Ruined Beneath Him

Episode3

Orla sat on the edge of the bed, watching the door as though expecting him to return. Her coffee had gone cold in her hand, forgotten. Outside, the city thrummed with life—morning commuters, street vendors, the distant roar of traffic. But inside her apartment, time felt suspended.

Her phone buzzed before she could fully process her thoughts. She lifted it with trembling fingers. A text from an unknown number:

Orla.

Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at the single word flashing on the screen, a tether between what had been and what might be.

Orla, I keep seeing your face. I can’t get you out of my head. Coffee tonight?

She exhaled slowly, relief and anticipation warring in her chest. She typed back: Yes.

A flurry of activity followed—dressing, makeup, reinscribing her day with expectations she hadn’t dared to feel until now. She selected a simple black dress—the kind that whispered of elegance and mystery, leaving just enough to the imagination. She went through her routine of brushing her hair, smoothing the fabric over her curves, and stepping into heels that made her feel taller, stronger, ready.

The afternoon dragged as though time had decided to punish her. Each minute stretched into an eternity. She caught herself glancing at her phone every few minutes, her pulse quickening when it remained silent. But when the clock neared six, her phone buzzed again:

Meet me at The Firelight Café at 7? I’ll be the one waiting.

Orla’s chest fluttered. The Firelight was a cozy spot known for its fire pits on the patio, secluded tables, and a menu of rich dark chocolates served alongside coffee. It felt intimate—exactly the kind of place where confessions happened.

She arrived early, the autumn evening air crisp against her skin. Golden leaves drifted along the sidewalk, swirling like embers from a dying fire. The café’s sign glowed warmly against the darkening sky. Inside, she found a table on the patio near a low-burning fire pit. A small stack of logs crackled, sending flickers of light across her face.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to quiet the anticipation. At exactly seven, she heard his voice before she saw him—a low timbre that made her heart stutter. She looked up. There he was: Stanley, dressed in dark denim jeans and a black leather jacket. His hair was slightly damp from the misty evening air. The moment he caught her gaze, his lips curved into that same crooked smile she’d memorized.

He sat across from her. For a moment, they simply studied each other, the fire between them mirrored in the flickering flames before them.

“Orla,” he said, voice husky, as though the word itself held the weight of a confession. “You look… incredible.”

She smiled, a warmth spreading through her. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

They ordered coffee—strong, black, the flavor like liquid midnight—and allowed themselves to settle into the quiet space between them. The café bustled inside, but the patio felt secluded, tucked away from prying eyes. The fire pit’s glow painted Stanley’s features in warm amber, accentuating the planes of his face, the intensity in his eyes.

They started talking as though resuming a conversation left unfinished. He told her about work: a consulting project that required him to travel to Buenos Aires and Singapore in the coming weeks. She told him about her plans: a marketing pitch she was working on, family obligations, and a relentless drive to carve out a meaningful life for herself. The deeper they delved, the more she realized how little she truly knew about him. Each revelation was a small fleck of light in a darkness she was desperate to explore.

At one point, a cold breeze swept across the patio, and Stanley draped his jacket over her shoulders. She leaned into him, savoring the warmth he offered. He watched her, that fierce protectiveness stirring inside his gaze.

“Orla,” he said, voice low, “I need to be honest. I didn’t plan on seeing you again. This was supposed to be something I walked away from.”

Her pulse hammered. “And now?”

He hesitated, eyes searching hers as if seeking permission to speak. “Now… I can’t walk away. I don’t want to.”

Heat pooled beneath her ribs. She met his gaze, feeling vulnerable and exhilarated. “I don’t want you to walk away either.”

They leaned across the table, fingers brushing. Words became unnecessary as their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss. The flames in the pit flared, casting flickers of light over their entangled silhouettes.

Later, Orla would replay that moment endlessly in her mind: the taste of coffee on his lips, the gentle sweep of his arm around her waist, the way he exhaled her name as though it was a benediction. She felt tethered to him in ways she couldn’t explain, drawn by an invisible force that was equal parts seduction and solace.

When they finally parted that night, Stanley walked her to her door. The hallway was dimly lit, the carpet soft underfoot. He paused, turning toward her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“Orla,” he said, voice thick. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Her heart thudded. She braced herself, though the words that came were nothing she expected.

“I’m not exactly… free,” he confessed, gaze dropping to his feet. “I have someone else.”

Her chest constricted. “Someone else?”

He looked up, anguish flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t plan on it. It was a mistake—a relationship I let slip into because I was… broken, and I didn’t know how to be alone. But since I met you, I can’t think about her the way I used to. You changed that.”

Orla’s head spun. The world around her stuttered, her mind racing. “So… you’re still seeing her?”

Stanley exhaled slowly. “I have to figure out how to end it. But I wanted you to know, because you deserve the truth.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, trying to steady herself. “This complicates things,” she whispered, the ache in her voice laid bare.

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “And I’m sorry. More than you can imagine. But I’ll fix it. I want you, Orla. Only you.”

Tears pricked her eyes, a swirl of anger, betrayal, and something else she couldn’t name. The flames in the pit flickered, mirroring the turmoil in her heart. She fought for composure.

“Stanley,” she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her limbs. “I can’t be someone’s second choice. I won’t.”

He reached out, gently cupping her face. “You’re not my second choice,” he insisted. “You’re the only choice I want.”

She pulled away, uncertain. “Then prove it.”

Their gazes locked in a fierce standstill—two people bound by urgent desire and complicated truths. The hallway felt impossibly small, suffocating under the weight of what was said and unsaid.

Stanley ran a hand through his hair, frustration etching his features. “I will. I promise.”

Orla nodded, though trust felt fragile—as if it might shatter with the slightest pressure. “I’m holding you to that.”

He pressed a final, lingering kiss to her forehead and slipped away into the darkness. Orla watched him go, her heart pounding as though it threatened to break free from her chest. Once the door clicked shut, she pressed her back against it, sliding to the floor as tears slipped down her cheeks.

The city outside hummed indifferently, but inside, her world had shifted. She’d surrendered to a night of passion and honesty, only to discover that desire carried consequences she hadn’t anticipated.

She stayed there for minutes that stretched into eternity. Then she forced herself to rise, wiping her cheeks and slipping into a fresh blouse. She needed to sort her tangled emotions before she could sleep. In the quiet solitude of her apartment, she replayed every moment—the heat of his body, the softness of his whispers, the cracks in his façade.

She thought of his confession: “I have someone else.” Those words haunted her. Could she be patient enough to wait for him to untangle himself from his past? Could she risk her heart on a promise that felt as delicate and uncertain as a spider’s web?

Finally, she sank onto the edge of her couch and buried her face in her hands. Her breath came in ragged sobs—part relief that he’d told her the truth, part fear that love might demand too high a price.

And yet, beneath the turmoil, a spark of hope glowed. She wanted to believe in him, to trust his promise. Somewhere deep within, she felt certain that this one night had been more than a fleeting moment. It was the beginning of something that could consume them both, if they dared to let it.

She closed her eyes, imagining Stanley’s face, the ghost of his kiss against her skin. A single thought settled in her mind, clear and unwavering: She would see him again.

Because despite everything—the lies, the secrets, the danger—she couldn’t walk away. Not now. Not ever.