The morning sun poured softly through the half-drawn curtains, casting a golden beam across the room. It gently landed on her face, highlighting her relaxed features in the quiet stillness. She looked effortlessly beautiful—even more so without makeup, just her bare skin and soft breaths rising and falling. I couldn't help but lean in and press a gentle kiss to her forehead before slipping out of bed to prepare breakfast.
The room still held the lingering signs of last night—clothes tossed carelessly, a faint scent of her perfume in the sheets, and the memory of every stolen breath and whispered plea. I didn't usually cook, and truthfully, I had no idea what I was doing in the kitchen. But the only thing I knew how to make decently was rice porridge with a side of pickles, so that's what I went with.
As the porridge simmered, I found myself wondering how she'd react—whether she'd be impressed, amused, or horrified. I chuckled to myself, imagining her expression. And right on cue, I sensed someone behind me. I turned to find her standing quietly in the doorway, wearing nothing but my shirt. Her face was lit with both surprise and… was that curiosity? Maybe even admiration?
"Good morning," she said softly, avoiding my gaze. Her voice was light but unsure, and I couldn't help but smile at how shy she was acting—especially after how boldly she'd screamed my name last night. Thank god for soundproof walls.
"Morning," I replied. "I'm cooking us breakfast. Go ahead and freshen up—should be ready soon."
She raised a brow, her gaze questioning me like I was juggling knives instead of stirring porridge. Then she turned and walked off toward the bathroom, the sound of the shower soon echoing faintly through the apartment. For a moment, my mind wandered—naughty images of her under the water flashed by—but I reminded myself of how sore she must be. I'd seen the way she winced just climbing out of bed. My conscience tugged at me to behave.
When she came back, she smelled like lavender and peaches, and I almost lost it. I wanted to drag her back to bed, consequences be damned. But instead, I held it together, plated the porridge, and we sat down together for a quiet breakfast.
"No one told me you could cook," she said after the first bite, her expression caught somewhere between impressed and amused. "Your subordinates would have a field day if they saw this."
I laughed. "Not everyone gets to see this side of me. Consider yourself special."
She gave me a sideways glance, a blush rising to her cheeks. "I have to say I'm impressed, Alex. You're… different from the Mr. Allan I know at work."
I winced. "Alright, let's get one thing straight. Please, no more 'Mr. Allan.' It makes me feel like I'm forty. Just call me Alex."
She smirked but nodded. There was a moment of quiet, and I looked at her seriously.
"I know I might not be the best at expressing feelings," I began. "But last night wasn't just about the heat of the moment for me. I don't know when or how it happened, but I've fallen for you, Emma. I wanted you to notice me—and maybe I was clumsy about it—but I meant everything. I love you."
She looked at me, eyes searching mine. I didn't know what she was looking for—truth, maybe, or reassurance. But I hoped she saw how real it was in the way I looked back at her.
"Alex…" she started, but I gently cut her off.
"I'm not pressuring you," I said, taking her hand. "But please, let me woo you properly. Don't stop me from trying."
Before she could respond, a loud knock thundered through the apartment. We exchanged a look, confused and wary. She tilted her head, silently asking if I was expecting someone. I shook my head.
As I opened the door, it was shoved wide open, knocking me backward. I hit the floor hard and heard Emma's panicked voice.
"Alex! Are you okay?" Her concern wrapped around me like a balm, and I quickly stood up—only to be met with a face from a past I'd hoped never to see again.
Mary.
She stood there like a storm that had blown in uninvited. Emma, still at the table, stared at her with sharp, unreadable eyes.
"Mary, what the hell are you doing here?" I asked, my voice laced with cold steel.
"Baby, I miss you… and who's she?" she asked, playing the victim with tears I knew were faker than her apologies.
"Oh, where's your boyfriend?" I snapped, anger boiling over. "You know—the one you cheated on me with five years ago?"
Emma remained seated, calmly sipping her juice like she was watching a scene unfold in a drama.
"Please, Alex," Mary whined. "I was wrong, but I've changed. We can work things out."
"No," I said flatly. "You ended everything the day you cheated and stole from me. That chapter is closed. This—" I gestured toward Emma "—this is my fiancée. We're getting married soon. So get out."
Emma choked on her juice, sputtering as if the word "fiancée" had physically smacked her. But I needed Mary to hear it—and believe it.
Mary's face hardened, but she left, stomping out and slamming the door behind her. The apartment fell silent again, but the air felt heavy. I turned to Emma, unsure of what she was thinking.
"Emma," I said cautiously, "that was Mary Elias. My ex. We broke up after she cheated with my former best friend—who also happened to be my business competitor. She stole confidential files for him. I haven't seen or contacted her since."
I waited, breath held, until she leaned in and kissed me softly. My heart did somersaults.
"I trust you, Alex," she said. "But don't think that means I've accepted your proposal yet."
There was a glint in her eye, though—a spark of hope. Maybe I was growing on her.
"Thank you. And on that note, I've given you the day off."
She raised a brow. "And let me guess—you've taken the day off too?"
"I am the boss, after all," I said with a grin.
"I hope that doesn't mean more time in bed. I'm sore, Alex," she said, clearly exasperated.
"Well, it's a miracle you can even walk. Next time, you might be stuck in bed all day," I teased, watching the blush creep up her cheeks.
"Ugh, you're such a pervert," she muttered.
The rest of the day passed in blissful quiet. We watched Netflix, read novels, and I managed to handle a bit of work. When she finally returned to her own condo next door, it felt like the apartment had suddenly become much too quiet.
Love—what a troublesome, beautiful thing.