Chapter fifteen : Seth

I had a rough morning. My eyes were still swollen and bloodshot. I woke up with my whole body aching. I stood up and went to the toilet. I stared at the mirror, looking at my own reflection.

Did I really cry in front of her?

A grown man, crying in her arms?

I felt... ashamed. I had opened my whole heart in front of her. She heard it all—my anger, my hurt, my brokenness. But strangely, despite the embarrassment, I also felt lighter. Like the heaviness I’d been dragging around inside me had finally started to lift.

I left the bathroom and headed to the kitchen. Brewed myself a coffee and sat at the table. My notes and seminar documents were spread out before me—there was a teacher’s conference coming up, and I needed to get everything perfect. I edited through my essays, sipped my coffee, tried to focus—but her face kept flashing in my head.

Then I heard the door creak behind me. My father came out, groaning, stretching his arms overhead.

“Hey, son. You’re up early?”

“Yes, Dad,” I replied, trying to keep my voice neutral.

He sat across from me, poured himself some water, and then looked up with a strange calm.

“Who was the girl that came here yesterday?”

My throat tightened. “Oh... Dad, she’s a student. My student. I tutor her—she’s weak in Math.”

He raised a brow. “Just a student?”

Something in the way he said it made my skin prickle. My chest tightened with nervousness. Was something obvious? Had I... been too soft with her? Too gentle?

“Yes, Dad,” I said quickly, “just a student. What are you thinking?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. It just... didn’t feel like that.”

“Dad, stop overthinking. There’s nothing.” I tried to brush it off.

He stared at me for a second too long before giving me a side-eye and leaving the room, slamming the door behind him. The house fell silent. My fingers trembled as I tried to continue typing, but my thoughts were loud. What made him say that? Was I really that transparent?

That’s when my phone lit up with a message. I reached over and clicked it open.

“Since I got an A+ in math, I wanna celebrate with you. Can we celebrate at your place? It’s boring here.”

Nyla.

I blinked at the screen. Too stunned to speak.

After my dad’s question, the timing couldn’t be worse. Her presence here again... it could make things more complicated.

But still, I didn’t reply no.I couldn’t.

Later that afternoon, just as the sun began to lower, she arrived.

My father had gone out for the evening—some event, thankfully—so it was just the two of us.

The house felt quieter than usual. I sat back, trying to steady the rhythm in my chest. Minutes passed. I brewed some coffee—half to distract myself, half because I needed it. The scent filled the kitchen just as I heard a soft knock. I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath until I opened the door.

She stood there, grinning, a little out of breath, clutching something small wrapped in foil.

“I brought you a chocolate bar. Victory tastes better when shared,” she said, raising it like it was a golden trophy.

I couldn’t help the little smirk that tugged at my lips. “Come in.”

We sat with our coffees. The silence between us wasn’t heavy—it was curious. Like two people holding the edges of something new, unsure if it would fly or fold.

I noticed the tiny details. Her hair was tied loosely, strands framing her face like soft brushstrokes. She wore a brown sweater and a loose-fit jeans. And she glowed—unfiltered, real.

“Wanna bake something?” I asked suddenly, breaking the stillness.

Her brows raised. “You? Bake?”

I shrugged. “I mean... how hard can cookies be?”

We moved to the kitchen, both pretending to know what we were doing—like two actors playing roles neither of us had rehearsed for. She stood near the counter, pulling her sleeves up with determination, while I opened the cabinets, trying to remember if I even had baking powder. It was chaotic from the start. The flour bag was too full, and when she poured it into the bowl, it puffed up in a soft white cloud, coating the air—and both of us.

“Oops,” she said, coughing and laughing at the same time, her face dusted with flour. I blinked, caught between amusement and something gentler.

I reached for the sugar but knocked over a spoon instead, which clanged onto the floor. She giggled again. “You’re hopeless.”

“Excuse me, I’m the head chef here,” I said, placing my hand on my chest, mock offended. “You’re the assistant.”

“Oh really?” she raised a brow, clearly challenging me. “Just watch how I knead the dough then, chef.”

We stood side by side, elbows brushing now and then. She mixed everything with such focus, her brows slightly furrowed as she worked the dough into the perfect texture. I stood behind her, pretending to be interested in the consistency—but really, I was just drawn in.

Without thinking, I stepped closer. My body barely inches from hers, I leaned in from behind, hands resting on the countertop, one on each side of her waist. Her scent, a mix of faint perfume and something sugary, made me dizzy.

“You’re... actually really good at this,” I said quietly, eyes fixed on her hands kneading the dough with precision, dough sticking to her fingertips, flour smeared across the back of her hand.

She didn’t reply. She stilled.

Slowly, she turned around—her movements hesitant, deliberate. And suddenly, we were face to face.Too close.

Her hands were still messy, dough clinging to her fingers, and mine gripped the edge of the counter like I needed to anchor myself.Her eyes flicked up to meet mine.

Neither of us said a word. The kitchen faded into the background. All I could hear was the soft hum of silence between our breaths.

I didn’t even notice that I had started to lean in, that she had done the same.

Our foreheads nearly brushed when she suddenly let out a laugh. Soft. Nervous. Real.

She dropped her gaze to the floor, biting her lip. “We should probably focus on the cookies before we burn down the kitchen.”

“Yeah,” I said, chuckling too, stepping back, even though it felt unnatural. “Good idea.”

And just like that, the spell dissolved—but something lingered. The closeness, the tension, the almost.

We returned to the baking, pretending nothing had happened—but my hands shook just a little when I picked up the next ingredients.

The cookies were cooling on the tray, slightly uneven, some a little burnt—but it didn’t matter. We stood there for a moment, side by side, just staring at them like we’d conquered the world. She took one and bit into it, then wrinkled her nose.

“It’s... crunchy,” she said with a grin, “but I kinda like it.”

I laughed, leaning back against the counter. “We make a good team.”

She turned her head slightly, and for a moment, her smile softened—not playful, not teasing—just soft.

And then she looked at the time.

“Oh,” she said, “I should probably head back. It’s getting late.”

I didn’t want her to go. Not yet. But I only nodded, not trusting myself to say more.

She picked up her bag and stood by the door, brushing flour off her sleeves.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

She hesitated. “For letting me in I had a great time.”

And then she was gone.

The door closed softly behind her, and the golden glow of the evening stayed behind like a memory. I stood still for a while, surrounded by the scent of warm cookies and the echo of her laughter.

I didn’t clean up the mess right away.

I wanted it to stay just a little longer.

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