A thousand years

Kisses and secrets

Ema stared at her hand. So did Andre, leaning against the tiled wall, his eyes locked on the wounds. The other waitress, hovered by the door, her face pale.

"I have no idea," Ema muttered, twisting the tap harder. "Maybe I hit it on the edge of the counter. Or scratched myself on a plate."

Estelle stepped closer, her sneakers squeaking on the wet floor. "You're not all right. That's not a scratch." She reached out and grabbed Ema's wrist, turning the hand for a better look. The bites were clean, too even, like teeth marks from something sharp.

Ema yanked her hand back so fast her elbow banged the mirror. "I've told you, I'm okay! Let me be." Her voice cracked, eyes darting to Andrea. She pressed a paper towel to the cuts, wincing.

Estelle froze, hand still outstretched. Ema's reaction hit like a slap. She glanced at Andrea. His shirt collar was rumpled, a faint red smear on his pale neck. Just a moment ago, he'd doubled over in the dining room, clutching his throat. Now he stood straight, color back in his cheeks, lips slightly flushed.

The other waitress, Lena, poked her head in. "Hey, we thought someone here needed help?."

Estelle ignored her, taking a step toward Andrea. "Just a minute ago, you were..."

"I'm fine now," Andrea cut in, voice smooth as silk. He straightened, flashing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Estelle swallowed. "Sorry for the inconvenience."

"That's fine." He pushed off the wall, brushing past her. His sleeve grazed her arm—ice cold. "If I ever come back to this place, just... no garlic in anything. Deal?"

Ema nodded quick. "Understood."

Estelle watched them, mouth dry. Ema avoided her gaze, stuffing the bloody towel in the trash. Andrea led the way out, Marko trailing like a shadow. They slipped through the swinging door into the bustle of the restaurant, clinking glasses, laughter from tourists, the sizzle of seafood on the grill.

Andre hit the cashier, slapped down cash for his bill—no card, no chit-chat—and walked out into the streets. The bell above the door jingled. Gone.

Estelle lingered by the sink, staring at the pink water stain. Ema's hand. Andrea's sudden recovery. Garlic allergy? Bullshit. Her skin prickled. She'd seen enough late shifts to know when something stank. But what?

Estelle’s Apartment

Lucas lay propped on pillows in the queen bed, golden hair tousled against the headboard. He was staring at Mila who was checking herself out in the mirror. His phone in his hand.

She climbed onto the bed, straddling his legs. "Why won't you just make love to me, Lucas?"

He set the phone aside, hands resting light on her hips. His chest rose slow. "I don't think you're ready, Mila."

She leaned in, breath warm on his neck. "Or you're the one not ready." Her fingers traced his collarbone, down to his wrist.

"It's fine." She sighed, shifting off him to sit cross-legged. "I'll be resuming in your school in two weeks. My uncle cleared the bills for a different university outside the states but I won’t be resuming there."

His face lit up. He pulled her into a hug, arms wrapping tight despite the ache in his ribs. "That's awesome. Uni will be good for you."

She hugged back, chin on his shoulder. The room smelled of chamomile tea and her vanilla lotion. "That's one reason I need you to get well. So we can resume together. I'm not going until you are."

Lucas pulled back, frowning. "Your uncle would get mad. He's footing the bills."

"I don't care." She bit her lip, eyes dropping to the quilt. "By the way... I have something to tell you about him."

He tilted his head, golden strands falling over one eye. "Go ahead."

She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. Uncle's face flashed—his grip too tight, the way he watched her. No. Lucas's health came first. Stress would spike his blood pressure.

"Never mind."

"You have to tell me now." He grinned, poking her knee.

She forced a laugh. "I don't like him."

"What?" He blinked.

"Yes." Lie, but better than truth. If she spilled about Uncle's creepy stares, Lucas would rage, end up in hospital again. "I don't like him. Knew it was coming, but yeah."

Lucas chuckled, shaking his head. "You're silly. That's not news. Everyone in Split knows you can’t stand him. He's gruff, always has been."

"Got to remind you, in case you forgot." She smirked, leaning closer.

"Come here." He tugged her arm. "I want to get to know you more."

“What would you like to know about me?”

She tumbled forward onto him, their bodies aligning on the soft mattress. His hands slid up her back, pulling her down. Lips met—soft at first, then deep, hungry. Tongues tangled, breaths syncing. Her fingers knotted in his hair, his heartbeat thumping steady under her palm. No rush, just them, the world outside fading.

Mila broke the kiss, forehead to his. "See? I'm ready."

He smiled, eyes half-lidded. "You sure are not ready for me yet"

They dove back in, lost in the heat. But in the quiet corners of her mind, Uncle Takov’s shadow lingered. She'd tell Lucas later. When he was stronger.