Chapter 10 The First Day #2
The interior reflected Harold perfectly.
Sports.
Movies.
Speed.
The walls were decorated with framed photographs—Ferrari races, high-speed tracks, athletes mid-motion. Everything screamed competition and adrenaline. It was bold, masculine, and a little chaotic… yet somehow still expensive.
She had barely taken a few steps into the living room—
Bang!
A loud noise exploded through the air.
“Welcome home, future Mrs. Graves!”
A loud voice boomed through the house.
Pop! Pop!
Confetti exploded in the air.
Emma blinked, startled, and turned toward the sound.
On the staircase stood a group of people. In the center was a man in his fifties, smiling brightly, clapping his hands. Behind him, two younger men were holding party poppers, colorful confetti still falling around them.
At that exact moment, Harold rushed inside—
Pop!
Another confetti blast went off right in front of him.
He flinched hard, his entire body jolting.
“Bruno! What the hell is wrong with you?!” he shouted, horrified.
He stormed forward, snatching the poppers out of their hands and throwing them onto the ground.
The man in the middle—Bruno—just beamed, completely unfazed.
“Oh, Mr. Harold! Your mother said you were bringing your girlfriend home today. Of course we had to welcome her properly!” he said cheerfully. “This is a happy occasion! How could we not celebrate? You’ve finally broken your curse of not getting a woman—”
“Bruno, shut up!”
Harold’s face flushed a deep red, embarrassment and anger crashing over him all at once.
“Stop talking! What the hell are you saying?!” he snapped, his voice rising as he shot Bruno a glare. He looked like he might actually pass out from the humiliation.
“Don’t call her that! She’s just Emma!” he added quickly, pointing in her direction without even daring to look at her.
“She’s just… staying here for a few days. That’s it!”
His voice wavered, the panic slipping through despite his effort to sound firm.
“She’s not my girlfriend, not some ‘future Mrs. Graves’—I’m not getting married!”
He was practically rambling now, words stumbling over each other as he tried to fix the situation.
“Now stop talking and get out! Get out right now!”
In his agitation, he pushed Bruno toward the door.
Bruno stumbled back a step, stunned and confused. But one look at Harold’s mortified face was enough.
“Ah… yes, yes… we’ll leave,” he said quickly.
He waved at the others, and within seconds, all three of them rushed out of the house.
Silence fell.
Emma pressed her lips together, trying to hold back her laughter—but the smile on her face gave her away.
Harold noticed immediately.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he snapped, clearly flustered. “They’re just confused. They don’t know what they’re doing.”
He straightened slightly, trying to regain his composure.
“I’ve brought plenty of women home before,” he added, a little too quickly. “This is just a misunderstanding. My mom probably told them to say all that nonsense. They’re just making things up.”
“Got it.”
Emma’s expression flattened into a calm, indifferent look as she answered him. She gave a small nod, as if she didn’t care at all.
“I understand. I’ll go upstairs first.”
Without waiting for his response, she turned and walked past him. Harold instinctively shifted aside as she brushed by, the faint movement of air from her passing making his chest tighten.
She stepped onto the stairs, her pace unhurried.
“The bedroom is upstairs, right?” she asked, stopping midway and glancing back at him over her shoulder.
Harold frowned slightly, still trying to steady himself. “Yeah. End of the hallway.”
Emma nodded once, then turned again and continued walking. A moment later, she disappeared into the room.
The door closed behind her.
Harold stood there for a second, unmoving. His chest was rising and falling too fast, his heartbeat still pounding hard against his ribs. He dragged a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself down.
“What the hell…” he muttered.
Without wasting another second, he turned and hurried toward the washroom on the ground floor.
Ten minutes later, when he stepped out, he looked much more composed.
He looked much more composed now. The redness on his face had faded, and his breathing had finally steadied. He adjusted his shirt, ran a hand through his hair again, and straightened his posture.
Back to normal.
Then he headed upstairs. He walked straight to the room at the end of the hallway and pushed the door open. Stepping inside, he paused, his eyes sweeping across the room.
Empty.
There was no sign of Emma.
His brows furrowed slightly as he took another step in, glancing around again. Just as he was about to turn, the bathroom door clicked open.
The soft sound of footsteps followed.
His head turned toward the sound—and then everything inside him stilled.
