Chapter 8

I didn’t really sleep. How could I? The girl of my dreams–the one I’d spent countless nights praying for, fantasizing about, losing myself in–was lying right beside me. Her breathing was slow, steady, and mine was anything but that. She was there, and somehow I wasn’t dreaming. I got up early, before she was up. I slipped into the kitchen, opened the fridge–and of course, it was a disaster. Just some eggs and a few beers. Damn. That’s not what she deserved. Not even close. So I left. Hoodie on, barely awake. I went to get everything I needed to make her the best breakfast of her life. Because what if this was the only morning I’d ever get to do this for her? What if this was it? I didn’t want to mess it up. I couldn’t. Hopefully, I wouldn’t burn the place down–though if she was there with me while it happened, maybe I wouldn’t even care. I used to cook with my grandma when I was little. She taught me how to crack eggs with one hand and how food meant something more than just taste. God, I miss her. Every time I speak her name I feel like I’m getting stabbed in the chest. She was everything. Still is. But that chapter? I’m not strong enough to reread it just yet.

Anyway, back to the groceries. I didn’t just buy what I needed. I bought everything. Literally. Like I was hosting a fucking brunch for ten. I got back home and went straight into chef mode. I didn’t know how she liked her eggs, so I made them all. Scrambled, fried, boiled, even poached–because what if she only liked one kind and I got it wrong? What if that tiny mistake ruined the entire morning? I couldn’t risk it. I even tried making fluffy pancakes from a random Tiktok recipe I saved a few days ago. They didn’t turn out fluffy. Quite the opposite–but God, they tasted divine. Still, not as divine as her. Nothing could ever compare. She tastes better than pancakes. Better than heaven. She is heaven, and I’m not sure I deserve to be there. Caught in that spiral, I didn’t even notice the toaster. It had burnt the bread beyond salvation. I swore under my breath, tossed them out and started again. Then I made waffle batter and threw it into the machine. When the waffles were golden, I melted some chocolate and poured it on top, added ice cream, because, well, why not? I arranged everything on a big plate like I was competing on some cooking show, then–after five minutes of arguing with myself–I placed a single flower, a white daisy, beside the stack. Not too much, just barely there. I crept back into the bedroom. She was still asleep. It was almost 11. I should’ve woken her, but I couldn’t. She looked so peaceful–angelic, even. And there I was, frozen at the edge of the bed, just watching her breathe. Completely and totally hers without her even knowing it. I leaned in so close, I could feel the warmth of her breath on my lips. I didn’t kiss her, I didn’t dare. I just stared. I was fucking obsessed.

I felt peaceful too–at least until she opened her eyes and saw me right in front of her. Panic hit me like a wave and I froze. Her gaze met mine, still hazy with sleep, and she whispered a quiet “Good morning”. Her voice–soft and raspy–nearly made me crumble on the spot. I couldn’t speak. I just smiled awkwardly and nervously. I turned quickly, picking up the big plate I’d prepared and bringing it over with both hands like it was some kind of fragile offering. “This is, um… for you. Breakfast” I said, my voice embarrassingly unsure. She chuckled at how stiff I sounded, probably realizing I was completely losing it over her. And maybe–just maybe–she blushed a little. “Thank you” she smiled, sweet and sleepy. “But you didn’t have to do all that for me”. I looked at her and tried not to sound as desperate as I felt, “It’s the least I could do for you”. And it was. That wasn’t even close to what I wanted to do for her. If she asked me to build her a palace or burn down the whole damn city just to see her smile–I would’ve done it. But instead, I gave her pancakes. She glanced at my arm, her expression shifting to concern, “What happened to your arm?”. I looked down. Shit. I’d completely forgotten. My forearm was bleeding again–the cut I hadn’t cleaned, hadn’t even bothered to deal with. I’d been too caught up in her, in the morning, in everything but my fucking arm. “It’s nothing” I said quietly, brushing it off. “Just scratched it on a corner or something”. A lie, obviously. Not a good one either. But she didn’t push. Maybe she saw through it. Or maybe she just decided to let it go. She nodded gently and turned her attention to the pancakes. She took a bite, then paused. “Okay, these are really good” she said, eyes wide, and my chest swelled. Her words worthed more than a Michelin star for me. “You like them?” I asked, tilting my head, watching her every reaction. “Um, yeah! That’s what I’m saying” she giggled. I let out a breath of a laugh, too. That one moment–her eating pancakes, smiling like that–it could’ve fed my soul for a year. I wanted to kiss her right then and there, so badly. But I didn’t. I was too scared I’d ruin it by wanting too much, too fast. So I stayed still. Patient. Instead, I got up and grabbed my phone from the far side of the bed. “I have to make a call,” I said, throwing her a mischievous smile over my shoulder, “but when you’re done eating, get dressed–we’re going shopping”. She raised an eyebrow, amused, but smiled back. I stepped into the living room and made the first call to my assistant. I told her to inform the board I wouldn’t be attending any of that day’s meetings, and to forward only the absolutely critical calls. Then I called Enzo. Told him not to come by at all and to take the dogs to the vet, like we’d agreed. I didn’t offer an explanation–I knew better. If I told him she was here, he’d never leave me alone. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow” I said, then hung up before he could argue. Because that day, she was with me. And I wasn’t going to let anything–or anyone–take that away from me.

