They didn't speak after the kiss.
Akon drove her home through the sleeping streets of , the headlights cutting clean lines through the dark. Sharon watched the city pass like a dream she wasn't sure she wanted to wake from. His presence beside her was heavy—felt more than seen.
When the car stopped outside her building, he turned to her once, as if to say something that might change everything.
Instead, he only said, "Goodnight, Sharon."
She nodded. "Goodnight."
She went inside without looking back.
That night became a fracture.
For a month, Sharon disappeared from him.
She ignored his calls. Let his messages go unread until the notifications blurred into silence. Every time her phone lit up with his name, something twisted painfully in her chest—but she didn't answer. Fear disguised itself as discipline. Distance as control.
At night, she dreamed of him anyway.
Of the way his hands had held her like a promise he didn't know how to keep. Of his mouth at her ear, his breath heavy with truths he hadn't said aloud. She woke with her pulse racing, guilt and longing tangled in her sheets.
A month later, her phone rang.
"Amy?" Sharon said, surprised.
"Yes," said , her voice warm and urgent. "I'm coming back to Italy. Tomorrow."
Sharon sat up. "Tomorrow?"
"I want you to come with Akon to pick me up."
Her stomach tightened instantly. "Amy… I don't think that's a good idea."
There was a pause on the line—then a softer tone. "Please," Amy said. "For me. I'll explain everything soon, I promise. Just… come."
Sharon closed her eyes.
She didn't want to see him.
She needed to see him.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll come."
The next morning, she stood before her wardrobe longer than necessary, fingers trembling as they brushed against fabric and memory. Then she saw it.
The dress.
White. Simple. The one she had worn the first day Akon had seen her—years ago, unknowingly. The dress that carried ghosts and beginnings in its seams.
She put it on.
When Akon arrived, he was already waiting by the car, jaw tight, eyes darker than she remembered. The moment he saw her, something broke in his expression—control slipping, just for a second.
"You look…" He stopped himself. "You look the same."
"And you don't," she replied softly.
The drive was quiet, thick with things unsaid. When the car stopped briefly at a red light, Akon turned to her.
"You disappeared," he said. Not accusation. Fact.
"I needed space."
"Did it help?"
She didn't answer.
He reached out then—slowly, giving her time to pull away—and cupped her face. His thumb brushed her cheek like he'd been starving for the right. Sharon's breath caught.
"I don't touch what doesn't want me," he murmured. "Tell me to stop."
She didn't.
Their mouths met again, this time desperate, restrained only by the car door and the weight of what waited ahead. It wasn't tender. It was hunger wrapped in restraint—dark, aching, unfinished.
When they pulled apart, foreheads touching, Akon exhaled shakily. "You're killing me," he said softly.
"Then don't wait for me," she whispered back.
He smiled, sharp and sad. "Too late."
As they drove on toward the airport, Sharon stared ahead, heart pounding, knowing one thing with terrifying certainty:
Silence had not saved her.
It had only made what bound them deeper—and far more dangerous.