The day dragged into evening, the classroom emptied one by one until Sherina was the last to gather her books. She stepped toward the door, only to halt at the sight of someone waiting there.
"Sherina."
Her name slipped softly from Prince's lips, warm and careful, as if he were afraid it might shatter between them. He stood there with a shy smile, holding out a glossy paper bag, its ribbon handle looped tightly in his fingers.
"I thought you'd drop by the shop," he said, tone half-disappointed, half-playful.
"But the stylist told me you only called in your sizes. She was looking forward to seeing you in person."
Sherina's lips curved faintly as her eyes lowered to the bag. "Sorry… I've been busy. I couldn't visit."
Prince's hand shifted, scratching the back of his neck in a nervous habit.
"That's alright. She told me this dress would suit you perfectly—the colors, the design… she swore it would highlight you in a way no one could look away."
For a moment, she hesitated. Then her fingers brushed against his as she took the bag, offering a polite smile. "How much is it?"
He chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "Nothing. Just… come to my party. That'll be enough."
Sherina nodded. "Then I will. Thank you."
Prince's eyes softened as if her words were more than a promise.
"Actually… can I give you a ride home?" His voice dropped to a timid hope, and the faint flush on his cheeks betrayed him.
Sherina exhaled a soft sigh, masking it with a smile. "I'm sorry. I have to meet someone at a restaurant nearby."
The lie slipped too easily from her lips.
Prince's smile wavered, but he nodded. "I see. Well… then I'll see you at my birthday next week. Please, message me when you're home. I—"
he laughed at himself, nervous, "I can't stop worrying about you."
She gave a small nod and walked away, the paper bag swinging lightly in her hand.
But her chest felt heavy.
I'm tired of making excuses, she thought.
The truth was simpler—she just didn't want him to grow too attached.
.
The iron gates of the campus loomed ahead. Sherina's pace slowed when she spotted a crowd near the entrance.
Women gathered in a loose circle, their voices playful, almost shrill. And at the center—leaning against a massive black motorbike as though it were a throne—stood a man whose presence was impossible to ignore.
Tall. Lean. Every line of his frame carved with quiet arrogance. His black leather jacket clung to his broad shoulders, his dark pants and boots completing the kind of danger that women couldn't resist orbiting.
Leon.
The fading sunlight caught the sharp cut of his jaw, the shadows deepening the edge of his expression. And then, as if he felt her eyes, his head turned. Their gazes collided.
The smirk that curved his lips was faint but devastating.
Sherina's breath hitched. Before she could process the shock, he moved—effortlessly brushing off the women beside him with a single glance, their laughter dying as they were dismissed without a word.
His strides were purposeful, each step straight toward her, until he stood close enough that the faint scent of leather and smoke wrapped around her.
"Going home?" His voice was low, rough velvet, and it vibrated against her chest.
Sherina swallowed. Words caught in her throat, tangled between surprise and the dozens of curious eyes fixed on them.
She didn't answer.
"Come on," Leon murmured, his hand sliding around her wrist with a grip both gentle and commanding. She was pulled forward before she could resist, the whispers of nearby women chasing after them like biting winds.
"Wait—why are you even here?" she whispered, glancing nervously at the girls still watching, some glaring, some smirking with envy. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
Leon didn't answer. Instead, he lifted the helmet from his bike, his fingers brushing against her temple as he lowered it carefully over her head. His touch lingered just enough to make her pulse stutter. Before she could argue, his hands found her waist, and with effortless strength, he lifted her onto the seat.
"I'm afraid someone else might try to give you a ride again," he said, his smirk audible beneath his words. "So this time, I'll take the chance."
Her protest dissolved before it could form. Leon settled onto the bike in front of her, the engine growling to life beneath them, a deep, hungry sound that sent vibrations coursing through her legs.
He reached back, finding her hand, and firmly placed it against his waist. The warmth of him burned through the leather.
"Bistro, or home?" His voice was calm, but it carried the kind of authority that allowed no refusal.
Sherina closed her eyes for a moment, steadying her breath. She wanted to resist—wanted to argue—but the truth was, her strength unraveled when it came to him.
"Home first," she finally whispered.
"Alright."
With that, Leon tightened his grip on the handles, the bike roaring as if it had been waiting for his command, drowning out the whispers around them. In an instant, they shot forward, the campus gate shrinking behind them, the rush of wind tearing away the whispers and stares.
.
.
The hum of Leon's motorbike trailed into silence as they reached Sherina's apartment. She stepped off lightly, her hand brushing against his arm only for a second before she pulled away.
Inside, she slipped her shoes neatly by the door, carried the paper bag to the table, and set it down as though it was nothing more than a routine errand.
Leon followed, his movements slower, heavier. He toed off his boots, peeled off his leather jacket, and stepped closer to the table.
His gaze fixed on the bag.
A simple, harmless thing. And yet, it mocked him.
That paper bag was a reminder—of another man's attention, of gifts that weren't his to give.
The ribbon handle looked fragile enough to tear apart in his hands. He could already imagine ripping it open, scattering its contents, demanding that she never wear what another man chose for her.
The urge burned in his chest, tightening his jaw.
But he mustn't.
He couldn't let his obsession show.
Not yet.
The soft creak of a door caught his ears.
Sherina stepped out of her room, transformed. She wore a fitted, thin long-sleeved top that molded to her form like a second skin, outlining the curve of her waist, the elegant rise of her chest, and the subtle grace of her shoulders. A pair of jeans hugged her hips and legs, every line accentuated as if tailored to her body alone. Her hair was swept into a ponytail, baring the delicate shape of her neck, the smoothness of her jaw.
