Chapter 9: Framed in Sage
1951 Words
Elara Dwijaya
The turmeric-spiced fish flaked apart at the slightest touch of my fork.
Steam curled up from the plate, carrying the rich, savory aroma of grilled gourami and the sharp, pungent kick of the shrimp paste sambal. It was a sensory assault in the best possible way—a far cry from the bland, silent meals that usually took place at the Dwijaya dining table.
Here, the air was thick with the smell of spices and the sound of life.
"And then, I gave the nuggets Daddy made to Gafa and the others, Ms. Ela!"
Lyra was recounting her day with the animated enthusiasm only a seven-year-old could muster. Her spoon danced in the air, emphasizing her story, while a smear of orange sauce clung stubbornly to the corner of her mouth.
"That was very kind of you, Lyra. Sharing is important," I said, reaching for the wooden tissue box in the center of the table.
Instinct took over before my brain could catch up.
Leaning forward, the tissue in my hand moved to her face. My thumb brushed against her soft cheek as I gently wiped away the sauce.
"Hold still, sweetie."
Lyra froze mid-sentence, her large gray eyes blinking up at me. She didn't pull away. She just leaned into the touch, accepting the care with a natural ease that made something in my chest ache.
Once clean, the energy returned to her limbs instantly. She scrambled down from the high dining chair, her feet hitting the floor with a soft thud.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Her house slippers slapped against the polished wood as she circled the table. A small, warm hand grabbed mine, tugging with surprising strength.
"Ms. Ela! Come see my room! I have a doll castle!"
My fork hovered halfway to my mouth. Going upstairs was one thing; entering the private bedroom of a student—and her single father—felt like crossing an invisible boundary. My gaze shifted to Dio, who was stacking the dirty plates with the efficiency of someone who had worked in kitchens his whole life.
"If you aren't in a rush, would you mind?" Dio asked, his tone polite but his eyes soft.
"She rarely has guests she can show off to."
I set my fork down.
"I’m free until late afternoon. It would be my pleasure."
"Thank you, Elara."
Permission granted. I stood up, leaving my structured work bag on the dining chair.
Lyra didn't wait. She towed me down a short hallway toward a set of double doors painted a creamy ivory.
As we approached, my eyes narrowed.
The doors weren't standard developer-grade hollow wood. They were solid timber, heavy and imposing. The handle under Lyra’s hand was brushed nickel, cool to the touch and unmistakably high-end.
Lyra pushed.
Click.
The mechanism disengaged with a whisper. No squeak. No rattle. Just the smooth, hydraulic resistance of expensive engineering.
I stepped through, and my internal calculator started ticking.
The hallway opened into a secondary living space, more intimate than the one downstairs. A diffuser puffed rhythmic clouds of lavender scent into the air. But it was the details that caught me off guard.
"This is my room! Tadaaa!"
Lyra dragged me toward a pastel door at the end of the hall.
We stepped inside.
The walls were painted a calming shade of sage green. It wasn't cluttered or chaotic. Every toy had a home; every book was aligned.
But the teacher in me took a backseat to the daughter of a former tycoon.
My hand brushed the edge of the study desk. It was custom joinery. The wood was smooth, the corners rounded for safety, the finish flawless. The built-in wardrobe wasn't from IKEA; it was bespoke, fitted perfectly into the alcove.
I glanced at the bed frame. Solid white oak.
The math didn't add up.
Downstairs, Dio drove a scratched LCGC car that rattled when it hit a speed bump. He ran a coffee shop that, while popular, shouldn't yield this kind of disposable income. The interior of this floor rivaled the suites at the Kempinski.
Who are you, really, Dio Atmanta?
"Ms. Ela! Look at Bobo!"
The mystery was shoved aside by a giant brown teddy bear being thrust into my face.
"Whoa!" I laughed, crouching down to eye-level.
"He’s huge. Does he have a name?"
"Bobo! Daddy bought him for my birthday!"
I settled onto the plush rug, listening as Lyra launched into an epic saga about Bobo’s adventures in the land of missing socks.
Knock. Knock.
The sound was soft, polite.
I turned my head.
Dio stood in the doorway. The apron was gone, leaving him in a simple grey t-shirt that clung to his shoulders. In his hands, he balanced a small wooden tray holding two glass bowls.
Vapor curled off the top. Homemade ice cream, topped with fresh berries and a sprig of mint.
"Ice cream!" Lyra shrieked, tossing Bobo onto the bed as if he meant nothing to her anymore.
Dio stepped into the room, bypassing the excited child to hand the first bowl to me.
"A special treat. Payment for listening to Lyra’s rambling," he said, a crooked smile playing on his lips.
"Thank you. It looks incredible."
"Don't thank me yet. Taste it."
He crouched down next to Lyra, handing her the second bowl. His large hand smoothed her bangs back, tucking the hair behind her ear with a tenderness that seemed to be his default setting.
"Slowly," he warned.
"Or you'll get a brain freeze."
I took a spoonful.
The texture was velvety, the sweetness balanced perfectly by the tart explosion of the berries. It was complex. Sophisticated. Definitely not from a tub.
As I ate, I watched them.
Dio sat on the floor, legs crossed, watching his daughter eat with a look of absolute, undivided attention. His phone was nowhere in sight. He wasn't checking emails or looking for an exit. He was just... present.
A warmth that had nothing to do with the room temperature spread through my chest. He was a walking contradiction. Simple but refined. Stoic but affectionate.
