siltrace

[siltrace]

Silent Flight

It was a quiet Wednesday morning when Arya Madhava moved around his room with a focused sense of urgency. The sun barely filtered through the curtains, yet he was already halfway through packing. His leather suitcase lay open on the bed, slowly filling with crisp shirts, carefully folded trousers, polished shoes, and the tuxedo he had picked out just days ago—something elegant, classic, something worthy of walking his daughter down the aisle.

This wasn’t just any trip. This was Clarissa’s request—one made in hushed tones, with eyes slightly tired but heart determined. A request for peace, for a private, sacred space. A wedding without Kirana, without noise, without the past haunting her. And Arya, for once in his imperfect journey as her father, intended to give her exactly that.

His movements slowed as he folded the last shirt and paused to sit on the edge of the bed. The weight of the moment wasn’t in the suitcase—it was in his chest. Clarissa. His oldest daughter. The one who never really asked for anything growing up. The one who observed, endured, and walked away. The one who carried her mother’s face, her grace, and her quiet sadness.

He had been there—barely—when Ila got married. It was joyful, but simpler. Clarissa’s wedding felt different. More emotional. More meaningful. More like a second chance for him to be the father she needed.

And maybe, this time, he would finally get it right.

He stood, zipped the suitcase shut, and took one last look around the room before grabbing his coat. "This is for you, Flo," he whispered to himself, the old nickname slipping from his lips with surprising ease. “Just happiness, from now on.”

Just as Arya was zipping up the final compartment of his suitcase, he felt two familiar arms snake around his waist from behind. The scent of jasmine trailed faintly in the air—Kirana.

"What are you doing? Where are you going?" she asked, her voice a curious blend of soft inquiry and something sharper—interrogative, even.

Arya inhaled slowly before turning slightly to face her. He wasn’t surprised by the question, but the timing made his heart pace just a bit faster. He had become used to traveling alone—especially for business—but this time, it wasn’t business. It was something far more personal. More emotional. And something Kirana could never know about, not until it was long over. If she found out now, he knew exactly what would follow: questions, accusations, tension, maybe even chaos. Clarissa didn’t deserve that—not on her wedding day. Not when she had finally chosen peace, and asked for it in return.

“A business trip to Europe,” Arya answered, keeping his tone composed, steady. “A few cities in a few days. I’ll be flying back on Sunday—should be home by Monday morning if the flights are on time.”

Kirana eyed the suitcase. Her fingers brushed against the new fabric of his blazer draped nearby.

“You brought a lot of clothes,” she pointed out. “Formal attires. I don’t recognize some of these… are they new?”

Arya nodded slowly, forcing a calm breath through his nose as he turned away to adjust a shirt inside the case.

“Yes. Some are new,” he replied smoothly. “I’ve got a full schedule—meetings with clients, business partners, a couple of formal receptions. It’s going to be long days and longer nights. I didn’t want to wear anything old or dated.”

He didn’t lie—he just didn’t tell her everything. Because the truth was, the clothes weren’t for a boardroom. They were for a wedding. For walking Clarissa down the aisle. For being the father he should’ve been for years. For showing her she mattered enough to dress up for, to fly across the world for.

Kirana rested her head on his shoulder for a moment, seemingly convinced, or perhaps simply choosing not to press further. Arya kept his expression unreadable.

Let the anger come later, he thought. He’d weather it all.

But Clarissa? She would get her day—untouched. Quiet. Sacred.

Kirana narrowed her eyes slightly, her arms still looped loosely around Arya’s waist. “You didn’t mention anything about a new deal or project last night.”

Arya gave a small, measured smile, careful not to show the twinge of unease building in his chest. “It came up last minute. I didn’t want to bother you with the details. You know how these things usually go.”

He gently disentangled her arms from his waist and turned to zip up the suitcase. “You’re reading too much into this. I just want to look my best, that’s all. The men I’ll be dealing with aren’t your average suit-and-tie. Appearance matters.”

He could feel her gaze on his back as he adjusted his coat, and for a moment, silence took over the room. Tension hung there, thin but taut.

Kirana stepped back, arms crossed now. “You sure you’re not hiding something?”

Arya turned to face her, eyes gentle but firm. “Kirana, I’m tired. And I don’t want to argue. I’ll be back in a few days. I’ll call you when I land.”

She exhaled sharply, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press further—yet. “Fine. But don’t expect me to be thrilled when you get back.”

Arya gave a soft chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “I never do.”

He kissed her cheek quickly, grabbed his suitcase, and left the room before more questions could come. His heart pounded slightly, not from fear—but from the heaviness of what he was choosing.

