THE NEXT DAY
Giana stepped out of the hotel elevator the next morning, adjusting the strap of her bag as she headed toward the reception.
She planned to explore the city alone—no expectations, no distractions.
Then she froze.
Because standing near the front desk, talking to the receptionist like he owned the place, was a very familiar figure. Tall. Calm. Impossibly composed.
Alex.
As if sensing her stare, he turned.
Their eyes locked. For a split second, neither moved.
Then his lips curved into a slow, unmistakable smile. "Well," he said, walking toward her, "isn't that my wife?" he teased.
Her heart skipped.
And just like that, she knew— this wasn't a coincidence.
Alex's smile widened as he walked toward Giana, who was standing there, slightly frozen, unsure if she should believe her eyes.
Giana had no idea that Alex had already planned to be at this hotel today, hoping she would be here. He acted casual, letting it seem like pure coincidence.
"Hey, wifey," he said lightly.
Her lips parted, then curved into a laugh.
"What are the odds?"
"Dangerously high, apparently." She gestured around.
"This is the hotel I'm staying at."
"Really?" His brow lifted.
"I have a meeting here. A client flew in this morning."
"So you're working," she said, mock disappointment flickering across her face.
"For now," he replied, eyes lingering on her.
"What about you? Going somewhere?"
"I was just going to explore the city," she said.
"No plan. Just walking."
He tilted his head, studying her.
"Do you know where you're going?"
She shrugged. "Not really."
A slow smile spread across his face.
"That sounds dangerous."
She laughed.
"Are you offering to save me again?"
"Always," he said smoothly with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Let's just say… husband duties call."
She raised a brow, amused.
"Husband duties?"
He leaned closer, voice low and teasing.
"Taking care of the damsel in distress—again."
She laughed, shaking her head.
"I see."
Then he straightened.
"I have to meet this client," he said.
"If you can wait for me… just a little while, I'll come back and be your personal tour guide."
"And if I say no?"
He leaned in slightly.
"Then I'll do my best to convince you."
She pretended to think about it.
"Fine. I'll wait."
"Good," he said.
"Don't disappear."
"I won't."
Alex sat across from his client barely ten minutes later, but his mind wasn't there.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly.
"Something urgent just came up. Would it be possible to reschedule?"
The client studied him. Then smiled.
"Love emergency?"
Alex didn't deny it.
"Something like that."
"Fine," the client said.
"Let's meet some other time."
"Thank you, and I'm sorry."
Alex didn't waste another second.
When he returned to the lobby, Giana looked up—and smiled.
"That was fast."
"The client moved the meeting," he said smoothly.
She laughed.
"Lucky me."
The day went by really fast.
They walked. Talked. Laughed.
He showed her hidden streets, quiet cafés, places tourists didn't know.
He teased her. She teased him back.
They stole glances when the other wasn't looking—and caught each other doing it.
Time slipped.
The sun dipped low, painting the sky in soft golds and pinks as they stood by the beach.
"Do you travel a lot?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"This is my first vacation."
"Really?"
"My friends forced me." "After…she admitted. Then hesitated.
"After what?" he asked gently.
She looked at the waves.
"I'll tell you… because we might not see each other after today."
He didn't interrupt.
She told him everything—losing her job, discovering her fiancé's betrayal, how the position she worked for went to him.
"He's a jerk," Alex said firmly.
She laughed.
"That's the nicest thing anyone's said about him."
He smiled—just for her.
They didn't realize how late it was until her phone alarm rang.
12:00 AM.
She stared at the screen, then laughed.
"What?" he asked.
"It's my birthday."
He stopped walking.
"You didn't tell me?"
"I just realized."
"Well," he said, pulling out his phone, "that won't do."
He played a birthday tune and sang—terribly on purpose.
She laughed so hard she had to stop walking.
"You have a nice voice," she said between laughs.
"I know," he said proudly.
Then he took her hand.
"Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
They ran, laughing, until they reached a street food stall glowing in the quiet night.