Clink.
Lyra set her empty bowl on the floor. Her eyes lit up with a sudden, dangerous idea.
"Daddy! I want a photo with Ms. Ela!"
She held out her sticky hand, demanding his phone.
Dio blinked, clearly caught off guard. He looked at me, an apologetic grimace tightening his jaw.
"Ah... sorry, Elara. Once she gets an idea in her head..."
"It’s fine," I said quickly, wiping my mouth with a napkin.
"I don't mind."
Relief washed over his face. He dug into his jeans pocket, pulling out a sleek, matte-black smartphone.
"Okay. Just one," he negotiated, opening the camera app.
He aimed the lens at Lyra and me. I leaned in close to Lyra, putting on my best 'Teacher Smile'.
But just as his thumb hovered over the shutter button, Lyra stood up.
"No! Three of us! Daddy too!"
My spoon froze halfway to the tray.
Dio stiffened.
"Th... three of us?"
"Yes! Come here!"
She didn't wait for consent. She grabbed his neck, pulling his head down, and simultaneously yanked my arm.
Suddenly, the world shrank.
I was wedged on the right. Dio was pulled down on the left. Lyra was the anchor in the middle.
Heat radiated from his arm where it pressed against my shoulder. The scent of him—citrus, coffee, and clean laundry—filled my nose, overpowering the lavender diffuser.
"Is... is this okay?" Dio asked, his voice rougher than usual.
"S-sure," I stammered, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Dio cleared his throat. He extended his arm, struggling to find an angle that fit all three of us in the frame.
"Ready... one... two..."
On two, Lyra made her move.
Her small arms hooked around our necks, and with a strength born of pure joy, she yanked our heads together.
Thud.
My cheek collided with Lyra’s soft skin. On the other side, I saw Dio’s cheek press against hers.
We were a sandwich. A tight, intimate, impossible sandwich.
For a split second, I looked at the screen. The three of us. My face flushed, Lyra beaming, and Dio... looking at the camera with a softness that terrified me.
Click.
The flash fired.
The moment the shutter sound faded, reality crashed back in.
Dio and I recoiled simultaneously, pulling away as if we had been burned.
"Yay! Perfect!" Lyra cheered, oblivious to the fact that the two adults in the room were currently hyperventilating.
She snatched the phone from his hand.
"Daddy, print this! I want to put it in my diary!"
"R-right. I'll print it later," Dio mumbled. He was rubbing the back of his neck aggressively, his gaze fixed firmly on the carpet.
He didn't look at me.
I couldn't look at him either. My hand hovered near my cheek, the ghost of the warmth still lingering there.
Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to acknowledge the electricity that had just short-circuited the room. We both let out a short, awkward laugh.
"Ahem." Dio stood up abruptly, reclaiming his phone from Lyra.
"Elara... I’m going to head downstairs. Need to check the inventory. Please, finish your ice cream."
An excuse. A blatant, panic-induced excuse.
"Of course. Go ahead," I whispered.
He turned on his heel and walked out. His exit was hasty, the heavy door clicking shut behind him a little too quickly.
Silence rushed back into the room, but the tension remained, thick and heavy.
I let out a long, shaky exhale.
A smile—stupid, giddy, and completely unprofessional—tugged at the corners of my lips. My stomach felt like it was full of helium balloons.
"Was the ice cream good?" I asked Lyra, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
"The best!"
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
My phone, abandoned on the rug, vibrated.
I picked it up. A notification flashed on the screen.
Dio Atmanta (Parent)
[Image Sent]
My pulse spiked. I tapped the notification.
The photo filled the screen.
There we were. Me, wide-eyed and blushing. Dio, looking flustered but undeniably handsome. And Lyra in the middle, the happiest bridge between two lonely islands.
It looked... real. It looked like a family.
A text bubble popped up underneath.
Dio Atmanta:
Thanks for humoring her, Ms. Ela. Sorry if that was too much.
I bit my lip, typing back before I could overthink it.
Me:
Don't apologize. It’s a great photo. She looks happy.
Dio Atmanta:
You’re welcome.
I was about to lock the screen when the phone convulsed in my hand. A long, aggressive vibration.
Saskia Putri:
WHERE ARE YOU, ELA?!
LOOK AT THE TIME!
DON'T TELL ME YOU'VE BEEN kidn*pped BY THE HOT WIDOWER?!
A laugh bubbled up from my throat, shattering the quiet. I could practically hear Saskia’s screeching voice through the text.
I started to type a reply explaining I was still at the cafe. Then, a devilish thought crossed my mind.
I tapped the photo Dio had just sent.
Forward.
Recipient: Saskia Putri.
Send.
I waited. One second. Two seconds.
DING! DING! DING! DING!
My phone exploded.
Saskia Putri:
HOLY MOTHER OF...!!!
WHAT IS THIS?!
IS THIS A FAMILY PORTRAIT FROM THE FUTURE?!
YOUR CHEEKS ARE TOUCHING!!!
ANSWER ME OR I AM COMING THERE RIGHT NOW!!!
I laughed so hard I had to clutch my stomach.
Lyra leaned over, her curiosity piqued by my hysterics.
"Why is Ms. Ela laughing?"
She peeked at the screen.
"Wow! The photo!" she clapped her hands.
"Save it, okay? Don't delete it!"
"I won't," I promised, pressing the save button with a thumb that was still trembling slightly.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
- Writer