Once I finished the phone calls, I walked back to my bedroom. She wasn’t on the bed anymore. The plate was left behind, barely touched–half the food uneaten, pancakes slightly soggy now. I’d poured my entire soul into that breakfast, but deep down I knew she wouldn’t finish it. I’d made enough for a small army. I moved toward the closet, and there she was, wrapped in nothing but a sheet, standing there like she owned the place, like she owned me. And the hell she did. “What will you wear?” I asked, flustered, my voice catching in my throat as I tried not to look at the soft lines of her collarbone, the way the sheet clung to her skin. She turned slowly, eyes lazy “I don’t know”. Then her gaze flicked towards me, “Where’s that t-shirt I wore the other time?”. My heart dropped. That shirt. That damn shirt. “Yeah… I’ll bring it” I said quickly, nodding like an idiot. But inside, I was screaming. Because I hadn’t washed it, not once. I couldn’t. It smelled like her–faint perfume, skin, something sweet and warm I couldn’t name. I grabbed it and brought it back, guilt choking me. Before handing it over, I mumbled part of the truth, “I’m sorry. My cleaning lady’s been out sick, so, uh… it’s not washed”. I swallowed hard and my heart was fucking pounding. She shrugged “It’s okay”. Of course it was. She casually picked out a pair of cargo pants and slung them over her arm. Then she paused at the closet entrance. “Where’s my string?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder at me. And that was it. My brain short-circuited. Complete shutdown. Her voice, that word–string–deja vu. Everything we did last night, every sound she made, every look she gave me, it all hit me at once like a truck. My mouth was slightly open, I looked like an idiot. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I just stared at her, the sheet barely covering her, her hair messy, her expression smug. She knew. God, she fucking knew. After a beat, I forced myself to move. I walked past her into the bedroom and started looking around. No sign of it. Then I dropped to my knees and checked under the bed. There it was. My hand hesitated. Do I give it back? Or do I keep it? No. No. What kind of sick question is that? Pull it together. You’re not a freak. “I found it” I said, standing up, holding it in my left hand. I handed it to her and turned to leave, to escape before I did something pathetic. But then she stopped me. “I thought I told you… I don’t mind” she said softly, her tone laced with something I couldn’t read. I froze in the doorway. “Come on” she added, nodding towards the bed. “Sit. You can tell me how it looks”. I obeyed before I even realized I was moving. Sat at the edge of the bed, like some dog waiting for a command. She dropped the sheet without hesitation. Just let it fall to the floor like it was nothing. And then she stretched–arms above her head, body arching in the soft morning light. She knew. She was doing this on purpose. Every inch of her was intoxicating. My eyes never left her. I didn’t even blink. She slipped the shirt on slowly, tugged the cargo pants over her hips. I wasn’t breathing. I couldn’t. The silence between us stretched like wire. My hands were in my lap, clenched so tight I could feel the nail marks in my thighs. She turned to face me, “Well?”. She looked perfect. Irresistible. Fuckable. “You look like a fucking goddess” I said, no hesitation, no filter. The words just fell out of me. She laughed, amused “A goddess in a t-shirt and cargo pants?”. “Yeah” I said, barely above a whisper, stepping closer. Close enough to feel the heat of her skin, to taste the tension. I wanted her to kiss me. I needed her to kiss me. But I didn’t move. I waited. I stood there like a lovesick idiot, hoping she’d be the one to break the silence and devour me. She didn’t. And yeah… it fucking hurt. Not in a dramatic, tearful way. Just quietly, deeply. Like being reminded I wasn’t as essential to her as she was to me. I didn’t let it show tho.