He bought food, blew on it gently, and held it up to her lips.
She stared at him.
"You're feeding me?"
"It's your birthday. Let's just assume that this is a birthday cake"
She took a bite—and smiled.
"There's something—" he said, reaching out to wipe sauce from the corner of her mouth with his thumb.
Her breath hitched.
Their eyes locked.
"How is it?" he asked softly.
"Perfect," she said.
He walked her back to the hotel.
Their hands brushed. Again. Again. Each touch lingered just a second too long, sending a strange warmth up their arms. Neither spoke, but the silence between them felt heavy, fragile, like it could shatter with a single word.
At her door, they stopped. She looked up at him, unsure, heart hammering.
"Thank you for today," she said quietly, her voice carrying more weight than she intended.
"No," he replied, his tone low, measured. "Thank you."
"Thank you?" she echoed, a small, nervous laugh escaping her.
He gave a brief, almost shy smile. "For letting me… be here."
Her chest tightened. She wanted to say something else, but the words stuck.
She turned toward her door.
He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek—soft, grounding, and somehow electrifying.
She froze for a moment, then exhaled, a mix of relief and tension leaving her shoulders.
"Can you come to my place tomorrow?" he asked quietly, almost vulnerable.
She, hesitated then nodded, unable to hide the flutter in her chest.
They stood there for a heartbeat longer, their eyes meeting, shy, awkward, undone. And in that fragile moment, neither of them wanted to step away.
That night, Giana lay in bed, her feet kicking lightly against the sheets as a quiet giggle escaped her lips. She couldn't stop replaying the day—the teasing, the glances, the warmth of his hand brushing against hers. Even imagining Alex returning to his suite made her smile, the memory of him lingering like a soft echo she couldn't shake.
Alex had never cooked like this before.
The kitchen smelled unfamiliar—garlic sizzling in hot oil, herbs warming in the pan, something sweet baking slowly in the oven. He stood there in rolled-up sleeves, sleeves he usually never rolled, wooden spoon in hand, checking his phone every few seconds.
Giana.
A small smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.
He hummed under his breath, low and absent-minded, swaying slightly as he moved between the stove and the counter. At some point, the humming turned into quiet laughter at himself. If anyone had told him weeks ago that he'd be dancing in his kitchen, nervously tasting sauce and adjusting seasoning for a woman he'd known for barely two days, he would've laughed them out of the room.
Yet here he was.
He wiped his hands on a towel, glanced at the neatly set table—wine chilled, flowers arranged awkwardly but sincerely—and exhaled. For the first time in a long while, he felt something close to anticipation instead of control.
For once, he allowed himself to be distracted by something other than work.
Alex paused, surprised by the sound leaving his own lips. He couldn't remember the last time he had hummed.
He rarely noticed when happiness crept up on him. It felt unfamiliar, almost illegal — like a room he had been forbidden to enter for years.
Growing up, warmth was never something his home offered freely. His father had been present in body but absent in every way that mattered. Always working. Always distracted. Always elsewhere.
His mother tried, though. She tried with tired smiles and half-burnt meals, humming softly in the kitchen the same way Alex was humming now. Even when sickness hollowed her cheeks and stole her strength, she cooked alone. She waited alone. She died alone.
Alex had been sixteen when he finally understood that love, when left unattended, withered. The day they buried his mother, his father returned to work the next morning. No tears. No pause. Just meetings and schedules.
Alex packed his bags that same week.
Since then, he learned to build walls where emotions should have lived. To succeed without needing anyone. To love without surrendering too much.
And yet—here he was. Cooking for a woman he barely knew. Smiling without permission. Letting hope touch places he had sworn to protect.
The doorbell rang.
Alex's heart jumped.
"She's here," he muttered, already moving toward the door with a grin he didn't recognize as his own.
He pulled it open.
Something old and unwelcome stared back at him.
His grip tightened on the doorframe.
It wasn't her.
The smile died on his lips—and just like that, the fragile happiness he had only just begun to touch stood on the edge of ruin.