The smell of sizzling butter filled the small kitchen, covering the silence between us. I stirred the sauce, my hand moving instinctively rather than with focus. My thoughts drifted far away, stuck between last night's tears and this morning's emptiness. Sylus sat at the counter, elbows resting on the marble, his gaze steady. Every time I turned, I felt it follow the line of my back, the curve of my shoulder, the mess of my bun that kept slipping loose.
"You're tired?" he said finally, his voice low and careful. I forced a small smile, poking at the pan. "Just tired. Didn't sleep much." He hummed, that deep sound vibrating softly through the air. When I glanced over, his expression was hard to read, like a part concern, something else. Something that felt like restraint.
The aroma of heavy cream and garlic hung between us. I wiped my palms on my apron, pretending not to notice how his fingers drummed on the counter, as if he was trying to stay grounded. For a moment, I almost asked if he stayed awake holding me or if he left after I fell asleep, leaving just warmth where his arms had been. But I swallowed the question, pretending the ache in my chest was hunger.
The air smelled like butter and garlic, and him. It was absurd how Sylus's quiet presence could fill the room even when he said little. He stood and walked near, leaning against the counter as if he belonged, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, eyes tracking every small movement I made.
I told myself to focus on the sauce. On the spoon. On anything but the way my heart raced every time his arm brushed against mine. "Cooking helps," the voice was low. What I meant was it keeps me from feeling too much. From remembering too much.
But with him here, I couldn't stop feeling. When our hands brushed again as I reached for the pepper, I nearly dropped it. His skin was warm, steady, grounding, and for a brief moment, I wanted to stay like that. Just... still.
I tasted the sauce with the tip of my finger, trying to act normal. Trying to pretend my heart wasn't a traitor pounding so loudly. He was watching me again. I could feel it, the weight of his gaze moving along the curve of my cheek, the mess of my hair, the tremble in my fingers that I hoped he didn't see.
" I think it's ready," I murmured, forcing a small smile as I turned off the stove. The truth was I wasn't sure if I was talking about the pasta anymore or the feeling that had been building quietly between us since last night.
I served pasta in plates turned around with plates in hand, the scent of pasta and warmth surrounding us, and then he was there. Too close. I froze, the edges of the plates digging into my palms as my back touched the counter. His chest was inches from mine, his breath brushing against my temple, the soft smell of my face wash was there, and his essence was steady, deep, impossible to ignore.
"S–Sylus," I breathed out, my eyes darting up. He didn't reply right away. His gaze moved from my eyes to my lips, then lower, landing on the small streak of sauce that must have gotten on my wrist. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"You missed a spot," he said softly. Before I could react, his thumb lightly traced my skin, slow and deliberate. My breath caught that contact burned soft, harmless, yet everything but.
The room felt smaller. The air was thicker. My pulse raced as the silence lingered, as it was one of those delicate moments that could break with a single word.
"Dinner's gonna get cold," I whispered, trying to sound casual, but my voice shook like the rest of me. He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Just looked at me with that quiet intensity that made me feel both seen and exposed. Then, with a low breath, he stepped back, never breaking the gaze, giving me space, but taking the air with him.
SYLUS POV~
The clink of cutlery was the only sound between us. The soft hum of the city outside the window and the faint flicker of candlelight on her face blurred into something distant. She sat across from me, twirling pasta slowly with her fork. She seemed lost somewhere far away. Each time she looked down, her lashes brushed her cheek. Every time she looked up, I forgot how to breathe.
She took a bite, closing her eyes briefly as if to enjoy the flavor or maybe to hide the storm brewing beneath her calm. Her lips glistened slightly, the light catching the corner of her mouth where a smudge of sauce remained. I forced myself to look away. I didn't trust what would happen if I didn't.
The pasta tasted fine; it was better than fine. It tasted like warmth, like care, like her. But I could barely taste it. She looked tired, but not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that eats at you from the inside. All I wanted was to selfishly, pathetically take that weight from her, to make her laugh, to see her eyes light up again.
But how could I, when I was barely managing my own darkness? Her voice broke through my thoughts, soft and uncertain. "Is it okay?" she asked, her fork pausing midair.
I swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah. It's perfect." Her lips curved faintly. For a fleeting second, she looked almost at peace. And I would do anything to keep her looking like that.
She twirled the pasta around her fork, looking down, silent except for the soft clink of silver against porcelain. The creamy smell of butter and garlic still lingered in the air, thick enough to taste.
I had never seen her eat like this; slow and almost cautious, as if she was afraid to take too much of anything. I leaned against the counter with my arms crossed, trying to concentrate on my plate. But my gaze kept drifting back to her.
In that moment, she seemed so undeniably mine. No walls. No defenses. Just a girl in an oversized sweatshirt, hair slipping out of a bun, trying to keep her world from falling apart. "You're quiet," I said, my voice lower than I intended.
She shrugged. "I'm just tired." Her tone was soft, but the tremor beneath it said otherwise. She looked up for a second, and that single glance hit me hard. Her eyes were swollen from crying last night, but she still looked… breathtaking. Like someone who didn't know how much space she took up in my thoughts, in my world, in my every fucking breath.
I set my fork down, watching the small flicker of surprise cross her face. "You didn't have to cook," I said. "I wanted to," she whispered. "It helps me breathe." with that, she lifted both the empty plates, moving to sink, and Something twisted inside me because I knew what she meant. She must do something, anything, just to feel distracted away from those haunting thoughts that clouded her mind.
I reached for my glass of water, trying to shake off the ache tightening in my chest. But she beat me to it, sliding the glass closer to me before I could move. Her fingers brushed mine, just barely, and that was all it took. The smallest contact, and the room shifted.