Better to carry the weight of Kirana’s suspicion than let Clarissa carry the pain of another ruined day.

Arya made his way down the stairs with swift, calculated steps, suitcase in hand and keys already gripped tightly in his palm. He didn’t stop to glance back or call out a goodbye—he knew that lingering would only risk more questions, more tension, more chances for Kirana to pick apart the truth he was working so hard to protect.

The driver was already waiting by the car, as arranged. Arya gave him a simple nod, and within seconds, the trunk was popped open and his suitcase loaded inside. He slipped into the back seat just as the front door creaked slightly—Kirana’s voice called faintly behind him, “Arya—”

But the door was already closing.

“Drive,” he told the driver calmly, but firmly. “To Soekarno-Hatta. Let’s avoid the toll traffic near Pondok Indah, take the alternate route.”

The car pulled away from the driveway, leaving the quiet neighborhood behind. Arya leaned his head back on the seat, exhaling slowly as the morning light filtered through Jakarta’s smog-tinted skies. The ache in his chest was dull, but present—a mixture of guilt, relief, and resolve.

He hated lying. He hated the look Kirana gave him when she knew he wasn’t being fully honest. But he hated more the thought of Clarissa’s wedding being interrupted by noise, by drama, by past wounds she had worked so hard to escape.

This wasn’t just any trip. This was his daughter's wedding—a sacred moment he’d nearly lost the chance to witness at all. He had missed too many firsts in her life already. This one… this one, he would not miss.

As the car merged onto the main road leading to the airport, Arya opened his phone and stared at the pinned chat from Clarissa. Just seeing her name there made him smile. He typed a quick message:

“On the way to the airport. I’ll see you soon, my little girl.”

He didn’t hit send just yet. Instead, he stared out the window, letting the city pass by in blurs of grey and green. The clock was ticking, and the flight to London wouldn’t wait. But Arya didn’t need time to know what mattered now.

He was going where he needed to be. To her.

As Arya sat in the backseat, moments away from entering the airport drop-off zone, his phone buzzed quietly in his palm. A message notification lit up the screen.

“Be careful on your trip, okay? Good luck with your meetings. I’ll be going shopping tomorrow and flying to Raja Ampat for a girls trip with the girls—just a short getaway. I’ll see you when I get back. Don’t forget to rest between meetings.”

Arya stared at the message for a few seconds. There was no suspicion in her tone, just casual warmth laced with her usual elegance. He could almost picture her already planning her outfits and spa appointments by the ocean.

A strange relief settled in his chest. Maybe fate really was giving him this window of peace—no questions, no drama, just space to do what he needed to do for Clarissa.

He typed slowly, deliberately.

“Thank you. You be careful too. Have fun and enjoy Raja Ampat—it’s a beautiful place. Don’t forget to bring your sunhat. I’ll see you when we’re both back.”

He hit send. A pause. Then he turned off notifications for the rest of the day, letting silence take over.

As the car stopped at the airport terminal, Arya stepped out, lifted his suitcase, and walked toward the glass doors, heart steady with a quiet determination. One journey was beginning. Another—perhaps—was being mended.

Arya moved through Soekarno-Hatta International Airport with quiet efficiency. With his boarding pass and passport in hand, he approached the first-class check-in counter, exchanging polite nods with the staff. Everything had been pre-arranged—Winston's team had helped ensure that his journey would be as smooth and discreet as possible.

“Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Madhava,” the attendant said as she handed him his documents with a warm smile.

“Thank you,” Arya replied, equally polite but focused, his thoughts already soaring far beyond the glass ceiling of the terminal.

He made his way through immigration, answering the routine questions with practiced ease. The officer barely looked up after scanning his documents, giving him a faint nod before stamping the exit mark.

He proceeded through security, placed his belt and laptop into the tray, then waited quietly as it passed through the scanner. Once cleared, he adjusted his shirt cuffs and took a steady breath.

Soon, a quiet announcement rang through the speakers.

"First-class passengers of Flight GA086 to London Heathrow, please proceed to Gate 5 for boarding."

Arya walked calmly to the gate. No rushing, no hesitation. The lounge had been tempting, but he preferred to board directly—he didn’t want the extra space to think.

At the jet bridge, he was welcomed by a flight attendant who guided him to his first-class suite. The lighting was soft, the seat wide and plush. The kind of comfort someone might enjoy—but for Arya, this was no luxury trip. It was a mission of love and redemption.

