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Chapter 21

Penulis: Chommy chilko
last update Terakhir Diperbarui: 2025-05-17 16:40:23

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Chapter 21: Ravelling desires

The apartment was thick with a silence that pressed in from all sides—not peaceful, not quiet in the way one might long for after noise, but heavy. It lived in the walls, curled into corners, breathed just behind Isla’s neck.

She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her damp skin still glistening from the steam. Water clung to the tips of her hair like dew, and the robe she wore hung open at the neck. Her reflection stared back at her, not unfamiliar, but distant. Her eyes looked older. Hollow. Like they’d seen too much and still weren’t done watching.

She touched her collarbone lightly, brushing over the faint bruise that had bloomed just beneath the surface. Christopher’s doing—but not from pain. It was the trace of a kiss, one born of too much feeling, too many unspoken things, too much restraint that had finally cracked.

The door creaked softly as she left the bathroom.

He was seated on the edge of the bed. Shirtless, hunched slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees like someone trying to carry too many ghosts in their shoulders. She knew that posture. She’d worn it herself.

“Chris,” she said, quiet.

He didn’t look up. Not right away.

Isla approached slowly, her bare feet soundless on the wood floor. She reached out, fingertips skimming the curve of his shoulder—solid, scarred, too tense for a man just sitting still.

“You’re far away,” she murmured.

His head turned, just enough for their eyes to meet sideways.

“Am I?” His voice was low, tired, threaded with something she couldn’t quite name.

She moved around him and stood between his knees, her robe brushing against his thighs. He glanced down—only for a heartbeat—then looked away, jaw set.

“You’re holding something back,” she said.

He breathed out through his nose. “Because I have to.”

“Why?” Her voice sharpened. “You think I’ll break?”

“No.” His eyes snapped up to hers. “Because I will.”

That stopped her. Not the words, exactly—but the truth behind them.

She reached for his hand and pressed it flat against her chest, right over her heart.

“Feel that?” she asked. “It’s beating. Not fast. Not scared. Steady. And only because you’re here.”

He stood up suddenly. Not aggressive. Not retreating. Just… full. His presence loomed like weather, like a gathering storm.

“You think you want this,” he said, voice low. “But you don’t know what I’ve done, Isla. What I’ve been.”

She met his gaze head-on. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t care.”

He stared at her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her. Then, slowly, his fingers found the sash of her robe. He tugged. It came undone with a soft sigh, fabric slipping open, baring skin and secrets and scars.

He didn’t reach for her.

He just looked.

“God, you’re not a sin,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But I want you like you are.”

Her voice didn’t shake when she answered. “Then take me like I am.”

---

The kiss wasn’t soft.

It was hungry. Fierce. All the emotion they’d swallowed and buried now breaking the surface. He kissed her like he needed it to breathe, and Isla kissed him back like she wanted to burn with him.

Clothes disappeared in pieces, carelessly flung aside. They didn’t laugh. Didn’t speak. There was nothing funny about what they were doing—only rawness. Only need.

By the time they reached the bed, Isla’s back hit the sheets and Christopher followed, body pressed to hers, every movement slow and sure. He kissed her jaw. Her shoulder. The inside of her wrist. Places that felt too intimate to name.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t dominate.

He listened—with his hands, with his mouth, with his breath—and Isla responded with soft gasps and arched skin and whispers of his name that weren’t meant to seduce, only to anchor.

He wasn’t making love to her like a man trying to possess her.

He was making love to her like a man trying to hold her together.

When he finally entered her, it wasn’t with urgency. It was with a trembling restraint, his hand cradling the back of her head, his mouth brushing hers.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

She didn’t.

She pulled him closer.

And he moved—slow, deep, as if every motion was a promise.

Isla didn’t cry, but something inside her broke open. Not from pain. From release. From being held in a way that felt like more than flesh and heat.

When it was over, when the world stopped tilting, they lay tangled in silence, her forehead tucked beneath his chin, their breaths finally syncing.

“Don’t let go,” she whispered.

“I won’t,” he murmured.

And he didn’t.

Not that night.

Not when sleep finally claimed them both.

---

The morning sun stretched lazy fingers across the bed.

Isla woke to the smell of coffee, warm and bitter. She padded into the kitchen, bare feet cold on the tile.

Christopher stood there, shirtless again, grey joggers slung low on his hips, coffee in one hand, the other resting on the counter. He looked up as she entered, and a tired smile softened his features.

“You stayed,” she said.

He poured her a mug and handed it over. “You needed me to.”

Something in her chest settled at those words.

Maybe just for a while, she didn’t have to carry everything alone.

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