(Khloe's POV)
After my restless night in bed yesterday happened in a blur.
I couldn't quite pinpoint it.
"mmh…" I let out a sigh as I rolled my blanket off me and sat up on my bed, the sheets still carrying the faint warmth of my body. I blinked at the pale morning light slipping through the curtain, soft and cold against my skin. My room felt heavier somehow—like the air still remembered what my mind was trying to forget.
He kissed me yesterday.
I pressed my lips together, like the thought itself was something dangerous, something that could spiral if I let it breathe too long.
With a slow exhale, I slipped my feet into my slippers and padded toward the bathroom. The floor felt cool under me, grounding me in a way I needed. I turned on the shower, twisting the knob until the water's rhythm deepened and steam began to fill the air.
Even though we share— he kissed me yesterday, I still had to go to work today I let out a sigh I didn't know I was holding.
The thought broke through again, sharp and impossible to silence.
I stepped under the running water, the heat wrapping around me in slow waves. Droplets ran down my face, tracing my neck, my shoulders, my chest—each one pulling me back to that moment. The weight of his hands. The nearness of him. The silence before it happened.
"Stop," I whispered, tilting my head back under the stream.
But it was useless. The warmth only made it worse. My skin still remembered him, and it made the air feel smaller, heavier.
After showering, I turned off the tap and wrapped myself in my towel, standing for a moment in the fogged mirror. My reflection looked unfamiliar—like I'd stepped out of someone else's dream and hadn't quite found my way back yet.
I dried off slowly, the towel dragging across my skin, before walking to my closet. Work was waiting. Routine was waiting. Anything to keep my mind from looping back to him.
I began going through my clothes, fingers brushing against fabrics that suddenly all looked wrong—too formal, too plain, too bright. And then I saw it.
One of the clothes he—Xavier—bought me.
The day he took me shopping for Flora.
My hand froze on the hanger, eyes tracing the dress like it was something fragile. A black dress with tiny red polka dots. Soft fabric. Simple. Elegant. His choice, not mine.
"What is she to him really?" I murmured before I could stop myself.
The question tasted bitter, almost jealous, and I hated that I couldn't tell which part of it hurt more—the not knowing, or the fact that I cared.
I shook my head quickly, forcing the thought out, and pulled the dress down.
It slipped over me easily, falling just above my knees. It fit perfectly—of course it did. He had an eye for that kind of precision, for details that made people feel seen. I swallowed the small ache that came with that realization and walked to my vanity.
I sat down, towel still around my shoulders, and began applying cream to my skin—slowly, carefully, like muscle memory guiding me through the motions. I picked up the bottle of lotion he once complimented. "You smell like something that shouldn't belong in an office," he'd said, and I'd laughed, pretending it didn't affect me.
Now, the scent only made my chest tighten.
When I was done, I set the bottle down and reached for my makeup kit. Just a light touch today—foundation, mascara, lip gloss. I didn't want to look like I was trying. I wanted to look… fine. Unbothered. Normal.
Even if I wasn't.
When I finished, I stood and looked at myself in the mirror. Everything looked in place. Maybe too much so. Like I'd dressed up for control.
I paired the dress with black heels—not too high, just enough to feel like myself again. Then I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and opened my door.
The hallway smelled faintly of toast. That meant Mom was downstairs.
When I came home yesterday, I hadn't seen her. I'd slipped quietly into my room, heart still racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. I didn't have the energy to pretend everything was okay.
But this morning, I couldn't avoid her.
"Sweetheart," Mom called as soon as I reached the bottom of the stairs. She was at the table, setting plates down, her hair still slightly damp from her own morning shower.
"Good morning, Mom," I said softly, forcing a small smile as I leaned in to give her a quick peck on the cheek.
"I didn't see you last night," I said, sitting down across from her.
"Oh yeah," she said, reaching for a jug of apple juice. "I went to meet one of my friends. We had a little get-together."
"Oh." That was all I managed. My mind was elsewhere, half in the kitchen, half replaying a pair of dark eyes that wouldn't leave me alone.
I started munching on my pancakes, cutting small pieces, even though I couldn't really taste them. Mom was talking about something—her friend's new job, I think—but it all blurred into background noise.
Every word that wasn't his sounded distant.
When I finished, I set my fork down and wiped my lips with a napkin. "Thanks for breakfast," I said.
"You're welcome, honey," she said, smiling warmly.
I returned the smile, but it didn't quite reach my eyes. I grabbed my bag from the chair and headed toward the door, bracing myself for another ordinary day.
Except today wasn't ordinary.
Not after last night.
Not after the way he'd said my name like it meant something.
Not after that kiss that shouldn't have happened.
I opened the front door, ready to see Jayden's car parked out front as usual, waiting to drive me to work.
But instead—
"Good morning, Khloe."
The voice.
The tone.
The way my heartbeat stuttered instantly.
It wasn't Jayden.
It was him.
Xavier.