8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Mel
T he phone buzzes on the coffee table, the sound cutting through the quiet of the flat. I glance at the screen, squinting slightly against the glare— Lucy HR . For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail, but something tells me this isn’t a call I can avoid.
I pick up the phone, swiping to answer. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mel,” Lucy’s warm voice comes through, professional but kind. “It’s Lucy from HR. How are you doing?”
I shift on the sofa, tucking my legs under me. “I’m fine, thanks. How about you?”
“I’m good, thanks,” she says lightly. “I just wanted to check in, see how you’re holding up.”
I pause, my fingers curling around the edge of the cushion. “I’m doing alright,” I say, forcing a brightness into my voice. “Keeping busy, you know?”
Lucy hums softly, the kind of noise that says she’s heard that line a hundred times before. “That’s good to hear. I know it’s been a tough time, so I just wanted to remind you that GHHI has resources available if you need them. We’ve got a partnership with a therapy service, and I’d be happy to email you the details if you’re interested.”
I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. Therapy. The thought causes nervous butterflies in my stomach, but Lucy’s tone is so gentle, so non-judgmental, that I can’t brush her off completely.
“That’s... thoughtful of you,” I say carefully. “You can send it over if you’d like.”
“I’ll do that,” she says lightening slightly, like she’s relieved. “No pressure, of course. It’s just there if you need it.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Thanks.”
There’s a pause, and then Lucy continues, her tone shifting to something more formal. “I also wanted to let you know about a meeting we’re organising for the end of the month. It’s a review of the incident, part of our crisis management process. The crisis management team will be there, along with Will, Jon, and yourself. We’ll go over everything that happened, look at what went well, and see if there’s anything we could have done differently.”
The mention of the incident makes my stomach twist, but I keep my voice steady. “Right. That makes sense.”
“We’ll send you the details closer to the date,” she says.
“Got it,” I reply, gripping the cushion a little tighter. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“And just so you’re aware, Will and Jon are doing alright and we are supporting Arif’s family.”
The knot in my stomach tightens further, guilt prickling at the edges of my mind. “That’s good to hear,” I say quietly.
There’s another pause, a heavy silence falling between us.
“Alright,” Lucy says finally. “If you need anything or if you just want to talk, don’t hesitate to reach out, okay?”
“Okay,” I say quietly.
“Take care, Mel,” she says gently, and the line clicks off.
I set the phone down, staring at it for a long moment before sinking back into the cushions. I nervously tug fluff from my jumper, the weight of the conversation settling. Therapy, the incident, the meeting. It’s all swirling in my head, a mess of guilt and unease I don’t know how to untangle.
I reach for my tea, but it’s gone cold. With a sigh, I set the mug aside and pull the blanket tighter around me, wishing, not for the first time, that I could switch off my mind as easily as hanging up a call.
The kitchen is filled with the smoky aroma of spices, the faint crackle of chicken sizzling in the pan blending with the low hum of the extractor fan. I glance at the recipe card propped up against the salt shaker, my grandma’s spidery handwriting scrawled across it.
“Alright, Grandma,” I mutter under my breath, stirring the pot of rice bubbling on the hob. “Let’s hope I don’t screw this up.”
Cooking isn’t exactly my strong suit, but I needed something to do with my hands, something to keep my brain occupied. Grandma’s jerk chicken felt like the right choice, not too complicated, but enough steps to make me focus. Plus, it tastes amazing if you get it even halfway right.
The front door clicks open, followed by the familiar shuffle of Owen kicking off his shoes.
“Something smells... interesting,” he calls from the hallway, his tone hovering between curiosity and concern.
I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. “It’s called flavour, Owen. Look it up.”
He appears in the doorway a moment later, his hoody unzipped and his backpack slung over one shoulder. He takes one look at the chaos in the kitchen—the flour-dusted counter, the clutter of spice jars, the rice threatening to boil over—and raises an eyebrow.
“Are you sure it’s not called ‘kitchen disaster’?” he asks, dropping his bag by the table.
I point a wooden spoon at him. “Don’t start with me. This is my grandma’s recipe, and I’m nailing it.”
“Is that so?” he says, leaning against the doorframe with a grin. “Because it looks like the rice is staging a mutiny.”
I whirl around, swearing under my breath as I turn down the heat. The rice settles, but not before a few starchy bubbles escape onto the hob.
“Still counts as nailed it,” I say, turning back to him with a defiant look.
Owen snorts, stepping into the kitchen and peering over my shoulder at the pan of chicken. One of his hands rests on my hips and somehow this innocent touch makes my heart beat faster.
“Alright, I’ll bite. What’s on the menu tonight?” he asks.
“Jerk chicken,” I reply proudly, flipping a piece with a satisfying sizzle. “It's a family favourite.”
He whistles, low and impressed. “Bold move. You sure you’re up for it?”
