TODAY I woke up late .
Not the normal kind of late—**the "I talked to my friends until 2 AM" late.**
It was Sunday, so I didn't even force myself to hurry.
(The soft sunlight slipped through my curtains and fell directly on my face, making me groan as I pulled the blanket over my head.)
"Ugh… too bright," I whispered, my voice still heavy with sleep.
(My eyes felt swollen, my body tired but relaxed. Last night's call with Ava, Mila, and Rhea replayed in my mind. We laughed, joked, complained, and talked about literally everything. No wonder I couldn't wake up on time.)
(Finally, after fighting with myself for a whole minute, I sat up on my bed, rubbing my eyes.)
"Okay, Aira… good morning to you," I mumbled to myself.
The room was quiet.
The weather felt slow.
And for the first time in a while, I actually felt peaceful.
( I swing my legs to the side of my bed and stand up, stretching my arms until my bones crack softly. A long yawn escapes my mouth before I drag myself toward the bathroom.)
( A warm shower wakes me up properly, washing away the laziness clinging to my skin. After drying my hair with a towel, I slip into my comfortable home clothes—soft shorts and an oversized top. Perfect for a slow Sunday.)
(I tie my hair into a messy bun and step out of my room, thoughts filled only with breakfast and maybe some quiet music.)
But the moment I reach the kitchen doorway, my steps freeze.
Rylan is there.
(Standing in front of the stove… sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, a pan in his hand.)
Cooking.
My breath gets stuck for a second.
(He doesn't see me yet, completely focused on the pan as he stirs something slowly, the morning sunlight falling right over him.)
The sight makes my heart skip—unexpected, unfamiliar, but strangely warm.
(But instead of looking away, I find myself *memorized* by his physique—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, the calm way he moves.)
My stupid stomach ruins the moment and growls loudly, betraying me.
Great. Just perfect.
I take a long, shaky breath.
(*Okay Aira… just grab something to eat and run back to your room. No need for more awkwardness. Enough for today.*)
(I walk toward the refrigerator, open the door, and pretend to be deeply interested in the bottles and leftovers inside. My fingers hover over a juice carton, still deciding.)
But then—
I feel it.
A presence behind me.
Close.
Warm.
Large.
(My hand freezes mid-air. My breath catches in my throat as a shiver runs down my spine.)
Slowly, almost scared of what I'll see, I turn around.
Rylan is standing there.
So close.
(He's looking down—of course he has to, because of our height difference—but his face is unreadable. Completely straight, calm… too calm.)
And that makes my heart beat even louder.
I swallow hard.
"W–what…?"
My voice comes out shaky, barely above a whisper.
He doesn't answer my question.
Not even a word.
Instead, he leans closer.
( My breath quickens instantly, chest rising and falling too fast. My mind starts racing—panicking—trying to figure out what he's about to do.)
*Is he going to kiss me?*
*Say something in my ear?*
*Why is he coming this close?*
His face comes closer… closer…
And my eyes shut on their own.
( I don't want to see what happens—I'm scared, nervous, excited—everything at once.)
But then—
Nothing happen.
His lips never touch me.
(The warmth that was so close suddenly pulls away.)
( I snap my eyes open, confused, embarrassed, heart beating like crazy. And when I look, he's already walking back toward the stove… holding a bottle of sauce in his hand.)
Just sauce.
My cheeks burn hot with humiliation.
*Seriously, Aira?*
He wasn't going to kiss me.
He just wanted the stupid sauce.
( I quickly turn back to the refrigerator so he doesn't see how red my face has become. I grab whatever I can find, just wanting to escape the kitchen and hide under my blanket forever.)
( But before I can run out, his voice comes from behind me—steady, collected, calm…
The exact opposite of my stupid blushing self.)
"Don't eat packaged food," he says without looking at me.
"I'm making breakfast. For us two."
*For us two?*
( My hand automatically flies up to cover my mouth, eyes squeezing shut out of pure shock and… something else. My stomach flips in the weirdest way.)
Why is he doing this?
I turn around slowly, trying to sound normal, but my voice still comes out shaky.
"W–why… why are you making breakfast for me?
And where is the chef?"
"He had to leave for some urgent work," Rylan says, not looking at me as he stirs the pan. "He'll be back in the evening to prepare dinner. And I'm making pasta. Are you okay with that?"
I look at his face when he finally turns toward me.
No anger.
No coldness.
Just something softer… something unfamiliar for him.
I nod lightly. "Yeah… I can eat that. But where's Mom and Noah? I didn't hear them."
