I knew this was stupid—again.
But what could I do? I couldn't stop myself.
I let him cup my cheek as the kiss deepened, his lips claiming mine with an urgency that left no room for doubt.
I knew I would regret this. I already did, even as it was happening. But I wanted it—and that truth made everything harder.
He slowly reclined my seat until it felt like a narrow bed, never breaking the kiss. My fingers slid through his still-damp hair, down his neck, tracing the line of his back as he positioned himself above me.
My hand drifted lower, pressing against the solid strength of his chest. I helped shrug his coat off, until only his white shirt remained.
"You will regret this," he murmured, his gaze fixed on my lips.
"Then let this be my regret," I replied. I didn't even know if it was the alcohol that made the words come out so clearly.
He kissed me again—harder, hotter—as if he had finally given himself permission to take what he wanted. He pulled his shirt off, exposing the wound on his chest. I traced it gently, but he caught my hand, pressing a kiss into my palm.
He fully settled over me, his hand slipping beneath my dress.
I didn't stop him.
I didn't protest.
That night, I made the same mistake again—one I chose, fully aware. Whatever happened between us was something I wanted, and I had no right to blame him for it.
---
When I woke up the next morning, I was back in his room.
I didn't move right away. I stared at the ceiling as tears quietly pooled in my eyes.
I knew it. I had always known—he could never love me.
I accepted that.
Didn't I?
The tears slid down both sides of my face, and I shut my eyes, letting them fall.
---
The next day, I picked up the kids again. This time, I went straight to Ericka's school. I introduced myself to her teacher as her guardian.
"What are you doing here?" she asked coldly.
"I brought you lunch," I said, smiling as I lifted the lunchbox.
"You know we have a canteen here, right?" she replied flatly.
"I know. But I cooked your favorite—spicy chicken tinola. And I baked cupcakes, too. Strawberry. You can share them with your friends."
"And why would I—"
"Oh my God, Ericka! Can I have some?"
We turned as a girl with a high ponytail rushed over, bursting with energy.
"Oh, hello!" she greeted me politely.
I smiled. "And you are?"
"I'm Margarette!" she said brightly, then glanced at Ericka. "And you must be—"
"I'm her stepmother," Ericka cut in.
"Ohhh," Margarette said, eyes widening. "So you're the so-called witch—I mean, stepmom—of my bestie. You actually look nice, though. Nice to meet you!" She even leaned in for a polite cheek kiss.
I chose to ignore the comment.
"That food's for Ericka, right? It looks amazing. Can I have some—"
"Margarette!" Ericka snapped.
"What? I just want to try Tita's cooking."
I smiled, knowing she was one of Ericka's good friends. I told her she could have some if she joined us for lunch. She eagerly agreed—and even convinced Ericka to come along.
We sat on a bench under a large tree inside the campus. Margarette devoured the cupcake happily. When I handed one to Ericka, she scowled.
"I'm not eating that."
"Don't be dramatic—that's your favorite," Margarette said.
"Can you shut up?"
"No. Just try it—it's good."
"Thank you," I said to Margarette softly.
"Why are you trying so hard to be my mom?" Ericka snapped. "You even baked a stupid cupcake."
Margarette froze, nearly choking on her food.
"Ericka, that's not—"
I gently stopped her.
"I'm not trying to replace Monica," I said firmly. "I did this for you. I spent my time baking that cupcake because I care. I already told you—I'm not giving up on you."
Margarette went quiet. Ericka looked away.
"So please," I added, placing the cupcake in front of her. "Try it. I know you like it."
Margarette nudged her elbow. Annoyed, Ericka took a small bite.
She didn't complain.
That alone made me smile.
While we were eating, my phone buzzed. It was Black, asking me to have lunch with him. I told him I was eating with Ericka. He replied that he'd come by the school to pick me up.
I agreed and put my phone away.