.

He cupped my cheek gently, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low.

“I know,” I whispered, leaning into his touch anyway.

And then his lips met mine again—slow, deep, drawn out like he was trying to memorize the taste of me.

My hand slipped under his shirt, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. His fingers gripped my waist, then moved lower, slipping beneath the fabric. But we stopped short. Teased. Touched. Explored, but never crossed that final line.

Our bodies burned with the ache of almost.

Eventually, we collapsed onto the bed. He pulled me against him, wrapping an arm around my waist. My back pressed to his chest, his breath warm against my neck.

Neither of us spoke. Because if we did, we’d have to admit what this was.

Wrong. Reckless. Forbidden.

And yet, in the quiet, with his hand tangled in mine, I didn't want to let go.

Sleep found us tangled in guilt and desire. And the worst part?

I enjoyed every bit of it.

The next morning came so fast and uninvited. The sun light sharp on my face.

Voices echoed faintly downstairs. The house was awake. Alive.

He was gone—no sign of him beside me anymore.

I took my time in the bathroom, washing away the night from my skin, brushing my teeth as if it could somehow erase the memory of his mouth on mine.

But it didn’t.

I made my way downstairs. The house was oddly quiet, like it knew something had happened. Something it wasn’t supposed to witness.

I drifted into the kitchen, half-expecting to see him leaning against the counter—but it was empty.

Where the hell is he?

“Are you looking for me?”

His voice.

I turned, and there he was—shirt wrinkled, hair slightly messy, like sleep hadn’t really touched him.

“Uhm… no. I wasn’t…” I lied, eyes darting to the side.

He raised a brow but didn’t call me out. Instead, he walked over and placed a steaming mug in front of me.

Cinnamon tea.

I looked up, surprised. “You remember?”

“Of course I do,” he said with a soft smile. “Cramps make you irritated and nauseous. Always have.”

Something fluttered in my chest.

Before I could respond, he leaned in and kissed me—gentle, quick, nothing like the night before.

But it still made my heart twist.

I turned my face away and exhaled slowly. “I…”

“I know,” he said, cutting me off. “But don’t say it.”

Then he walked out of the kitchen, leaving me there with the tea, the silence, and the weight of everything we weren’t allowed to feel.

I stood there with the mug in my hand, the taste of cinnamon on my tongue, and something else—something heavier—settling in my chest.

It wasn’t right.

None of it was.

I wasn’t supposed to want him. To crave the way he touched me like I mattered. I was just here to work, to get money and leave back to Tokyo.

And yet, here I was—heart racing, lips tingling, and no idea what to do with the mess inside me.

I left the kitchen.

The hallway was warm with soft light from the open windows, Saturday laziness hanging in the air.

Then I saw them.

Christopher crouched beside Amara, tying the ribbons on her doll’s dress, both of them giggling about something. It was domestic. Sweet. The kind of scene that didn’t belong to someone like me.

Amara turned her head when she noticed me.

“Good morning, Isabella!”

I smiled faintly. “Oh. Morning, Amara.”

She tilted her head, blinking at me with that too-honest look only kids have.

Then she asked—loud and clear:

“When are you leaving our house, step-aunty?”

My heart stopped.

Christopher’s smile faded. His hands froze on the doll.

I blinked at Amara, trying not to let anything show on my face.

“I… I’m not sure yet,” I said softly, forcing a small smile.

She shrugged like it didn’t matter and skipped off, humming to herself.

But the words stayed. Clung to me like perfume I couldn’t wash off.