Chapter Twenty Khai
Chapter Twenty
Khai
I stay there with her pressed against the glass long after the rain begins to soften, long after my breathing finally steadies. The city hums somewhere below us, distant and irrelevant. She’s held upright by one arm, tucked between me and the window like she belongs there, warm, pliant, trusting.
Carefully, without shifting her more than necessary, I reach down and pull my jeans back into place one-handed, the motion slow and deliberate.
I don’t loosen my hold on her. I won’t risk waking her.
The aftermath had claimed her gently, her body easing as sleep took her, breath slow and even against my neck.
When the tremor finally leaves my legs, I gather her closer and lift her away from the cold glass. She’s cold from the rain, damp and shivering faintly even in her sleep, and that alone sharpens my focus.
Inside.
I carry her straight into the ensuite and step into the shower, turning the water warm, not hot, until steam curls into the air. When the temperature is right, I move us both under the spray, letting the heat wash over us, chasing the chill from her skin, cocooning us in quiet and warmth.
She stirs in my arms then.
Her head lifts from the crook of my neck, lashes fluttering as she looks up at me, dazed and unfocused. Her cheeks are flushed, lips still swollen from the night, eyes wide and dark as they meet mine.
She’s beautiful like this, unguarded, held, real.
Something tightens deep in my chest, sharp and unexpected.
I adjust my grip, keeping her steady beneath the water, my forehead resting briefly against hers as she settles again, trusting me without hesitation. The steam thickens, the noise of the shower drowning out everything else.
“Khai,” she whispers.
I don’t answer. I stay where I am, holding her, committing the weight of her in my arms to memory, the curve of her body, the warmth of her skin, the way she fits against me like she always belonged there. I breathe her in, knowing this is a moment I won’t be allowed to forget.
“Khai,” she says again, softer this time.
“Can you stand?” I ask quietly, my voice rougher than I intend. “You’re cold. I need to get you warm. And dry.”
She nods, sluggish but trusting, and slowly unwinds her legs from my waist. Her heels touch the floor, but I don’t let go of her, not yet. My arms remain firm around her middle, steadying her while I force myself to step back.
Letting her go takes more effort than holding her.
I kneel in front of her and reach for the red straps at her ankles, easing her heels off one by one.
She braces a hand against the cool marble wall, watching me in silence, eyes heavy, expression open in a way that tightens something deep in my chest. I set the shoes aside and rise again, bringing myself back to my full height.
“Turn around,” I say quietly.
She hesitates for a breath, then does as I ask.
I step in close again, hands returning to her waist like they never meant to leave. I can’t stop touching her. I don’t want to. My fingers find the zipper at the small of her back, and I draw it down slowly, my knuckles brushing warm skin, a deliberate act of restraint.
When I’m finished, she turns back toward me.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I inhale, steadying myself. My hands slide up her arms, stopping at the straps of her dress. I pause there, breath uneven, surprised by the faint tremor in my fingers.
I don’t tremble.
Except now.
Her breath catches as I start to ease the straps down her shoulders, and I stop.
I stop because I need to know she’s still choosing this.
She looks up at me, searching my face, rainwater clinging to her lashes. I lean in, my mouth hovering just shy of hers, close enough that I feel the warmth of her breath.
I kiss her, soft, brief, reverent.
Then I step back.
“I’ll leave something for you to change into,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “On the bed.”
And I turn away before instinct can undo me again, walking out of the room with every ounce of control I have left, knowing that if I look back,
I won’t stop.
Emmy
As Khai leaves the ensuite, I release a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.
I remain where I am, still fully dressed, standing beneath the warm spray as water slides down my skin and pools at my feet.
His presence lingers like a second heat, ghosted into the air, into my bones.
I can still feel his hands, his mouth, the way the world had narrowed to just us before he chose to step away.
Slowly, I peel off my dress and let it fall in a dark, sodden heap beside the shower. My underwear follows, discarded without ceremony. The water grounds me, steady and relentless, rinsing away the rain, the night, the sharp edge of wanting.
I glance around, taking in the space with new eyes.
The ensuite is unmistakably his, dark marble veined like shadows, brushed gold fixtures catching the low light, clean white accents that feel deliberate rather than soft. It’s dangerous and controlled and impossibly elegant.
So Khai.
My thoughts spiral, replaying the night in fractured images. His honesty, careful, incomplete, but real. His restraint. The way it finally snapped. His hands. His mouth. The rain.