[ His eyes drop again as he focuses back on the pan.]
"Your mom, my dad, and Noah went to the amusement park," he explains. "Noah was begging to go. They didn't tell you because your mom didn't want to disturb you while you were resting. She asked me to inform you."
"Oh…" I breathe out quietly.
I walk over to the kitchen island and sit down, resting my elbows on the cool marble.
"So… why didn't you go?"
Rylan lets out a small chuckle—soft, low… and honestly beautiful. Like some melody only I can hear.
"Aira," he says, shaking his head slightly, "I'm a grown man. Not a ten-year-old kid."
( Before I can roll my eyes at that, he turns and walks toward me, holding a plate. He sets it down in front of me, and for a second—just a second—our fingers brush.)
( The touch sends a stupid spark through my entire arm, but he quickly pulls his hand away as if the plate suddenly burned him.)
"So you cook too?" I ask, trying to sound normal.
I take a bite of the pasta.
And instantly—my eyes widen.
"Oh my god… mmm… it's really good."
( He glances at me, and just the corner of his lips lifts—not a smile, but something close.)
Something small.
Something rare.
( Then he turns away again, pouring pasta into his own plate, pretending my reaction didn't make that tiny piece of happiness appear on his face.)
( Rylan sits across from me at the island, taking a slow bite of his pasta. For a moment, the kitchen becomes quiet—only the gentle clink of our forks and the soft morning light slipping through the curtains.)
It feels… peaceful.
Strange.
But peaceful.
( I stare at my plate, pretending I'm focused on eating, but my eyes flick up again and again—because he's… different today. Calmer. Softer. Almost human.)
He notices me staring.
Of course he does.
( His dark eyes shift to mine, and I quickly look down, stuffing more pasta into my mouth like a complete idiot.)
"What?" he asks, voice low but not sharp.
I shrug. "Nothing."
He raises a brow. "You're staring."
I choke a little. "I—I wasn't staring. I was just… um… checking if you added too much chilli flakes."
Rylan scoffs softly. "Right."
I glare. "I wasn't staring!"
He takes a sip of water, not even looking at me, and says under his breath,
"You always stare."
That shuts me up.
My fork freezes mid-air.
My heart? Dead.
My brain? Alcohol-free drunk.
"I do NOT always stare," I mutter, cheeks heating up again.
( He finally looks at me—really looks—and there's something unreadable in his eyes, something that makes my breath hitch for absolutely no reason.)
"You do," he repeats quietly.
The air shifts.
Heavy.
Warm.
Strange.
Before I can respond, he breaks the tension.
"You should eat properly," he says, tone going back to neutral. "You didn't eat well for days."
I swallow hard, my voice barely steady. "I'm fine."
"No," he says, eyes fixed on his plate, jaw tight, "you're not."
The words hit me unexpectedly.
Like he noticed.
Like he saw me.
Like he was watching.
"You… you checked on me?" I ask softly.
His fork pauses. Just a second. Barely visible. But I see it.
"I live in the same house," he mutters. "It's normal."
Normal?
Nothing about it sounds normal.
I want to ask more.
Why he didn't talk.
Why he looked angry when he was actually… worried.
But he's Rylan.
And Rylan doesn't talk about feelings.
So I just breathe out, "Thanks… for breakfast."
He nods once. "You're welcome."
Silence again.
A softer one now.
Then—
[ My phone vibrates on the table.]
[ A message.]
I glance at the screen and before I can stop myself, a tiny smile forms.
Rylan sees it instantly.
His voice turns cold, sharp, territorial.
"Who is that?"
{ My phone lights up again.}
**Luka: "Good morning troublemaker 😏 Did you eat breakfast or should I come make you?"**
I bite my lip to hold back a smile.
But I fail.
[ Rylan's spoon stops mid-air.]
[ His jaw tightens.]
[ His shoulders stiffen.]
[ His eyes darken.]
He tries to sound casual, but it comes out cold enough to freeze the pasta in my bowl.
"Who. Messaged. You?"
I look up slowly, fighting a smirk.
"Oh… no one important."
{ Wrong answer.}
His eyes narrow dangerously. "Aira."
I take a sip of water, deliberately calm. "Why do you care?"
He doesn't blink. "I asked you a question."
"So rude," I tease, swinging my legs casually. "Maybe it's Luka… maybe someone else… why are you getting jealous?"
Rylan's stare sharpens.
"I'm not jealous." His voice is low, tight. "I just don't trust guys who flirt with every girl they see."
I gasp. "He doesn't flirt with every girl. He flirts with me. Only me."
