10
1218 Words
Sophia ’s POV
My eyes flutter open, and the soft rays of the setting sun caress my skin. I rub my eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, but it’s no use. The memories of yesterday—of everything that happened—flood back in waves. The argument, the tension, the confusing mess of emotions between Dante and me. I sigh, dragging my hand across my face, trying to piece together the fragments of what has already become a chaotic new reality.
I glance around the room, my eyes landing on the open curtains. Wait… did Dante open them? I’m pretty sure I closed them last night. Confused, I roll out of bed and shuffle toward the door. I’m starving, and my stomach growls, echoing the hunger that’s been gnawing at me since I woke up. It’s almost comical how I feel as though I could devour a horse right now.
The door is still locked. I unlock it with a soft click, then step into the hallway, blinking sleep out of my eyes. My feet make soft padding sounds against the hardwood as I head toward the kitchen. The aroma of the coffee in the air makes my stomach rumble louder.
But then, I freeze.
In the living room, I spot Dante—sprawled out on the floor, blanket tangled around his legs. His long, muscular frame looks strange on the floor. Did he fall off the couch? Or did he choose to sleep there?
A small laugh escapes my lips as I take in the sight of him. He looks ridiculous, like a lion that got tangled in its own mane.
I know I should let him sleep. He’s probably exhausted. But then I think about the silence in the house, how empty it feels, and I make a decision. He’s not getting away from this one.
I walk over to him, my feet dragging across the floor. I reach out and tap him lightly on the shoulder, hoping it’ll wake him.
No response.
I bend down a bit closer, trying again, but still nothing.
My frustration mounts. What is it with this guy? Does he not wake up for anything?
So, in a moment of sheer laziness—and maybe a little vindictive pleasure—I raise my leg and give him a gentle shove. Just enough to make him stir.
His eyes snap open, and I watch in amusement as he jumps up with a startled yell, his eyes scanning the room wildly like some kind of wild animal searching for danger. I’m still standing there with my hands on my hips, waiting for him to realize who disturbed his precious sleep.
His eyes finally meet mine, and I can see the fury rising in them.
“Did you just hit me?” he growls, his voice still thick with sleep, but I can hear the irritation lurking underneath.
I tilt my head innocently. “No, I was waking you up for work.”
He doesn’t buy it. In fact, he scoffs and tosses the blanket off him. “Waking me up? By kicking me with your damn legs?”
I glance down at my legs, offended. “Well, I wasn’t going to just tap you on the shoulder again. It’s not like you were waking up normally.”
He rubs his forehead, clearly annoyed. “So, instead, you use your stupid legs like some kind of weapon?”
I blink in disbelief. This man is seriously impossible. I didn’t even do anything wrong!
“Look,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest, “I just wanted to wake you up so you wouldn’t be late for work.”
He narrows his eyes, as if contemplating whether or not to explode. “Shut the hell up.” His voice is low, sharp, and he points a finger in warning at me, teeth gritted in annoyance. “You’re testing my patience.”
I feel my chest tighten. This is insane. But I stand my ground, even as he brushes past me and storms into the bedroom, no doubt to take a moment to cool off—or plot my demise.
I let out a frustrated breath and walk into the kitchen. I don’t know why I even bother. I really don’t.
But something inside me wants to make things right, even though I’m not entirely sure what I did wrong. So, I make breakfast. For both of us.
Sunny-side up eggs, toast, a fresh pot of coffee. I move quickly, my movements automatic. The smell fills the kitchen as the food comes together, and I feel a strange sense of accomplishment. Maybe it’s because I’m trying to do something nice for him, even though he doesn’t deserve it.
The sound of the shower running pulls me out of my thoughts, but by the time I’ve finished setting the table, he’s out of the shower, dressed in a suit that looks like it’s been pulled from a wardrobe that never stops delivering perfection. His briefcase hangs loosely in one hand as he adjusts his collar, the sharp lines of his suit only making him look more like an arrogant god than a man who would ever need someone like me.
Without sparing me a second glance, he sets the briefcase on the couch, buttons up his shirt, then moves toward the door. I can’t let him leave like this. Not without eating something. Not after everything that happened.
I rush toward him, blocking his exit with my arms spread wide.
“Hey,” I say, my voice firm but desperate. “I made you breakfast.”
He glances at the table, then back at me, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.
“You want me to eat this?” he asks, voice dripping with scorn. “What, are you trying to poison me now?”
I feel my heart drop into my stomach. His words hit harder than I expected.
“What?!” I can’t even process the accusation. “How could you say that?”
“Because,” he continues, his voice growing colder with every syllable, “it’s clear what you’re trying to do. Just leave me alone, Sophia . I don’t have time for your games.”
And just like that, my attempt at kindness shatters into a thousand pieces. The hurt lingers in my chest, deep and raw.
Why do I even bother?
I step aside, feeling completely defeated. He walks out without another word, leaving me standing there, my arms hanging limp at my sides.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the door he just walked through, my mind spinning. The tension between us is suffocating.
As I turn to walk back into the room, the sudden ringing of my phone jolts me from my thoughts.
I rush to grab it, heart pounding, expecting to see a text from my mom, or maybe even from my dad. But when I see the name flash across the screen, my breath catches in my throat.
Liam .
The name alone sends a jolt of electricity through my body. And before I even realize it, my fingers are already pressing ‘Accept.’
I brace myself for the conversation to come, knowing it will either make or break me.
- Writer