"Thanks," I murmured. She smiled faintly. "You're the one who stayed."
The way she said it, just soft, grateful, unaware of the effect it had on me, it almost broke down every wall I had built. I wanted to tell her she didn't need to thank me. That I would stay, even if she asked me not to.
Instead, I leaned back, staring at her across the soft light of the kitchen. "You shouldn't have to do this alone," I said. She blinked. "What if I don't know how to do it any other way?"
That silence that followed was heavier than any scream. I wanted to reach across the table, touch her hand again, pull her closer. But before I could, her phone buzzed against the counter, clear, sharp and bright, breaking the fragile quiet.
She sighed, reaching for it, glancing at the name flashing across the screen from the modeling company. Her voice softened when she answered the call.
"Hello?... oh, hi, yes, this is Ella."
I leaned back, pretending not to listen, but I heard every word her expression changed almost instantly. Her eyes brightened, and that small spark of life returned to her face for the first time since yesterday. "Tomorrow? A couple shoot?" she repeated, disbelief mixed with a fragile smile.
I felt something twist in my chest. When she hung up, she turned to me. A glimmer of excitement barely masked the slidover sadness in her eyes. "That's the company I modeled for recently," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "They booked me for a shoot tomorrow."
"That's good," I said quietly, trying to sound encouraging. "You deserve a little good news." Her smile deepened for a second before she hesitated, almost sheepishly.
"It'sIt's's a couple. Concept shoot," she admitted. "With Cameron."
Cameron.
That name tasted like poison in my mouth. A poison that's killing me, seeping deep in my heart as flashbacks from that gala night crossed my mind like a burned memory ~ his plus one for the night. If I could, I would have already pulled the bullet out of his head.
I forced a breath, hiding the sudden, irrational anger that rose from deep inside me.
The same Cameron who had looked at her too long at the event last month. The same fucker who called her "Miss Clumsy" like he had the right to say it.
I clenched my jaw. "Cameron, huh." She nodded, unaware of the storm brewing in my mind. "Yeah. He's actually outstanding to work with. Professional. And I could use the distraction."
Professional. Right. I tried to smile, but it felt wrong, suffocating, tight, and forced.
My hand found the edge of the counter, fingers curling around it. I could picture it. Picture it too clearly.
His arms around those waist, which were mine to worship, that essence which held me utterly captivated, bewitched, and he will feel that too. How could he? The mere thought of that makes my blood boil& my fist clenches.
"I'm happy for you," I said, though my tone gave me away. She tilted her head, sensing it immediately, "You don't sound like it." "I am," I lied. "I just… don't like the idea."
Her brows drew together. "Idea?" "Maybe," I murmured, stepping closer. My voice dropped lower. "But he gets to touch you, look at you, smile at you. Even if it's pretend… it still has to be him."
She looked up at me, her back hitting the counter. Her lips parted, surprise flickering in her eyes. "You're jealous?"
I gave a humorless chuckle. "Maybe I am." I leaned in, close enough to catch the faint scent of vanilla still on her skin.
"Because I know what it's like to have you this close. And I don't like the idea of anyone else even imagining it."
She looked away, her cheeks flushed, fingers tightening around the back of the counter.
"It's just work," she whispered. "And I told you," I said, my voice quiet but heavy, "some things are too dangerous to call work."
For a moment, neither of us moved. The only sound was the faint aroma that lingered of food which was already been eaten and US. She looked so-just so fucking unknowingly breathtaking that little habit of hers breaking eye contact, biting her inner lip when she is nervous, OH god. Makes my mind and vision hazy. The tension was cutting through me.
Ella POV~
His words filled the air the way he said it, low, rough, almost broken, and they sent a shiver up my spine. The space between us felt nonexistent. His warmth brushed against me, and I could smell an aroma of food, fabric, and him.
My heartbeat was loud fuck he could hear it too, ig? He was close enough for me to notice the small scar near his collarbone and see how his pulse thudded there, going steady, strong, maddening.
"Sylus…" I whispered, barely a sound, more like a breath that escaped me.
He tilted his head, his eyes moving over my face slowly and searching, stopping at my lips, gazing hazed as if he wanted to have every essence before meeting my eyes again. The look in them was hard to define. It wasn't lust. It wasn't tenderness either. It wasneededd. Something wild, barely held back.
Every part of me trembled, but not from fear, but from awareness. The counter pushed against my back, and his body was a wall in front of me. His scent seeped into my skin. The warmth of him… the quiet danger of what might happen if either of us moved. A soft gulp went down my throat as I broke the gaze, unable to handle the tension, nervousness creeping up, cause this feeling, these emotions, which felt foreign, were starting to feel like they belonged somewhere in me.
My breath caught in the air between us felt charged. I wanted to say something, anything, but my throat burned with words that wouldn't come. Then the ringtone. The sharp sound pierced through everything, making me flinch the moment it broke.
Asher's name flashed on the screen. Reality flooded back, cold and unwelcome. I swallowed hard and turned away before he could see the turmoil in my eyes. "Hello?" I managed, my voice small and shaky. "Be ready in fifteen min," Asher said, his tone brisk and confident. "I'm coming to pick you up. The agency needs you before the shoot."
Fifteen minutes. I barely nodded, though he couldn't see me. "Okay." The call ended silence returned, but it felt different this time. Sylus had stepped back, his jaw tight and his gaze dark, unreadable. He turned away, head facing the ceiling as if trying to hold himself together. His shirt clung slightly to his back, a thin sheen of sweat glistening, slipped down his nape even in the cold air of morning. My breath caught again. He looked like he was made of restraint. It seemed he fought every impulse to pull me in.
-And the weirdest part, like maybe...just maybe the part of me wished he hadn't held back.-