I reached for her hand and she let me take it, our fingers tangling as I led her out of the apartment. We took the elevator down, her grip light in mine, and the moment we stepped out into the city, my driver was already there–parked right in the front, black Bentley Flying Spur shining under the morning light. I opened the door for her. She slipped in without a word, like this was normal. Like I was normal. I got in from the other side and sat beside her. We hit Fifth Avenue, then Madison, and eventually drifted into SoHo. I took her everywhere. Every luxury store I could think of. She tried on everything–clothes, jewelry, sunglasses, perfumes. She looked good in all of it, too good. “Take anything you want” I told her. My voice was soft but firm “Anything. You want.”. So there I was, carrying at least fifteen bags from different stores–Dior, Prada, Cartier, Chanel, Saint Laurent, fuck, even some random boutique she liked the smell of. My arms were falling off and I still didn’t complain. Because I would’ve crawled through glass if she asked. Maybe I should’ve brought Enzo after all. But no. That would’ve ruined it. He would’ve joked, teased, and reminded me this wasn’t okay. But I didn’t want okay. I wanted her. Still, even in all the glamour, in all the laughing and spending and pretending this was just some casual day out, a thought kept clawing its way back into my mind; we needed to talk. And not the cute kind of talk. No. We needed to talk.

We walked into my apartment in silence. “Sabrina” I said carefully, like the sound of her name might set something off. I didn’t want to irritate her. Most of all, I didn’t want her to leave. “Can we please talk?”. She didn’t speak at first. Just gave me a short nod. We sat down on the couch and I started playing with my bracelets–nervous habit. I didn’t want to bring it up. But I had to. “What happened yesterday?” I asked, barely audible. She stiffened, “Nothing happened yesterday. What do you mean?”. Her voice was sharp, irritated. “No, I mean–why did you come here? I thought your boyfriend–“. “Don’t mention him again” she cut me off instantly, eyes suddenly cold. “We broke up yesterday. I just… I didn’t want to be alone”. There was something cruel in the way she said it. “In fact,” she added standing up, “I think I should go now”. I panicked. “No–please” I grabbed her hand and pulled her gently back down. “Don’t do that. Don’t leave”. She looked at me then, and I saw it. The tears she was fighting to keep down. Her beautiful blue eyes were glassy and swollen with everything she didn’t want to say. So I didn’t push her. I let out a breath and tried to smile. “Wanna watch a movie?” I asked, knowing how ridiculous that sounded. “Yeah” she said softly, her voice barely there. I don’t know if what I did next was right. But it felt right in the moment. I moved closer and wrapped my arms around her. I hoped she’d hug me back. I hate when people reject my hugs, because I don’t give them away often. And that’s the reason why I don’t. Rejection. But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned in, rested her forehead on my shoulder, and wrapped her arms around my waist. She held on. Her warmth sank into my skin. And her scent, it wasn’t just spring and flowers anymore. It was her. The scent I’ve grown addicted to. She picked a movie, something I don’t even remember. I didn’t care. I barely looked at the screen. All I watched was her. I counted the seconds between her blinks. I followed every drop of condensation that slipped from her lips onto the marble floor when she sipped her water. I watched how she tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears when they were bothering her. And then she caught me looking. From across the couch, her eyes met mine. I looked away pretended to be invested in the movie. Eventually, she fell asleep. I paused the movie and stared at her. She looked peaceful. Too peaceful to wake. I grabbed a blanket and laid it gently over her body. I hated that she was on the couch, but waking her up felt like a crime. She looked like an angel when asleep.

I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t even try. I just sat there, eyes locked on her. I watched her breathe. In and out. Slowly, steady. Her chest rose and fell and I found myself syncing my breaths to hers without realizing it. There was a small space between her lips. Just enough to let the softest sighs escape from time to time. I didn’t dare get closer. I didn’t dare touch her. This was enough. Watching her exist was enough. At one point, she smiled in her sleep. A small, gentle smile. What was she dreaming about? Who was she dreaming about? The truth is… it didn’t matter. She was there. With me. So I just stayed. I watched her, admired her like art in a museum. Because, God, she was breathtaking.