Chapter 6: MIDNIGHT CONFESSION
1201 Words
Pedro Valdez stormed out of The Oyster Bar, Emily Carter’s shrill laughter echoing behind him. After his very well-understood tantrums with Izzy at Morales Matches that day, he had gone back to the bar to clear his head. And now, he's done and wants to leave. Rain lashed at his face as he hailed a taxi, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The date had been a circus—Emily’s t****k antics, her neon-pink blazer, the way she’d smothered lobster in ketchup like a child. Izzy’s words haunted him: “You’re allergic to vulnerability.” He’d tried. God, he had tried to play the part, to follow her lessons. But each date had chipped away at his resolve, leaving him raw and restless.
The taxi driver eyed him in the rearview mirror. “Where to, boss?”
Pedro hesitated. Home? His penthouse loomed in his mind—sterile, silent, a tomb for his failures. Instead, his thumb hovered over his phone. Izzy’s text from days ago glared back: “8 a.m. Don’t be late.”
He typed an address he’d memorized weeks ago, “Brooklyn. Union Street.” And showed the driver.
It was Izzy's house.
The first true spark they, Pedro and Izzy, felt was days ago after the first date with Camilia; or rather midnights ago.
The memory of Camila’s polished nails tapping impatiently on the table still grated him. Pedro had left Le Pavillon that night with a hollow ache, a restlessness he couldn’t name. This was after the dinner, the date was over. He was at home. He still couldn't comprehend the unease he felt. He’d driven aimlessly from his penthouse until he found himself outside Izzy’s brownstone, the lights in her living room still glowing. “8 a.m. Don’t be late” was what drove this ride. That text was the ginger behind this movement of his.
He’d knocked, half-hoping she wouldn’t answer.
Izzy opened the door in a faded NYU sweatshirt, her hair loose and tangled. “¿Qué diablos haces aquí? (What are you doing here?) It’s midnight.”
“You said not to be late for our sessions,” he replied, stepping inside without invitation. The warmth of her home—the scent of lavender detergent and burnt toast—unsettled him.
She’d crossed her arms, her eyes flashing. “This isn’t a session. Get out.”
But he’d pressed closer, his voice low. “You want me to learn about intimacy? Then teach me. Show me.”
Her breath hitched, her defiance wavering, her defence broken. For a heartbeat, he thought she’d yield—that she’d let him close the gap between them. But Sofia’s voice had cut through the tension: “Mamá? Estás bien?” (Mom? Are you okay?)
Izzy had shoved him back, her whisper fierce. “Vete. Ahora.” (Leave. Now.)
He left, disappointed that night, but the ghost of her nearness lingered. And he hoped his lingered around her too.
This time around, he hoped it would be so different. He not only hoped, he knew. He had a really strong feeling something would go down. It was the breaking point, his breaking point.
Today, he came. The taxi stopped outside Izzy’s brownstone. Rain soaked through Pedro’s coat as he strode to her door, his knuckles rapping sharply. He'd hoped to apologise for his outburst in the afternoon
Inside, Izzy froze, her teacup halfway to her lips. Carlos? Her stomach dropped. But the knock came again—insistent, commanding.
She opened the door, and there he stood: Pedro Valdez, drenched and disheveled, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t name.
“¿Otra vez?” (Again?) , she hissed. “Do you enjoy terrorizing me at midnight?”
He stepped inside, rainwater pooling at his feet. “You said I needed to "learn". So teach me.”
Izzy backed into the living room, her pulse racing. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m sober.” He advanced, his voice rough. “Sober enough to know this—whatever this is—isn’t about your damn lessons.”
She bumped into the bookshelf, ancient paperbacks digging into her spine. “Pedro—”
“You feel it too.” He caged her in, one hand braced against the shelf. “The pull, the need, the yearning.”
His breath warmed her neck, and she hated how her body betrayed her—how her fingers curled into his soaked shirt, how her lips parted as he leaned closer.
“Para,” she whispered, but the word lacked conviction.
“No.” His thumb brushed her jaw, igniting a trail of fire. “Not this time.”
Their lips met—fierce, desperate, a collision of pent-up frustration and longing. Izzy’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he pressed her against the shelf, the world narrowing to the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the way he murmured her name like a prayer.
A floorboard creaked upstairs.
They broke apart, gasping. Sofia stood on the staircase, her sketchbook clutched to her chest, her eyes wide.
“Mamá…?”
Izzy shoved Pedro back, her voice trembling. “S-Sofi, vuelve a la cama. Ahora.” (Go back to bed. Now.)
Sofia retreated, her footsteps fading.
Pedro raked a hand through his hair, his chest heaving. “I didn’t know she was here.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Izzy hugged herself, her voice brittle. “Because you don’t think. You just take.”
He flinched. For a moment, the mask slipped—revealing not the billionaire, but the boy who’d lost his father, who’d built walls to survive. “I’m… tired, Izzy. Tired of pretending.”
She turned away, her reflection fractured in the rain-streaked window. “You need to leave.”
He left without a word, the door clicking shut behind him.
Izzy sank onto the sofa, her fingers tracing her swollen lips. The kiss replayed in her mind—a dangerous spark that threatened to consume her. She thought of the first time he’d shown up, the way he’d cornered her with questions she couldn’t answer. “Teach me,” he’d demanded, and she’d foolishly believed she could control the fire.
Now, with three failed dates behind them and Sofia caught in the crossfire, the lines had blurred beyond repair.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Sofia: “¿Quién era él?” (Who was he?)
Izzy closed her eyes. Who was he? A client. A mistake. A man who’d unraveled her carefully constructed world with a single touch.
She typed back: “Nadie importante. (Not important.) Go to sleep.”
But as dawn crept through the curtains, Izzy knew the truth: Pedro Valdez was anything but "nadie"
Pedro stared out the taxi window on his drive home, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold. His phone lit up with a notification—a calendar reminder for tomorrow’s session. "8 a.m. Morales Matches."
He dismissed it, his thumb hovering over Izzy’s contact. The kiss haunted him, a phantom warmth he couldn’t shake. He’d crossed a line, and yet…
He typed: “I’m not sorry” and sent it to Izzy.
- Writer