Leon's throat went dry. His ears felt hot, and he jerked his eyes away.
yesterday night… my hands were there.
The memory of her warmth under his touch, the way she yielded—hesitant at first, then trembling with a passion she tried to hide—seared through his mind.
His palms still remembered the warmth, the shape, the way she trembled when she finally surrendered to him.
"Don't you have work?" Sherina's voice broke the silence. She stood by the mirror, brushing a fingertip along her lashes with the same calmness she wore in class, as if nothing had happened between them.
Leon swallowed hard. "I don't have," he answered quickly, too quickly. His voice was low, uneven, betraying the storm beneath his cool facade.
"Are you hungry?" he asked then, an attempt to steady himself, to sound ordinary.
"Nope." The word slipped from her lips without a glance, light and casual.
It pierced him, that indifference.
How can she be so calm, when I…
Sherina reached for her shoulder bag, slipping the strap over her arm. "Might as well go to work early, so I can leave early. Are you staying here?"
Leon turned to look at her then, his restraint stretching thin. "I'm… I'm going somewhere." His tone faltered, before he straightened. "But I'll pick you up later."
Sherina frowned, lips pursing into a small pout. "You don't have to. My place is near the bistro."
"I want to," Leon said, his voice deepening, the edge of possessiveness slipping through despite himself.
Sherina blinked, then sighed, her lips curving into that half-smile that always disarmed him. "Fine, fine…"
A moment later, the engine of his motorbike roared again, carrying them toward the bistro. Leon didn't speak much, his knuckles tight on the handles.
When she finally stepped down at the bistro, Sherina turned to him with her usual, quiet smile. No trace of yesterday night lingered in her gaze. She waved, walking inside with her bag, her steps light and unaffected.
Leon remained seated on his motorbike, staring after her until the door closed behind her. . His chest ached, heavy with unspoken words. He couldn't get rid of the image of her in that fitted top, of her casual tone
as if yesterday had meant nothing.
He gritted his teeth, shoved the thought down, and revved the engine.
The streets swallowed him as he rode aimlessly through Edenia. The wind whipped against his face, but it did nothing to cool the fever burning inside him. Every turn of the road, every rush of air carried her memory—her warmth, her lips, her breathless surrender—burned him alive.
She could carry on, unaffected.
But him?
Leon was suffocating.
And he had to restrain himself, even as every part of him screamed to claim her again.
.
.
Sherina's POV
.
.
The bistro is as busy as it has always been.
The air was thick with overlapping voices, laughter rising and falling like waves, the sharp clink of glasses echoing beneath the dim yellow lights. The smell of sizzling garlic and soy sauce clung to my uniform, mixing with the tang of spilled beer on the wooden floor.
I balanced a tray of food in one hand—plates still hissing with steam—while the other clutched a bucket of cold beer bottles that rattled against each other with every step.
My muscles moved on instinct, weaving between crowded tables, my hips and shoulders angling like a dancer's just to keep from colliding with customers.
I'd done this for so long it felt like choreography.
One step here, pivot left, smile, bow slightly, set the tray down, bow again.
Mechanical. Effortless.
But then—
my rhythm broke.
My breath froze in my chest. My feet stilled mid-step. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.
A man.
Not just any man—
A face carved into my memory like a scar.
He stood at the entrance as though he'd walked out of the grave of my past, as though time had rewound just to punish me. His hand rested casually on the doorknob, his posture dripping with the same effortless confidence that had once suffocated me. A careless smile curved his lips, his head tilted toward the beautiful woman at his side—a woman with perfect hair, perfect poise, laughing softly at whatever sweet nothing he'd just murmured.
And then he turned his head.
Our eyes met.
It was less than a second. A fleeting glance. But it was enough.
The world around me blurred—the noise of the bistro dropped into silence, the colors drained until only his face remained sharp.
I felt the air leave my lungs. My hands tightened around the tray and the bucket, trembling so hard the bottles clinked against each other.
I spun around, forcing myself away, almost stumbling over my own feet.
"Hmm? What is it?" I heard the woman ask him, her voice curious, playful.
And then his reply, dry and dismissive, slicing through me like ice:
"Oh… I thought I saw someone I knew."
I didn't wait to hear more.
My feet moved fast, stomping across the wooden floorboards toward the back of the dining hall. Jenny's voice rang sharp from behind—something about the new customer, about taking his order—but I ignored it.
Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
The corridor stretched before me, dimmer than usual, as though the light bulbs themselves dimmed to mirror the storm rising in my chest. I pushed open the door to the employee's locker room, the hinges squealing, and slipped inside.
The walls seemed to close in.
I stumbled into the bathroom, locked the door with shaking hands, My back hit the cold wood of the door, my knees folding beneath me until I sank completely to the floor.
And then—
the dam broke.
The tears I'd been holding back spilled over, hot and relentless. They streaked down my cheeks, dripping onto my palms as I covered my face, gasping through shallow breaths. Each sob tore from my chest like something violent and jagged.
The air was too thin. I felt like I was drowning, like my lungs were filling with the weight of memories I had spent years burying.
All because of him.
Jino Chen.
The name hissed in my mind like venom.
The one person I never wanted to see again.
The one shadow I thought I had outrun.
The one ghost who had the power to shatter everything I'd tried so hard to rebuild.