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Chapter Five: The Touch That Wasn't Meant to Happen
Bella POV;
The next morning was a lie.
The sun came in soft through the windows like nothing had happened. Like the world wasn't burning under my skin. Like I hadn't looked my stepfather in the eye and asked him if he loved me.
But I remembered.
Every breath of it.
Daniel hadn't come down for breakfast. I didn't expect him to. My mother, fresh-faced and humming to herself, poured coffee into my mug like we were still some picture-perfect family. She was wearing the silk scarf he bought her last Christmas-the one I helped him pick out.
I wondered if she noticed the tension crawling under the paint of our walls.
"I'll be gone most of the afternoon," she said, buttering toast with an ease that made my stomach twist. "Board meeting, then brunch with the donors. Daniel's working from home, so he'll be around if you need anything."
My chest tightened.
Of course, he would.
I nodded and forced a smile, hoping she couldn't see the storm behind my eyes. "I'll just stay in and read."
She kissed my cheek and left before I could change my mind.
And then it was just me and him. Again.
The silence stretched long after her car pulled out of the driveway. I stood in the kitchen too long, pretending to wash a glass that was already clean. Every creak of the floor upstairs made my pulse throb harder in my neck.
I didn't know if he would come down.
But he did.
I felt him before I saw him. That quiet tension that walked into a room with him. His cologne, subtle and clean, found me first. Then came the sound of his bare feet against the polished hardwood.
I turned.
He was standing at the edge of the kitchen, in a black T-shirt and gray joggers. Casual. Too casual. He looked tired. But not weak.
His eyes met mine, unreadable. "You okay?"
I didn't answer at first. My throat felt full of sand.
Instead, I wiped my hands on a towel and asked, "Are you?"
He exhaled and walked past me to the coffee pot. "We shouldn't talk about last night."
I let out a soft laugh. "We already are."
Daniel stilled, fingers wrapped around the mug, not lifting it. "Bella..."
"I didn't come onto you," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Not at first. But I saw how you looked at me. I know it wasn't all in my head."
"I never said it was."
That stopped me.
He turned then, finally meeting my gaze fully. No more pretending. No more dodging the words that had been circling us for months like sharks.
"You think I haven't noticed how beautiful you've become?" he said, low and firm. "Of course I have. I'm not blind, Bella. But I'm also not a monster."
His words should have made me feel guilty. But they only made me ache.
"Then why do you look at me like you're starving?" I whispered.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Then the cup was back on the counter, and he was across the room in two strides.
I gasped as his hands came up-not touching, just hovering. One beside my cheek. One beside my hip.
"I'm trying not to cross this line," he said, voice tight, every word like it hurt to say. "But you keep pulling me toward it."
"Then cross it," I whispered. "I already have."
It was like something snapped.
His hand slid into my hair, fingers threading slowly, pulling just enough to make me gasp again. His mouth was a breath from mine, eyes locked on my lips.
He didn't kiss me. Not yet.
"I've had dreams like this," he admitted. "And every time I wake up, I hate myself a little more."
My hands found his shirt before I could stop them. The cotton was warm from his skin. I clutched it, grounding myself, even as everything else inside me floated.
"I don't want you to hate yourself," I said. "I want you to see me."
"I do," he whispered. "More than I should."
And then his mouth brushed mine.
Soft. Barely there.
A stolen moment.
I felt him tremble-not from hesitation, but from holding back.
The kiss didn't deepen. He didn't push me. He just let it linger-long enough to taste regret and longing, and something far more dangerous.
And then he pulled back, eyes burning.
"This can't happen again."
I didn't say anything.
Because we both knew it would.