{ Wrong answer again.}
His hand curls into a fist on the table.
"Aira," he says through clenched teeth, "don't play games."
I lean forward, chin resting on my hand. "Why not? It's fun. Watching you react."
His jaw ticks. He looks away for a second like he's trying to control himself.
"Don't smile at his messages," he finally mutters.
"Why?" I whisper.
Silence.
Then—
[ He lifts his eyes to mine.]
[ Deep.]
[ Intense.]
Truth slipping out before he can stop it.
"Because I don't like it."
The air thickens between us.
I swallow. "Rylan…"
He pushes his bowl slightly away, voice softer but full of pressure.
"When you didn't eat… when you locked yourself in your room… when you disappeared in the morning…" he stops, exhaling shakily, "I was worried."
"I don't know why but I was worried Aira for you. "
My heart stutters.
His next words come out raw, almost frustrated and painful:-
"And I hate that he gets to see your smile when I—"
He cuts himself off.
"When you what?" I whisper.
His fingers clench, knuckles white.
"When I… shouldn't care this much," he finally says, sounding like he hates himself for it.
[ My breath catches.]
[ Suddenly the teasing feels dangerous.]
[ Real.]
open my mouth to speak but—
**my phone vibrates again**
*Luka: *"Can I see you today? 😊"*
"Enjoy your chat with him," he mutters.
My breath catches.
"Why?" I whisper into the heavy silence.
Rylan lifts his eyes to mine — slow, reluctant, like the truth is dragging itself out of him.
"Because I don't like it."
The air thickens, warm and charged.
I swallow. "Rylan—"
(But he suddenly stands up, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. His eyes… God, they're burning. Hot. Angry. And something else—something cracked and hurting.)
"Aira, enjoy your chat with him. I'm going."
His jaw flexes.
He turns away before I can speak.
( The kitchen feels colder without him, like he carried the warmth out with his footsteps. The scent of pasta still lingers, the steam curling in the empty air. His plate sits untouched. Mine feels suddenly heavy.)
A soft *ping* comes from my phone.
I already know who it is.
**Luka.**
The screen lights up.
**Luka:** Oyyy why no reply??
**Luka:** Did someone steal your phone? Should I come rescue you princess 😭🫶
**Luka:** Also… don't lie, you *did* smile at my joke. I know it. And I WANT CREDIT.
A tiny laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Rylan's words echo in my chest—*Don't smile at his message.*
But Luka is Luka. Pure chaos.
**Luka:** Hello?? Am I talking to a ghost?
**Luka:** Wait—ur probably eating.
**Luka:** Tell chef he cooks good but I cook better. I challenge him. Chef vs Chef.
I shake my head, half amused, half guilty.
My thumb types back slowly:
> **Me:** You're stupid.
**Luka:** THANK YOU I KNOW 😭 .
(His teasing pulls a soft warmth into my chest. But the space beside the dining table stays painfully empty — the space where Rylan should've been.)
In the EVENING
( Mom, Noah, and my stepdad return home.)
( Noah comes running in, shouting excitedly about the amusement park—how the rides scared him, how he won a tiny plastic toy, how he ate more chocolate than he should have.)
( I stand there listening, smiling, nodding at the right places so they don't notice the tightness in my chest. I don't want them to see the tension behind my eyes.)
IN THE NIGHT
[ We all sit at the dining table.]
[ Mom is laughing at something Noah said.]
[ My stepdad is teasing Noah about his fear of the roller coaster.]
[ Their voices mix, warm and loud, filling the whole room with a kind of family chaos.]
And me?
I'm just poking at my food, twirling my fork, mind miles away.
Forcing small smiles when someone looks at me.
Nodding so no one asks what's wrong.
But the truth sits heavy:
**Everyone is here… except him.**
Rylan doesn't come for dinner.
I don't know why.
Is it because we fought?
Because he was jealous of Luka?
Because of the message I smiled at?
I don't know.
I'm just assuming.
And pretending.
Pretending Luka's jokes are enough to distract me.
Pretending the ache in my stomach is hunger and not this stupid, restless concern twisting inside me.
But every few seconds…
my eyes betray me.
They drift toward the door, hoping—stupidly, desperately.
Searching for him even though I already know he isn't coming.
And somehow…
That tiny, stupid, pointless hope—
that he'll walk back in,
that he'll sit down,
that he'll look at me just once—
…that hope comforts me more than anything my family's happy faces can give me.
Just the thought of seeing his face again
makes my chest loosen,
makes something in me settle,
like he's the only piece that can make the room feel whole.