That moment.
The moment we crossed the line.
I wanted it. I needed it. I don’t regret it.
But,
He walked away.
Not cold. Not distant. Just… gone.
The memory of his back as he turned presses sharp and unexpected against my chest. I hadn’t been ready for that part.
I understand the care. I understand the control, maybe even the necessity of it.
But the distance, him choosing to leave when everything in me was still reaching for him, leaves behind a hollow ache I can’t quite name.
Did I do something wrong?
The question echoes softly, unanswered.
When the cold finally seeps from my bones, I turn off the water and reach for a thick black towel. I dry my hair, wrap the towel around myself, and step out into the quiet of his penthouse.
His bedroom waits beyond the door, grand and dark, all clean lines and shadows. On the bed, laid out with quiet intention, is a black t-shirt and a pair of track pants, both unmistakably his. Too big.
I choose the shirt.
It slips over my head and falls almost to my knees, the fabric heavy with his scent. I hesitate at the door, then ease it open and move down the hallway, steps soft, careful.
Khai stands by the window.
Dry now. Dressed again. A glass of amber liquid cradled in his hand as he looks out over the city like it belongs to him. Like he’s already rebuilding the walls he tore down moments ago.
I stop a few steps away.
“Hi,” I murmur.
And in the quiet that follows, I realise something with a slow, sinking certainty:
Whatever this is between us, it isn’t finished.
It’s only just begun.
Khai
“Hi.”
I turn, and my pulse stutters like my body forgot the rhythm it’s supposed to keep.
She’s standing in my t-shirt, hair wet, face bare, eyes too honest. She looks like something I shouldn’t be allowed to touch, something the world would punish me for wanting.
She swallows, and I watch her gather herself, like she’s bracing for impact.
“Is everything okay?” she asks softly. “Because you… you look like you’re somewhere else.”
I don’t answer quickly enough.
Her throat tightens. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” The word comes out harsh with urgency. I take a step toward her, then stop myself before I close the distance completely. “You didn’t.”
Her brows knit together, hurt slipping through her composure. “Then why does it feel like you regret me?”
That one lands deep.
My jaw tightens. “I don’t.”
She searches my face like she’s trying to catch the lie. “You walked away,” she whispers. “You held me like you couldn’t let go… and then you left the room like you couldn’t stand to be near me.”
“That wasn’t regret,” I say, voice rough. “That was restraint.”
Her lips part. “Restraint from what?”
“From myself.”
The honesty costs me. I feel it in my chest, sharp, immediate, like a bruise forming under the ribs.
She takes a half-step closer. “Why? Why stop if you wanted me?”
Because wanting you is the first mistake I haven’t been able to undo. Because the moment I want you out loud, you become visible. Because I’ve spent my whole life learning not to have anything that can be taken.
I don’t say all of it.
I say the piece that matters. “Because when I want something,” I tell her quietly, “I don’t want it halfway.”
Her breath catches. Her eyes flicker, heat and uncertainty tangling together.
“And I’m… something you only want halfway?” she asks, voice breaking just slightly.
“No.” I step closer before I can stop myself. “You’re something I shouldn’t want at all.”
She flinches like I’ve struck her.
“Shouldn’t?” she repeats, sharper now, emotion rising. “Khai, don’t do that. Don’t make me feel like I’m a mistake you’re trying to erase.”
“You’re not a mistake,” I snap, and the edge in my voice surprises both of us. I force it down. “You’re… a risk.”
“A risk to what?” she challenges. “To your control? Your reputation? Your ego?”
I laugh once, humourless. “To your life staying quiet.”
She stills. That gets her attention.
“I don’t live in a world where people leave things alone,” I say, words low and deliberate. “Where they see something precious and decide to respect it.”
Her chin lifts, stubborn returning. “You keep saying ‘world.’ What does that mean? What are you not telling me?”
The question is steady, but I can hear the tremor underneath it.
I take a breath. “The moment you matter to me,” I say slowly, “you stop being invisible.”
Her eyes widen. “Invisible to who?”
I hold her gaze, and for the first time tonight, I let the truth look like what it is, a warning and a confession in the same breath.
“To him.”
Silence floods the room. I see it then, the fear flicker behind her eyes. Not panic. Not hysteria. Just the reality settling in.
“And you think… he’d come for me?” she whispers.
I don’t dodge it.
“Yes.”