“Absolutely,” I say, jabbing the wooden spoon in his direction again. “And unless you want to be eating beans on toast, I’d suggest keeping your commentary to a minimum.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender, the grin never leaving his face. “Fair enough. I’ll shut up and set the table.”
“Good boy,” I giggle, turning back to the cooker with a smirk.
We settle into a comfortable rhythm, him grabbing plates and cutlery while I focus on not burning the chicken.
“By the way,” he says as he sets down the glasses. “Do I get a thank-you if this turns out edible? Because clearly, my presence in the flat inspired this culinary masterpiece.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’ll get a thank-you if you do the dishes.”
He pretends to consider it, tapping his chin theatrically. “Deal. But only if there’s dessert.”
“Dessert?” I glance at him over my shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think this is, a Michelin-starred restaurant?”
“Hey, I don’t set the rules,” he says with a shrug. “I’m just here for the free food.”
I playfully roll my eyes at him. “There might be some ice cream in the fridge. Walnut ice cream.” He loves that stuff and you can’t just get it in every supermarket.
“Now I know you love me,” he laughs and his innocent joke makes my cheeks flush. I ignore his words and try to focus on the pots again. The chicken is just about done, the sauce thick and glossy, coating each piece perfectly.
For a moment, I let myself breathe. No heavy conversations, no guilt pressing down on my chest. Just the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of spices, and the sound of Owen teasing me about my cooking… and these unfamiliar butterflies. Maybe, when I let my walls down yesterday, I unknowingly exposed more hidden feelings than I thought.
The plates clatter softly as I stack them on the counter, the warm smell of jerk chicken still hanging in the air. Owen’s beside me, his sleeves rolled up, wiping down the table with an overdramatic flourish.
“That was actually edible,” he says, tossing the cloth onto the counter.
“Actually edible?” I reply, giving him a mock-glare as I grab a sponge. “I just made Grandma’s jerk chicken recipe. That’s borderline sacrilege, Owen.”
He grins, leaning back against the counter with that infuriatingly smug look. “Hey, I’m giving credit where it’s due. I’m even considering a slow clap. It’s not every day you surprise me in the kitchen.”
I laugh despite myself, shaking my head as I rinse a plate. The teasing is easy, familiar, and it almost feels like back before the incident.
“So,” he says, leaning in slightly as I hand him the plate to place in the dishwasher, “does this mean you’ll stop bringing home idiots now?”
I shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”
“You know, those guys you’ve been picking,” he says, waving the towel in my direction. “The ones who clearly skipped the ‘how to not be a complete waste of space’ course.”
I snort, flicking a bit of soapy water his way. “And what, magically find someone who meets your absurd standards?”
“Exactly,” he says, catching the plate as I pass it to him. “Someone who can hold an actual conversation, for starters. Maybe a guy who knows that reading doesn’t stop at Instagram captions.” He is trying to make light of the situation but the serious undertone is there. We both know this is not just a joke. Last night was a close call. If I had gone to the guy’s place rather than ours, God knows what would have happened.
“Right,” I say. “And I suppose he should have a perfect job and be able to cook better than me too?”
“Wouldn’t hurt,” he quips, smirking. “But let’s aim higher, shall we?”
“Oh, please,” I retort, grabbing another plate. “What else, then? A decent haircut? A love of indie music?”
“Not bad,” he replies, chuckling, but then his grin softens, and he sets the plate down on the counter. “But, seriously? Someone who looks out for you.”
His voice shifts, quieter but steady, and I glance at him, caught off guard by the sudden change.
“Someone who’s there for you,” he continues, meeting my eyes. “Not just when things are easy, but when it’s messy. Someone who doesn’t just say the right things but actually shows up.” Someone like you . The words almost slip out. Instead I open my mouth to make a joke, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off gently.
“Someone who wants to be your partner,” he says, his tone firm but not pushing. “Not just someone trying to get into your knickers. Someone who, even when you argue, even when things aren’t perfect, you know they’ll be there if you need them.”
I swallow hard, my chest tightening at his words.
“And someone,” he finishes, leaning back against the counter, softening his voice, “who actually wants to share life with you. Not just the good bits, but all of it.”
I look down at the soapy water in the sink, my hands still gripping the sponge. It’s like he says out loud all the things I once dreamed about and somehow, over the years, got lost or forgotten.
“That’s a tall order,” I whisper. No, it’s not! He is right here!
Owen shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smile. “Maybe. But you deserve it.”
He takes a step closer. His eyes meet mine, steady and intent, and for a moment, the world narrows down to just this, us, here in the kitchen, just us.
“Maybe,” he says softly, his voice like a warm breeze cutting through the stillness, “you need someone who looks at you like you’re the only woman in the world.”
My breath catches, my heart picking up speed in my chest.