He placed his briefcase gently in the overhead compartment, then sat down, looking out the small window. Raindrops streaked the glass like the thoughts streaking through his mind.

Clarissa.

The child he missed raising. The woman he now hoped to send off with love, grace, and peace.

As the doors closed and the cabin crew began their safety demonstration, Arya fastened his seatbelt and exhaled.

He had made it.

Just in time.

As the plane slowly taxied to the runway, the hum of the engines rising beneath him, Arya leaned back in his seat. He watched the faint lights of Jakarta blur through the misty window, the city shrinking behind him—just as years had passed and slipped away without warning, without pause.

He felt the ache in his chest.

Thirty-five years. A lifetime. A father’s absence. A daughter’s silence.

There had been birthdays he missed. School performances he never attended. Loneliness she never voiced—but he always knew. He had convinced himself that she would be fine, that she was strong, that he was doing enough. But now, sitting on this flight, hurtling toward her wedding, Arya realized how many years had slipped through his fingers like sand.

He wasn’t just flying to London. He was flying toward forgiveness. Toward a chance to witness the woman she had become—graceful, brilliant, wounded, but healing.

He knew this wedding wasn’t just about love between Clarissa and Winston. It was also a quiet reconciliation. A bridge, rebuilt slowly from her courage and his regret.

As the plane began its ascent, Arya closed his eyes.

He wasn’t sure if a few days could undo the silence of decades—but he was sure of this:

He would be there. He would stand beside her. He would hand her over not in absence, but in presence. He would love her, finally, in the way she had always deserved.

And maybe, just maybe, she would know that her papa came back. Late, but true.

END.

[siltrace]

Forever and Always

It was Friday morning in London.

The city’s usual gloom had softened, as though the skies themselves understood the significance of the day. There was no rain, only a hushed stillness—like the world was holding its breath in reverence. Perhaps the universe knew what was unfolding: two souls, weathered by loss, rediscovery, and quiet healing, were about to unite in a bond neither had fully expected, yet both now deeply cherished.

Clarissa stood at the steps of the quiet civil registry, her hands gently gripping the bouquet of soft ivory peonies and lilies. She was draped in a simple yet breathtaking gown from the House of Dior, its clean lines and elegant flow perfectly mirroring her calm strength. A soft veil fell over her face, casting a delicate shadow that couldn’t hide her nervous, hopeful expression. Her natural makeup highlighted her grace rather than concealed it—she looked ethereal, yet grounded. Real. Present.

Beside her stood her father, Arya. He looked paler than usual, not from illness, but from the overwhelming tide of emotions that came with letting go. He wasn’t prepared to give his daughter away this year, not after only recently learning how to hold her close again. But time had moved differently with Clarissa. Years lost in silence had collapsed into months of rediscovery, and now, here she was—his little girl, standing on the brink of a new life. He was proud of her, proud that she had found her home in someone again. But he also grieved silently—for the years he missed, the wounds he couldn't heal, and the role he was only now learning how to play.

Winston stood nearby, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, his heart racing. In less than three months, everything had changed. The woman he bumped into at campus—sharp, guarded, mysterious—was now the love of his life. Today, she would become his wife. His partner. His future. He could hardly believe how swiftly and deeply he had fallen for her. But he never questioned it. From the moment she looked at him not as a subordinate, but as a man, he knew. She wasn’t just his boss at the university. She was his compass, his calm, his second chance at something extraordinary.

Their families stood behind them—Winston’s parents and sister, Clarissa’s twin brothers and their wives, and Arya. No audience. No stage. Just the people who mattered most.

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t documented for the world. But it was theirs.

The air felt heavier inside the civil registry, not from pressure, but from the weight of love and quiet anticipation. Clarissa stood beside her father just outside the room where the ceremony was about to begin. Her hands were trembling slightly beneath the delicate bouquet she held. Not from fear—but from the overwhelming flood of emotions swirling inside her.

Inside the room, Winston had taken his place at the front, standing tall yet visibly anxious. His heart thumped louder than it had in any lecture hall or board meeting. As his family and Clarissa’s siblings settled into their seats, he cast a glance at the entrance—waiting.

Melissa gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze as she passed, and Tessa offered him a smile. “Breathe, Winston,” she whispered, her voice filled with warmth. “She’s coming.”

Meanwhile, Arya turned to his daughter. Her eyes glistened beneath the veil, and for a moment, he saw the little girl she once was—clutching crayons, drawing cards for a mother she barely remembered, tugging at his hand for attention he had so often failed to give.