Emma stepped out.
Water still clung to her skin, tiny droplets tracing slow paths down her neck and collarbone, disappearing beneath the edge of the towel wrapped around her body—barely holding in place.
It clung to her chest and stopped high on her thighs, the damp fabric loose enough to slip if she moved the wrong way.
His breath caught instantly.
His chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.
He couldn’t look away.
Step by step, she walked toward him, unhurried. The quiet sound of her bare feet against the floor only made everything feel louder—his heartbeat, his breathing, the tension filling the room.
Then she stopped right in front of him.
Their eyes met, and something in his chest twisted.
His throat went dry. His body turned rigid, like he had been rooted to the spot. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think—couldn’t do anything except stare at her.
She held his gaze, unflinching.
Then, slowly, she stepped even closer, closing the last bit of distance between them. Her hand lifted and rested lightly against his chest, her fingers warm against him, and the contact sent a sharp, immediate jolt through his body.
He sucked in a quiet breath.
She rose slightly onto her toes, her body tilting toward him as her face lifted. Her lips drew closer to his, inch by inch, until they hovered just a breath away.
He could feel her warmth.
Her breath brushed softly against his skin.
And just like that, he forgot how to breathe.
“Isn’t this our first day as boyfriend and girlfriend?” she whispered, her voice soft, her eyes searching his. “We should kiss.”
Then she closed the distance.
Her lips pressed against his.
His breath hitched sharply as her lips moved against his—soft at first, almost hesitant, as if testing him. But when he didn’t pull away, she grew bolder, leaning closer, her body brushing against his as she pushed him back just enough to throw him off balance.
He stumbled a step, but instead of creating distance, his hand lifted instinctively, sliding to the back of her head and pulling her closer.
That was the moment he lost control.
He kissed her back.
Harder. Deeper.
Their lips moved against each other with growing urgency, the kiss turning messy, heated, all restraint slipping away. The world around them seemed to fade as they moved together without thinking, step by step, until the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed.
The next second, they fell.
The mattress dipped beneath them as they landed, her beneath him, but neither of them pulled away. Their lips stayed locked, the kiss deepening, growing more intense with every second.
His breathing turned uneven, almost ragged, each inhale harder than the last.
She shifted beneath him, her hands gripping him as she moved, and in one fluid motion, she turned them, climbing over him until she was straddling him. She didn’t give him a moment to recover, her lips finding his again immediately.
The more he tried to catch his breath, the more impossible it became.
Everything blurred—his thoughts, his control, his sense of time.
Then, suddenly, he moved.
In one swift motion, he flipped them again.
Now she was beneath him.
He hovered over her, his chest rising and falling heavily, his control hanging by a thread. His gaze lingered on her face for a brief second before dropping, drawn lower as he leaned in.
His face dipped into the curve of her neck, his breath warm against her skin.
For a moment, everything else faded—thoughts, hesitation, control. Neither of them knew who had the upper hand anymore… and neither seemed to care.
***
When Harold opened his eyes the next morning, soft birdsong filled the air. The tube lights were still on, casting a pale glow, while sunlight streamed through the open window they had forgotten to close.
Harold blinked slowly, his mind still hazy, caught somewhere between sleep and reality.
For a moment, he didn’t move, his thoughts sluggish, his senses dull. Then he shifted slightly—and felt something soft beneath him.
His breath caught instantly.
A strange awareness rushed through him, sharp and sudden, cutting through the fog in his head.
He stilled.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he lowered his gaze.
And froze.
It was Emma.
He was lying on top of her, his head resting against her chest. Their bare skin pressed together under the tangled sheets. He could hear her heartbeat right beneath his ear.
For a second, he didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Then everything from last night rushed back at once.
His fingers tensed slightly against her waist as flashes of memory hit him—how he had held her down, how he hadn’t let her go, how everything had spiraled out of control.
A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face.
He shifted back a little, lifting his head.
At the same moment, Emma’s eyes slowly opened.
Their gazes met.
Harold stilled.
There was something in her eyes—soft, unreadable. No anger. No accusation. Just a quiet stillness… with a hint of shyness that hadn’t been there before.
Emma blinked, clearly startled to find him so close, her fingers tightening slightly around the bedsheet she had clutched against herself.