He means the way he is looking at me right now.
He lifts a hand slowly, brushing a stray curl away from my face with a gentleness that sends a shiver down my spine. “Someone who you can’t stop thinking about,” he continues, his fingers lingering just slightly against my temple. “Someone you crave to touch you, to hold you... someone who sets off butterflies every time they’re close.”
Like on command, the butterflies take flight, sharp and insistent, and I realise I’m holding my breath. The words hang between us, unexpected and charged.
His hand drops back to his side, but his eyes never leave mine. My fingers twitch, the sponge forgotten in the sink, and before I can think better of it, I take a step forward, closing the last of the distance between us.
My hands move almost on their own, sliding up to his shoulders, then curling around the back of his neck. His breath hitches, his body tensing for just a moment as I pull him closer.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if we’re both afraid to cross the line we’ve been dancing around. But then his hands come up, one settling lightly on my waist, the other cupping the side of my face, and everything else fades away.
It’s not just a kiss. It’s everything unspoken, everything we’ve avoided, everything that’s been building between us.
When we finally pull back, our breaths are unsteady, our foreheads touching. I'm not sure how long we stand there, our foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling in the air. The world outside seems to fade away, leaving only the two of us in this intimate bubble of space and time. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, matching the rapid rhythm of my own.
His hand cups my face, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my cheek. There's a hunger in his touch, a need that matches the fire raging within me. It's as if we've both been holding back for so long, denying ourselves this connection, and now that the floodgates have been opened, there's no stopping the rush of emotions.
I lean into his touch, relishing the warmth and familiarity. It's strange how something as simple as a hand on my face can make me feel so vulnerable yet so safe at the same time. It's like he's reaching into the depths of my soul, unravelling all my fears and insecurities with each stroke of his thumb.
"This is a dream come true," he whispers, his voice filled with so much raw desire that it sends shivers down my spine. "I've wanted you for so long."
The words hang in the air between us, filled with meaning and intent. It's a confession wrapped in desire, a declaration of everything he's kept hidden until now. And it lights a fire within me that threatens to consume us both.
"I want you too," I breathe out, and the moment the words leave my lips, I know they’re true. I’d buried these feelings so deep I almost convinced myself they weren’t there.
Letting Owen see all of me, the pain, the mess, the bits I’ve kept locked away, felt like cracking open Pandora’s box. But unlike the myth, where all that was left was hope, what’s left for me isn’t hope at all.
It’s him. Owen is my hope.
Owen isn’t just a flicker of light in the dark. He is the light. Now that I’ve let him in, I can’t pretend I don’t want him. It’s not some quiet, cautious kind of wanting either. It’s real, raw, undeniable.
My hands move instinctively to his chest, feeling the solidness beneath them before traveling upwards to tangle in his hair. I pull him closer to me until there is no space left between us. Our bodies mould together perfectly as if they were made for this very moment.
His lips crash against mine with a hunger that matches my own, and any coherent thought evaporates from my mind. It's just pure sensation and overwhelming desire. His tongue sweeps inside my mouth, exploring every corner. I moan into the kiss, completely lost in the intensity of it all.
His hands move down to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel his hard cock.
"Fuck, Mel," he groans against my lips. "I need you."
The words send a jolt of electricity straight to my core. My whole body is on fire with want and need for this man. I break away from the kiss to catch my breath and meet his gaze.
"Then take me," I say with a confidence I didn't know I possessed.
His eyes darken with lust at my words, and he doesn't waste another second in taking action. He lifts me up effortlessly in his arms before carrying me towards his bedroom. The world outside may be crumbling into chaos, but right now, in this moment, everything feels perfect.
As he drops me onto the mattress, my heart races with a mix of excitement and anticipation. I can't help but let out a soft moan as his hands trail down my back, sending shivers of desire coursing through my body.
He stands above me, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity. "You're sure about this, Mel?" he asks, his voice hoarse. "I don't want to take advantage of you, not when you're vulnerable like this."
I reach up, my fingers tracing the strong lines of his jaw, the rough stubble that grazes my skin. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life," I whisper, my voice steady despite the turmoil of emotions raging within me. "I want you, and I want this. I trust you."
His eyes soften at my words, and he leans down, his lips brushing against mine in a gentle caress. "Then let me show you how much I want you," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive.
He begins to undress me with slow, deliberate movements, as if he's unwrapping a precious gift. Each layer of clothing that falls away reveals more of my skin, and I shiver with anticipation, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
His hands glide over my body, exploring every curve and contour with a reverence that sends shivers down my spine. I love how our skin tones complement each other; it feels like we balance each other perfectly.
He kisses a path from my neck, down to my collarbones, his tongue tracing the delicate skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
I arch into his touch, my hands running through his hair, holding him close. "More," I plead. "I need more."