He reached for her hand now, and squeezed it gently. “May your life be filled with only love and joy, no more sadness,” he said softly, the lump in his throat thickening. “I love you, Papa’s little girl.”

Clarissa’s lips trembled, and she blinked back her tears, one hand coming up to brush the corner of her eyes. She leaned her head gently against his shoulder, just for a second.

“Thank you, Papa,” she whispered.

The officiant, a kind man with a calm and resonant voice, welcomed everyone warmly before beginning the official ceremony. His introduction was brief but meaningful, setting the tone for the intimate gathering of family and love.

As he concluded the formal opening, a quiet cue was given. The doors at the back of the room opened softly. The hush that fell over the space was immediate and reverent.

Arya stood tall, his hand gently cradling Clarissa's as they began their walk down the aisle.

Every step echoed with a blend of love, sorrow, and redemption. It wasn’t just the traditional passage of a bride toward her groom—it was a reunion of hearts, a walk that symbolized years of silent ache, unspoken longing, and the healing that had finally begun between a father and daughter.

Clarissa walked slowly, gracefully, her veil fluttering slightly with each step. Arya’s gaze never left ahead, but his grip remained strong on her hand, as if letting go would undo all that they had just rebuilt. The aisle—short by distance—felt agonizingly long to Arya. His heart was screaming to hold on a bit longer. But he knew he had to let her go, to the man who had brought her light and steadiness.

When they reached the front, Arya gently turned to face his daughter. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear with a trembling hand, then turned to Winston. His eyes were sharp with emotion—part fear, part hope—but above all, filled with love.

With a deep breath, he took Clarissa’s hand and placed it into Winston’s.

His voice broke slightly as he spoke. “If ever comes the day when you feel you can’t protect her, when you no longer know how to hold her heart—please, don’t cause her more pain. Return her to me. I’ll take care of her like I should have from the start. She’s my daughter, Winston. My soul. Don’t ever let her fall again.”

Winston’s throat tightened, emotion surging in his chest. He met Arya’s gaze with unwavering sincerity.

“I will never disappoint you, Papa,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I promise to take care of her—completely. Always.”

Arya gave a single nod, his eyes glistening, and turned away before his tears fell. He walked slowly to his seat beside Dewa and Kala, his breath unsteady, his chest heavy with emotion.

And then, only Clarissa and Winston remained standing at the front, with the officiant between them. The room held its breath.

Clarissa looked up at Winston, her eyes swimming with vulnerability and quiet courage. She drew in a long, shaky breath, her fingers tightening around his.

This was it. The moment of no return. The beginning of forever.

The officiant offered a kind smile, then gestured for them to begin.

“It is now time,” he said softly, “for the bride and groom to declare their vows to each other.”

The room grew still as the officiant gave them a gentle smile and a nod, signaling it was time for their vows. The quiet in the air was heavy, sacred, like the world had paused to honor this moment. Clarissa’s breath trembled as she held Winston’s hands—his were warm, steady, grounding her in the middle of the whirlwind of emotion.

She looked into his eyes, eyes that had seen her in the darkest and brightest moments of her life, and she spoke—softly, but firmly.

“Winston,” she began, her voice quivering slightly, “There was a time I believed I had used up all my chances at love. That life had written me out of the warmth I once longed for. But then you arrived— like morning after a storm, with eyes that never flinched, and hands that never let go. You saw me in the places I hid myself— and still, you stayed. You held the broken parts like they were holy, and you whispered me back to life.

So today, I vow this: To grow with you when the world is kind, and to stand with you when it is not. To be your quiet when your world is loud, and your fire when your soul grows cold. I will choose you, every morning, in every silence, in every storm, in every breath. You are not just the love of my life— you are the life in my love.”

Winston’s eyes were glassy, and for once, he let the tears fall. No holding back now. He took a moment to breathe before answering her with a smile filled with both joy and reverence.

“Clarissa,” he began, voice a little hoarse, “Before you, I understood love as something spoken. But with you, love became a language of silence— a steady presence, a glance, a hand held without question. You are strength in soft form, a fire that does not burn—but warms, a woman carved from light and storm alike. You’ve taught me to slow down, to listen, to make space—for healing, for truth, for grace. And in return, I give you all I am.

I vow to hold you through your doubt, to lift you when your spirit bends. I vow to honor the battles you’ve fought, and the ones I will fight beside you. You are my greatest discovery, the home I never knew I was searching for. And if I must spend every day reminding you of your worth, then that, my love, will be my joy.”

A quiet sob echoed from the side—Arya, trying his best to contain the wave of emotion, his hand over his mouth.

