All Chapters of Kiss me 2.1: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

ClaraThe car pulls into the driveway.I see it through the slats of the Venetian blind, just barely open enough for my eyes to slip through unseen. The engine purrs for a moment, then dies. One door slams. Another follows, less sharp.And then, their voices.Him, lower than usual. Almost gentle.Her, laughing. Natural. As if she were returning from vacation, not from a forbidden duel.Gravel crunches under their feet.The sound is almost soothing, like a light rain. But tonight, it drills into my eardrums.I stand up. I smooth my dress, uselessly. I run my hand through my hair. I pretend to be busy putting away a salad bowl. It's been clean for an hour. But my hands need to do something. Otherwise, they shake.The door opens.They enter. Together.And immediately, I feel the electricity between them.Not a word yet, but everything speaks: their postures, the way they stand too close, or not close enough. The supple tension, almost comfortable, like an old couple who understand each o

ClaraThe house is asleep, but I cannot find sleep.The silence of the night stretches like a blanket too heavy, enveloping and suffocating me at once.Every tick of the clock becomes a dull pain.Time flows slowly, relentless.I get out of bed, slowly, almost automatically.I loosen my hair, heavy with fatigue, and let it cascade onto my bare shoulders.I stand before the mirror, naked, vulnerable, exposed to myself.My eyes search this reflection for a woman still loved, still desired.But the face looking back at me is that of a stranger."Who are you?" I murmur, my voice breaking.I reach toward the mirror, as if to touch this face I no longer recognize."Come back… come back to me."I touch my skin with my fingertips, searching for a vanished warmth, a memory of Éric.I close my eyes, breathe deeply, as if to give myself courage.Tonight, I still want to believe.I want to believe there is one last possible fight, a surge, an awakening.I return to the bed, slip under the white s

 ClaraDay breaks.But it warms nothing.The sky is white, dull. Even the sun seems absent this morning.I got up before dawn. Not out of need. By instinct.Out of fear too. Fear of what I might see when opening that door.And yet, I head towards it.I dress slowly. I put on that beige dress he gave me.It's a little tight around the waist, I'm no longer the woman from three years ago.But I want him to remember. I want to call him back to me.I want to fight, even if I no longer know for what.When I come downstairs, the sound of the toaster cuts my breath.I stop, one step before the landing. And I look up.She's there.In my kitchen.She didn't hear me. Or maybe she did.But she continues as if she were at home.Éric's t-shirt on her back. Black shorts. Barefoot.Her movements are fluid, almost sensual.She's spreading honey. With a slowness… o

JadeI gently close the kitchen door, without a sound. As if Clara were still there, listening, lurking behind a wall, ready to pounce. But no. She's gone.Finally.And not just gone. Ejected.I pour myself another coffee. It's lukewarm. I don't care. It's not the taste I'm after. It's the ritual. The imprint I leave. This gesture that will become familiar to him, unavoidable.I settle into the living room armchair, legs crossed, cup in hand, perfectly straight. In this house that isn't mine yet, but will be. Inevitably.And it all begins here: in the silence left by another's defeat.I see Clara again. That face frozen by humiliation, that glimmer of icy incomprehension. She didn't just see two cups on the table, or another woman in her kitchen. She saw her slow and inevitable disappearance. She felt it. Like an invisible slap.And that, I gave her.I didn't shout. I didn't stake a claim. I simply was there, sitting in

ÉricShe's there, naked against me.And I have no more excuses.I should get out, wrap myself in a towel. Leave.Find a place where Clara doesn't hover over my thoughts.But I'm here, motionless, eyelids heavy, breath caught in my throat, feeling Jade press her damp body against mine.And I don't move.She forces nothing.Her gestures are precise, peaceful, calculated without seeming so.Her hands, warm despite the water, slowly rise up my stomach, then trace along my ribs.She brushes against me as if reprogramming me.As if, by running her fingers over me, she were engraving a new version of myself.Without Clara.I'm standing, leaning against the shower wall, and she's against me.She doesn't speak.She breathes.And I feel.Her skin streams with warm water. Her chest softly presses against my torso, her hip molds to mine, her forehead touches my shoulder.I want to say so