When I reached my apartment door that night, I remember pausing longer than necessary before unlocking it. Not because I'd forgotten my keys — but because my eyes kept drifting to the door beside mine. Hers. Closed. Quiet. Ordinary. It's strange how a simple door can hold the echo of a conversation, a laugh, a shared look across a balcony.
I caught myself smiling at nothing and shook it off almost immediately, like it was evidence of carelessness.
The lock clicked. I stepped inside.
The apartment felt heavier than usual — the kind of quiet that follows an overfull day. Sky had turned what should've been a straight trip home into what he proudly called "side quests," which mostly meant detours, commentary, and unsolicited social anthropology. By the time I dropped my bag, the clock had already betrayed how late it was.
I didn't trust myself to cook in that state. That decision — ironically — made things worse.
I pulled a premade container from the fridge and slid it into the microwave, pressing the buttons from muscle memory. While it hummed, I drifted toward the balcony like I always did when my thoughts felt crowded.
Night air has a way of reorganizing the mind. Or at least slowing it.
The breeze was cool and thin, carrying distant city noise softened by height and distance. Above, the stars fought through torn sheets of cloud, blinking in and out like signals. I leaned on the railing and replayed the day — not in order, but in emotional flashes. Classroom light. Camilla's voice. Sky's laughter. Bella's eyes.
"Hey there."
Her voice didn't startle me — and that's what startled me later when I thought back on it. As if some part of me had already been listening for her.
I turned. Isabella stood beyond the partition, outlined by her balcony light — relaxed posture, watchful eyes, presence without effort.
"Hey," I answered, softer than I intended.
"How was your first day?" she asked. "Embarrassing as hell?"
There was a playful edge to it, but also curiosity — real curiosity. Not performance. Not politeness.
"Not quite," I said. And I remember noticing that I didn't hesitate. "It was… weirdly fun. Actually amazing."
Her expression warmed — not dramatic, just genuine. "Good. That's rare."
Then she tilted her head slightly. "What's that smell?"
It took half a second — and then panic hit like a dropped glass.
I spun and ran inside. Smoke. Char. Ruin.
The container had transformed into a blackened monument to bad timing.
"Oh no," I muttered, staring at what used to be dinner.
"Need a hand?" she called — and before I could answer, she was already there, vaulting the partition with that effortless athletic grace she treated like normal movement. It should have looked dramatic. With her, it looked routine.
"It was dinner," I admitted, tossing the evidence into the trash. "Past tense."
She wrinkled her nose. "You actually eat those? That's criminal."
"So is trespassing," I said.
"You're welcome," she replied instantly — already tying her hair into a messy bun like she owned the kitchen.
And that's the part that stayed with me most when I wrote about it later: she didn't ask to help — she assumed she would. Not intrusive. Not dominant. Just… present. Like helping me was obvious.
We cooked side by side, and the memory of that rhythm is unnaturally clear. Knife against board. Oil warming. Steam rising. Small shoulder brushes that didn't feel accidental but didn't feel planned either. No performance. No idol treatment. No careful distance.
Just normal.
Bella didn't treat me like a symbol, a reputation, a danger, or a mystery. She treated me like a person standing next to her holding a knife badly.
"You're not half bad," she said.
"High praise," I answered.
"There's a lot you don't know about me," she added — smiling — and at the time it sounded playful.
Later, it sounded like a warning I'd mistaken for flirtation.
We ate together. The table set. Plates steaming. Warm light overhead. And I had the absurd, intrusive thought that this was what marriage must feel like — not romance, not passion — but shared quiet.
Before I could respond, the world tilted, and darkness embraced me.
I stirred awake with a dull ache throbbing at the edges of my skull. Blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the curtains, I realized I was in my bed. Confusion settled in as fragments of the previous night flickered in my mind—dinner with Bella, her mischievous smile, the faint, and… poison?
Before I could piece it together, the door creaked open, and Bella entered, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.
"Good morning, sunshine," she teased, her voice laced with amusement as she sauntered closer.
"What happened?" I croaked, my voice still groggy.
"You fainted," she said nonchalantly, setting the cup on the bedside table. "But don't worry—I took care of you."
"Why did you do that?" I asked, sitting up too quickly. I winced, pressing a hand to my head as the ache flared.
Bella perched on the edge of the bed beside me, her expression softening. "You know the kind of missions we get sent on, Marx. Your body needs to be ready for anything. That little 'spike' last night was just to give you a taste of what you might face out there. Better to build a tolerance now than to risk failure when it matters."
Her calm explanation dulled my frustration, though I still shot her a half-hearted glare. "A little warning would've been nice."
She chuckled, handing me the coffee. "Where's the fun in that?"
As I sipped the coffee, rich and just the right amount of bitter, Bella reached under the bed and pulled out a sleek, black suitcase. With a grin, she hoisted it up.
"Your suit came in," she said, her tone shifting to businesslike efficiency. "We've got a mission today. Details are incoming, so keep your contact lens active. Get ready."
She stood, brushing an errant strand of hair behind her ear as she made her way to the door. Just before stepping out, she turned, her gaze lingering on me for a fraction longer than necessary. "See you later, Marx."
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone with the faint scent of her lingering in the air. I sighed, setting the cup down, but my eyes drifted to the space where she'd sat moments ago. The imprint of her presence was vivid in my mind—her legs crossed casually, the way her thighs curved perfectly, effortlessly commanding attention.
I shook my head, banishing the thought. Focus, Marx. I drained the last of the coffee, letting its warmth center me, and glanced at the suitcase.
A mission today. Whatever it was, something told me it wouldn't be ordinary—not with Bella involved.