The officiant, with a soft expression, gave his nod. “And now, may we have the rings.”

Tessa stepped forward first, handing Winston a slim platinum band. His hand trembled slightly as he took Clarissa’s left hand.

“With this ring, I give you my loyalty, my laughter, my life. May this circle remind you that my love has no end, and no condition.”

He slipped it onto her finger gently.

Then Clarissa turned to Dewa, who handed her the ring for Winston. Her voice cracked as she took his hand, holding it with purpose.

“With this ring, I give you all that I am— my past, my present, my promise. May it be a symbol of my heart, beating always in the rhythm of yours.”

She placed it carefully on his finger, then held his hand.

The officiant smiled, pausing for a moment to honor the sacred stillness. “By the vows spoken and the rings exchanged, with your families as witnesses to this union, I now pronounce you… husband and wife.”

As the final words of the officiant faded into the still air, Winston turned toward Clarissa with a heart so full it trembled in his chest.

With steady hands, he reached up and gently lifted the veil that had graced her face—lifting not just fabric, but the years of silence, the ache of longing, and the weight of memories too tender to name. Her eyes met his, shimmering with emotion, framed by the soft light that filtered through the tall windows.

For a moment, time stood still.

He leaned in, slowly, reverently—like a man kissing something sacred. His lips met hers in a kiss that was soft, deep, and filled with everything words could never say.

It wasn’t just a kiss to seal a ceremony. It was the first page of a new chapter.

A beginning.

A vow all on its own.

The officiant, with a warm and steady voice, invited the couple forward.

“Now, we ask the groom and the bride to sign the certificate of marriage.”

Winston reached for the pen first, his hand firm, but his eyes glistened slightly as he wrote his full name with a heart full of certainty. Then Clarissa, her fingers delicate but determined, signed hers beside his. With that single stroke, she sealed not only her name but her trust, her promise, and her journey forward—together.

“May I now invite the witnesses,” the officiant continued, “Dewa Madhava and Tessa Langford, to step forward and sign the certificate.”

Dewa walked with a quiet, proud presence, and signed with ease, his heart grateful that he could finally witness his youngest sister find peace and joy. Tessa followed—gentle, smiling—her signature small but firm, a mark of full-hearted welcome into their lives.

The officiant smiled as he closed the certificate. “By the powers vested in me by the Crown and the city of London, I now pronounce this union officially and lawfully complete. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Winston Langford.”

A soft applause filled the room as the guests stood.

Arya stepped forward first—his eyes already wet, his expression soft, reverent. He wrapped his daughter in his arms as though holding her for the first time and the last all at once.

“My little girl…” he whispered. “You’ve come so far.”

Clarissa held him tightly, burying her face into his shoulder, a silent thank-you wrapped in emotion.

Melissa followed with her arms open. “Welcome, Clarissa. Truly, welcome to our family,” she said warmly before pulling her into an embrace. Derek shook her hand then hugged her gently, a small pat on her back like a quiet affirmation of belonging. “We’re proud of you both,” he said.

Then came Tessa—smiling, teary-eyed, and full of genuine joy. “Sister,” she said with a laugh, before hugging Clarissa like they had known each other forever.

Surrounded by love, they stood in that small registry room—no grand halls, no extravagant music—just family, warmth, and two hearts that had finally found home in one another.

Clarissa walked gracefully across the room, her gown trailing softly behind her. Her eyes were already brimming with emotion as she approached Dewa, Kala, Rose, and Alia—her brothers and their partners—her anchors for all these years.

She stopped in front of them, taking a slow breath to gather herself before speaking.

“Bli…” she began, her voice gentle but full of gratitude, “thank you for coming today… and for witnessing this with us. For all the help, the protection, the quiet strength you’ve given me—especially during the times I couldn’t stand on my own.”

Her gaze flicked gently from Dewa to Kala, then to Rose and Alia. “Thank you for accepting me, for guiding me, for always being there when I doubted myself the most. I know I’ve been distant at times, but I’ve never forgotten how much you’ve done for me.”

Winston stepped beside her, his tone sincere as he added, “From the bottom of my heart—thank you, both of you, and your partners, for keeping Clarissa safe. For believing in her. For standing by her even when she didn’t have the words to ask.”

He looked at them with a quiet nod of respect. “We’ll never take your kindness for granted.”

Dewa reached out, resting his hand on her shoulder. “You don’t owe us anything, Clarissa. You’re our sister. That’s what family does.”

Kala gave her a proud smile. “And now that you’ve found peace… don’t look back. We’ve got you. Always have, always will.”

