The days passed quietly, but something had shifted.
Each night, Lena crossed the road just before 9 p.m. She wore simple cardigans and soft slippers. She brought her own notepad, her translation headset, and, sometimes, dinner.
Ethan's kitchen was too sterile, all stainless steel and untouched gadgets. So she cooked. Stews and rice dishes. Soup in enamel pots. He said little, but he always cleared the table after.
They kept things polite.
Professional.
Mostly.
It was after a long meeting that ended early when the tension cracked.
Lena stood, stretching. Ethan leaned against the kitchen counter with a drink in hand. The hour was late, and the crickets were loud through the open window.
"Do you ever miss it?" he asked.
She glanced up.
"Miss what?"
"The spotlight. The stage. Velvet Bloom."
She tilted her head. "I miss the part where people believed in me. Not the cameras."
He nodded.
She poured herself a drink and joined him at the counter.
The silence between them now felt warm. Familiar.
Dangerous.
"Do you remember the first time we met?" she asked.
He looked over, intrigued. "The garden party?"
"No," she said. "Before that. You probably don't remember."
He furrowed his brow.
"You came to one of our fan events. For a client, not for us. You didn't say much, just stood near the back and watched. But I saw you."
"Of course you did," he smirked. "You were always watching me."
She gave him a playful glare.
"I thought you were too perfect," she admitted. "I wanted to fall in love with you so badly, I convinced myself I already had."
"Did you?" His voice was quieter now. "Fall in love?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"I think…" she began, eyes fixed on her glass, "…I fell in love with the idea of you. Of being seen. Chosen."
He poured another drink.
"Then let's test it," he said suddenly.
She blinked. "Test what?"
"Whether it was just an illusion."
Her heart skipped.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"I think you're afraid of the answer."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
"What do you propose?" she asked, with a nervous smile.
"A game," he said. "Winner gets to ask for anything."
"And the loser?"
"Has to drink."
She laughed. "That's not very high stakes."
"It is if you hate losing."
They played cards—something simple and fast. She was distracted. He wasn't.
He won.
She sighed dramatically. "Fine. What's your request?"
"Kiss me."
The words stunned her.
She stared, wide-eyed.
"Is that your way of getting revenge?"
"No," he said. "It's how I want to know if this… if we… is still a game to you."
Her hands shook slightly.
Still, she stepped closer.
One step. Then another.
Her heart pounded so loud she thought he might hear it.
She kissed him.
Softly, cautiously.
He kissed her back—firm, certain.
It was warm and terrifying.
She pulled away suddenly.
Eyes wide. Lips parted.
That kiss had not felt like an illusion.
And that scared her more than anything.
"Do you still think it was all a fantasy?" he asked.
Her eyes burned.
"You must be satisfied now," she whispered, voice cracking. "You got to see me fall again. How pathetic I still am."
He reached for her arm. "Lena—"
"Let go of me!"
She backed away, tears hot in her eyes.
"I chased after you like a fool," she said, her voice rising. "Six months. And you stood there saying 'Let's see how long she can hold.' You never wanted me."
"I didn't stop you either."
"Exactly! I was just a toy to you. A pretty distraction. A doll in love."
"I admit," he said, jaw tight, "I didn't give you what you deserved. But I want to now. If you'll let me."
Her laughter was hollow. "I don't want that anymore."
"Why?"
"Because I know better. Our worlds are too different. My peaceful life may not be glamorous, but it's real."
His temper snapped.
"You think that's peace? You couldn't even afford to save your nephew without help. You think I didn't know how you sold everything—your home, your past—just to pay for your family's mistakes?"
She froze.
That hurt.
Deeply.
"I worked hard," she whispered.
"I didn't mean—"
She turned away, tears already falling.
He reached for her, regret dawning on his face.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "Lena. I didn't mean it. I'm so—"
She pulled away.
"Please. Just… don't."
She left his house without another word.
The night was cold.
She didn't sleep.
And the next evening, she still came to work—professional, silent, and distant. The warmth between them vanished. She translated meetings with mechanical precision, not once looking at the snacks he left at her table.
A week passed.
He couldn't stand it.
But she said nothing.
And he had no idea how to fix what he had broken.
Not this time.