Chapter 12
708 Words
Chapter 12: "You Taste like Fire and Fear."
Feliz walked into the studio with a stiff spine and ice in her veins.
The sun was barely up, yet she’d already been awake for hours. She hadn’t slept. Not really. Her mind kept replaying the kiss—that kiss. Her fingers still tingled from grabbing his collar, her lips still burned from the way he kissed her back.
And then she’d run.
Coward.
She tossed her bag onto her workstation with more force than necessary.
The studio was quiet except for the faint hum of a machine and low chatter near the back. Some interns were already sketching by the mood boards. No Sly.
Good.
Her heart slowed just a little.
She could pretend. Reclaim control. Be the Feliz who didn’t kiss her teammates and definitely didn’t melt in their arms like a damn puddle.
Sly strolled in fifteen minutes later.
Like nothing happened.
Sly [grinning]
“Morning, sunshine.”
Feliz didn’t look up.
Feliz [flatly]
“Don’t call me that.”
He only chuckled, unbothered as ever, and dropped into his seat across from her like they hadn’t kissed like their lives depended on it last night.
She gritted her teeth. The audacity.
He started sketching something lazily, tapping his pencil rhythmically against the desk. She could feel his presence—like gravity pulling at her edges. And she hated it. Hated how aware she was of him now. The sound of his breathing. The scratch of his pencil. The way his knee bounced sometimes, almost like a nervous tell.
Feliz refused to look at him.
He, of course, didn’t seem to share her restraint.
Sly [casual]
“You didn’t run out on me this morning. I’m honored.”
She glanced up sharply.
Feliz [icy]
“I didn’t run. I left.”
Sly [teasing]
“Sure. Left like you were on fire.”
Her jaw clenched.
No. She would not let him get under her skin today.
Feliz [without emotion]
“I think it’s better if we just forget it happened.”
Sly blinked at that, just once, before he gave her a shrug so relaxed it infuriated her.
Sly [light]
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
She looked back down at her sketch, fists curling. How could he be so damn nonchalant? Like that kiss hadn’t meant anything?
She thought he’d push, question, at least acknowledge that something shifted between them. Instead, he was being cheeky. Light. Infuriating.
But later—when she snuck a glance his way—he wasn’t smiling.
He was watching her.
Quiet. Still.
And when their eyes met, he looked away so fast it hurt.
That brief flicker—unguarded and raw—hit her harder than anything he said all day.
Maybe he wasn’t as unaffected as he acted.
But he gave her no hints after that. Just jokes, sarcasm, and charm turned on like a mask. He joked with the interns. Helped someone with a pleating issue. Nodded at her like a colleague. Nothing more.
It made her stomach twist.
By late afternoon, she was worn thin from pretending. She stayed busy—pulling fabrics, tweaking her design board, hiding in the storage room longer than necessary.
She couldn’t shake the memory of his mouth, or the way his voice had cracked when he whispered her name.
And worst of all, she hated how part of her missed it.
She returned to her desk just as the studio buzz began to die down. Most of the team had clocked out. The light was low, golden hour bleeding in through the tall windows.
And that’s when she saw it.
A cup of her favorite iced coffee—exactly how she liked it—sat on her desk.
She frowned.
No note. No name. Just the coffee. Condensation dripping down the sides like it had just been placed there.
Her fingers hovered over the cup.
Then she noticed the small folded paper tucked underneath.
Slowly, she pulled it free, heart in her throat.
She unfolded it. Recognized the messy, slanted handwriting.
Just seven words.
"You taste like fire and fear."
She stared at it.
Stared and stared.
And then, for the first time all day, her hands began to tremble.
- Writer