The moment settled softly between them, a bond gently reaffirmed—not by obligation, but by love and the quiet, unspoken history they all carried.

They gathered one last time at the entrance of the civil registry office, standing closely as the photographer positioned them. The newlyweds in the center—Clarissa radiant in white, Winston standing tall beside her, his hand gently on the small of her back—surrounded by family who had become their anchor and their joy. Smiles warmed the gloomy London day, laughter softened the air, and the click of the camera sealed that fleeting, beautiful moment in time.

After the final shot was taken, they slowly made their way outside, where the crisp air greeted them once again. The cars waited to take them home—home now being the Spencer-Langford estate, where a quiet but elegant wedding lunch awaited. The estate, adorned with simple white florals and a tasteful spread, echoed their kind of celebration: small, intimate, and full of warmth.

Back at the estate, they took more pictures in the garden—under a tree whose leaves danced with the wind. This time, shoes came off, laughter came easier, and the camera captured their comfort with one another.

As Winston wrapped his arm around Clarissa’s waist, pulling her closer for another picture, she tilted her head toward him, their foreheads nearly touching.

"I love you, hubby," she whispered, her eyes sparkling.

Winston smiled, brushing a soft kiss onto her temple. "I love you too, sweetheart."

It wasn’t the end. It was the quiet beginning of something real.

END.

[siltrace]

Dear Papa

The afternoon breeze drifted gently through the open windows, carrying with it the familiar warmth and heavy scent of Jakarta's late-day air. It rustled the sheer curtains and whispered through the quiet halls of the elegant yet modest mansion nestled in Pondok Indah.

Here, within the once-vibrant home now dulled by silence and time, Arya Madhava sat alone, settling into one of the armchairs in the living room with a thoughtful expression etched across his face.

He was in Jakarta for business—another deal, another meeting, another step in his empire's path—but this visit felt different. Instead of booking a hotel suite or staying in one of the city’s luxury residences, Arya had chosen to stay at Clarissa’s house. The house was small compared to the other Madhava properties, yet it held a certain quiet charm—a gentle grace that still carried traces of the woman who once lived within it.

Clarissa had officially renounced her Indonesian citizenship just weeks ago, finalizing her transition to a new chapter in her life abroad. The house, now up for sale, stood as one of the last remnants of her presence in this city, and Arya knew this might be the last time he’d ever sit within these walls. Perhaps that was why he came—to feel something again, or to remember, or to quietly reflect on the daughter who had slowly, and then suddenly, slipped away from him.

There was also another reason—one he hadn’t dared say out loud. It was an unspoken attempt at reconciliation. A quiet gesture to bridge the growing distance between them. A distance that wasn’t born from a single event, but from years of misunderstandings, silence, and decisions made too late. She had built walls around herself, and Arya wasn’t sure if he could ever tear them down—but sitting here, in her space, surrounded by what she once called home, was perhaps a start.

“Papa, have you eaten yet?”

That voice—soft, gentle, yet firm—echoed through the house like a breeze slipping through old memories. Arya froze. He hadn’t heard her voice in person for so long, he almost questioned if it was real. It was the voice he missed without admitting it, the voice that once called him from behind hallway doors or across family dinners, now floating into the air unexpectedly.

She stepped into view, her presence still light and distant but undeniably there. Behind her came Winston, his presence warm and respectful as always. “Papa, do you enjoy the serenity?” he asked, offering a courteous smile as he approached.

Arya stood, offering his arms out, and Winston met him halfway in a brief but heartfelt hug.

“No, I haven’t eaten yet,” Arya answered.

“I brought breads, from Mako. Do you want it with a cup of black coffee?” Clarissa called from the kitchen, where the scent of fresh loaves began to mingle with the afternoon breeze. Her tone was casual, but her words were chosen with care—offering, not insisting.

Arya looked toward the kitchen, a small frown tugging at his brow. “Two sachets, one teaspoon of sugar.”

Clarissa paused for a second before meeting his eyes.

“I noticed,” she said simply.

It was a quiet reply, but it landed heavy between them. It wasn’t just about the coffee. It was about the years. The small details she had paid attention to, even when she kept her distance. The habits she remembered. The rituals she silently carried with her despite the silence between them.

Arya didn’t say anything right away. His throat felt tight. And for a moment, the clinking of mugs and the soft hum of Winston preparing the terrace table filled the space that words couldn’t yet cross.

“Papa, I need to do an online meeting. I’ll join you later?” Winston said gently as he checked his watch, already halfway to the corridor.

