Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“You couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, his voice low and troubled. He steps into the kitchen, the moonlight silvering his skin, highlighting the planes of his chest, the faint shadow of that tattoo on his arm.
I shake my head, my fingers tightening around the cup. “No,” I say, my voice soft, strained. “Just… needed… er… tea. Want some? There’s still plenty in the pot.” I gesture to the teapot, a weak attempt at normalcy, and he nods, moving to the counter, his presence filling the space, making it hard to breathe.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, already pulling a mug from the cabinet, his movements easy but tense, like he’s holding something back.
“It’s really good with some honey,” I say, my eyes returning to the laptop, pretending to focus on an email, but I’m hyperaware of him—his bare skin, the way his muscles shift as he pours tea, the quiet clink of the spoon as he stirs in honey. He sits across from me, the nook’s table a fragile barrier, and I feel his gaze, steady and intense, pulling at me like a tide.
He turns his head towards the wide windows. “Did you know tonight is the night of the harvest moon?”
“Ah. No wonder it looks like a big and bright lantern in the night sky.”
“Are you working?” he asks, nodding at the laptop, his voice casual, but his eyes are intense, searching.
I close the screen, the soft click loud in the quiet. “Just emails. Nothing urgent.” I sip my tea, needing a distraction, and seize on a safe topic. “Tell me about your company. How’d you build it? I mean, I’ve read the magazines, but… I want to hear it from you.”
He leans back, his mug cradled in his hands, a wry smile tugging at his lips, softening the tension in his jaw. “It wasn’t easy,” he admits, his voice low, thoughtful. “Started small, just me and my laptop, hustling for clients. Long nights, bad coffee, deals falling through, wolf at the door. But I kept at it, found a niche in e-commerce, and built a platform that caught on. Got lucky with some investors, scaled fast. The wolf slinked off and now it’s… big.” He shrugs, but there’s pride in his eyes, a quiet fire, and I feel it, a warmth at his success.
“That’s incredible, Max,” I say, my voice genuine, my eyes meeting his, and for a moment, it’s just us, sharing a truth that feels safe. “And that is also an incredibly brief summary.”
He laughs out. “Want me to tell you the details? It could take all night.”
“Are you willing to?”
His eyes bore into mine. “I’ll do anything for you, Amelia. Anything.” The words hang between us. Explosive.
I look down, my finger tracing the cup’s rim, and my voice is a whisper. “Anything?”
“Anything,” he says quietly.
I stand suddenly and head towards the sink to wash my cup, needing to move, to break the spell. Max follows, his mug in hand.
“Let me,” his voice firm, reaching for the sponge. I laugh, a nervous sound, and nudge him aside, our hands brushing, a spark that jolts me.
“I’ve got it,” I say, but he’s stubborn, grabbing the cup, and I struggle and the cup slips, a sudden clatter as it hits the ground and shatters into jagged pieces that glint like broken stars. We freeze, staring at the wreckage.
Sara’s cup is broken.
I broke Sara’s cup.
The breakage takes on momentous meaning and my breath catches, tears welling, a sob breaking free. I sink to my knees, gathering the shards, my fingers trembling, and the tears spill, hot and relentless, because it’s not just Sara’s cup—but the cup is me and our relationship too, broken and unfixable, a mirror of everything I’ve lost.
“Amelia,” Max says, his voice rough, kneeling beside me, his hand on my shoulder, warm and steady. “It’s just a cup. It’s okay.”
I shake my head, my voice choked, the lie spills out. “It’s not the cup. It’s… Dad. Everything’s broken, Max. So many things can’t be put back together.” The words are half-true, a shield for the real pain—the love I can’t reclaim—but they’re enough of an excuse for me to crack open, my sobs raw in the quiet.
He pulls me into his arms, his embrace fierce, his bare chest warm against my cheek, and I cling to him, my tears soaking his skin.
The broken cup lies scattered at our feet, the shards glinting like fragments of our past. All around us are stark shadows. His warmth is a comfort, but it’s also a danger, a blaze I’ve fought to keep at bay.
A sound escapes him, soft, ragged. No more than a whisper, but I feel the shift.
The warmth is turning into fire.
His lips brush my forehead, a soft, fleeting touch, so gentle it steals my breath. I tilt my head back, unthinking, my tear-streaked face catching the light, my eyes meeting his. His are dark and stormy. The world narrows, the kitchen fades—the shattered cup, the moonlight, the hum of the fridge—all dissolving until it’s just us, Max and me, suspended in a moment too fragile to hold.