Arya glanced up at him and gave a small nod. “Go on. Attend your meeting. I’m okay here.”

Winston offered a brief, grateful smile before his eyes met Clarissa’s. It was a soft, reassuring glance—silent, but heavy with understanding. Clarissa gave him a slight nod in return. Then, she emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee and a small basket of warm bread.

She moved with grace, quiet in her steps, and placed the tray down on the terrace table before taking a seat beside her father. The air was still, save for the faint rustling of the trees and the slow ticking of a nearby wall clock.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t hostile—it was heavy with unspoken thoughts, things left unsaid for too long.

“How’s your work, Flo?” Arya finally asked, his tone cautious, almost unsure if he was stepping into something too fragile.

“All is well, Papa,” Clarissa replied, without looking at him right away. “You don’t need to worry.”

Arya nodded, taking a sip from the coffee she had made just the way he liked. “You’ve adjusted well with the campus? With your position as a rector?”

Clarissa looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time in the conversation. “I enjoy my time and work, Papa,” she said quietly, but firmly. “It keeps me grounded.”

Arya nodded again, slower this time. He leaned back into his chair, his eyes trailing over the small garden beyond the terrace.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell her how proud he was, how much he regretted the distance between them, how often he had watched from afar without knowing how to approach her. But his pride, his guilt, and his years of silence wrapped themselves around his words like vines.

Still, he tried. In his own way. With presence, with coffee, with questions that fell short but were filled with intent.

It was awkward—yes. But it was a beginning.

Clarissa sat frozen, her hands resting gently on her lap as the warmth of the coffee slowly faded beside her. Arya’s voice, filled with rare vulnerability, sliced through the still air of the terrace, and each word he uttered felt like it tore through layers of carefully constructed armor she had built for years.

“This kind of moment… makes me miss your mama.”

The sentence dropped like a stone into a deep well, stirring a silence so heavy Clarissa found herself holding her breath. It wasn’t a topic they’d ever touched—perhaps out of avoidance, perhaps out of fear. Her mother had died when she was just four. All she remembered were fragmented images: the smell of her skin, the softness of her hands, the distant sound of lullabies that faded too soon. After that, everything blurred into Arya’s grief, his absence, and then Kirana.

She had grieved in her own quiet way, through loneliness masked as strength, through accomplishments that felt like cries for acknowledgment. But hearing him speak about her mother now… opened something she didn’t know still ached.

Arya sat still, gazing out into the small garden. The afternoon breeze tousled the edge of his batik shirt, and his voice grew softer, touched by memories.

“Back then, you’d run around this terrace with such small steps, giggling. You rarely got to spend time with your mama the way your brothers did. But you… you’d ask about her all the time. You’d draw her pictures, kiss her hands whenever she was strong enough to hold them out. But in those final months, when her body grew weaker…” He trailed off, swallowing thickly. “She couldn’t hold you the way she wanted to. I remember how angry you were once when she couldn’t stand up to hug you. And I couldn’t explain it to you then.”

Clarissa lowered her eyes. Tears had already begun to fall, quiet and slow. The kind of tears that had been held in place for years, unspoken and unresolved.

Arya turned to look at her, his eyes misted. “Your mother… she wasn’t my first love,” he confessed. “You were. You are. The first time I held you, I thought—how can something so tiny carry this much of my heart? I swore I’d protect you. That I’d be the father you needed. That I’d never let the world hurt you.”

A long pause settled between them.

“But I failed. I failed so terribly that I started to lose her… and then, I lost you too.”

Clarissa covered her mouth with one hand, holding back the sob building in her throat. Her other hand gripped the edge of her seat, as if grounding herself in the moment.

Arya leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper now. “And now… here you are. After being gone so long. After keeping yourself so far from me, from this house, from anything that reminded you of the past. And I can’t blame you. I don’t. But I see now—it wasn’t just distance. It was survival. You were surviving me.”

The words shattered whatever remained in Clarissa’s composure. She wiped her tears quickly, but they kept coming.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she finally choked out, her voice small.

“No,” he shook his head, eyes full of regret. “I’m the one who should’ve said that long ago.”

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Clarissa leaned her head against his shoulder. She didn’t say anything more. She didn’t need to. In that quiet space, with the breeze and the birds and the distant sound of a busy city, a wound long ignored was finally, gently, beginning to heal.

Arya sat still, his shoulders heavier than Clarissa had ever seen before. The silence between them lingered, not cold, but fragile—like something too sacred to rush. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for his coffee, but he didn’t drink. Instead, he turned toward her, his eyes glossy with unshed grief and years of unspoken guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, but it landed like thunder in her chest. “I should have said it earlier. I should’ve said it when you waited for me and I didn’t come. I should’ve said it when I let the world pull me away from you… and I should’ve said it every time you looked at me, hoping I’d see you.”

Clarissa’s lips parted slightly, stunned, as the words washed over her like a tide she didn’t see coming.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t the father you needed,” Arya continued, voice quivering, raw. “You lost your mother… and I made you lose a father too. I became a man I told myself I’d never become—one who let sorrow swallow his child.”

Tears clung to his lashes now. He looked down, ashamed, before slowly reaching for her hand resting on the bench between them.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, not instantly. I just need you to know, Flo… from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.”

Clarissa looked at him—truly looked at him—for the first time in a long while. Her father wasn’t the man she remembered from childhood stories or distant photographs. He was older now, gentler, cracked open by remorse. And though a part of her still ached, still hesitated, something deep within began to soften.

She squeezed his hand—once, firmly. No words. Just that.

Arya’s breath hitched, as if her touch alone told him what he needed to hear.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet.

But it was a beginning.

Arya's voice cracked as the words slipped from his mouth—honest, trembling, wounded.

“I made it hard for you to find love,” he whispered, barely able to meet her eyes. “Harvey’s love. Christian’s. And now Winston’s. It was never the love that was hard, was it? It was never them.”

He looked away, the pain raw on his face.

“It was hard for you to love… because you’ve never really been loved by me, not the way a father should’ve loved his daughter. Not the way you deserved. I was supposed to be your anchor, not the silence you carried.”

Clarissa’s face crumpled, her lips pressing tight as if holding back a flood. Her fingers dug slightly into her knees. He kept going.

“I’m so, so sorry, Flo.”

The name came out like a prayer.

“I gave you every reason to guard your heart, to doubt your worth. And still—you gave love anyway. To Harvey, despite everything. Even to Christian, though it ended. And now to Winston, who I can see clearly, adores you.”

Arya finally turned to face her fully.

“But if you ever struggled to believe in it, in them, in yourself... that’s on me. I see that now.”

Clarissa’s eyes flooded, no longer able to hold the tears at bay. Her lips parted as if to speak, but she couldn’t find her voice—not through the lump in her throat, not through the storm surging behind her ribcage.

“I hurt you,” he said, quieter now. “And you still became someone extraordinary. Not because of me, but in spite of me.”

He reached out, gently, and rested his hand over hers again.

“I’m sorry for the love I didn’t give. And I’ll spend the rest of my life hoping you find peace in the love you’ve fought so hard to give yourself.”

For a long moment, all she could do was cry—silent, aching, vulnerable. But she didn’t pull her hand away. And that, to Arya, was everything.

Arya inhaled shakily, holding Clarissa’s hand tighter as he spoke with trembling lips, “Niang… she told me once, that a daughter’s heart is soft like silk, but it will harden if the father forgets to hold it with care.” His voice faltered. “She said I forgot, Flo. That I left too much space between us, and you filled that space with silence.”

Clarissa listened quietly, eyes still glistening, her chest rising and falling with the slow weight of his words.

“After she said that, it struck me, hard. I realized how little time I’ve had with you,” Arya continued, choking back emotion. “You’re getting married one day… and it hit me. Not because I don’t want you to marry Winston—I know he loves you—but because I missed all the chances to love you as your father.”

He looked away, his eyes blinking fast. “I should’ve walked with you through all of this. Not just watched you grow from afar. I shouldn’t only be here now, when you’re someone else’s fiancee.”

Clarissa wiped the corner of her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Then she placed her hand gently atop his, as though offering a little piece of comfort.

“Papa,” she began, softly. “There’s something I actually want to tell you.”

Arya looked at her, eyes filled with worry. “What is it?”

She paused, lips slightly parted, hesitant. “Winston and I… we’ve decided to get married this Friday. In London. A civil ceremony. Small, quiet. Just us and the families.”

She looked up at him, voice steady, but fragile. “I hope you can come, Papa. I want you to witness this. I want you there.”

Arya broke.

He wept, harder than before. This time, not just out of regret—but out of love, out of a deeply buried longing to be part of her life again.

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his daughter, holding her tightly for the first time in years. She returned the embrace, silently, warmly.

“Thank you…” he whispered through his sobs. “Thank you for still wanting me there. I’ll be there. I promise, Flo. I’ll be there.”

“I missed my time… to take care of you,” Arya said, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. He leaned back just slightly to look into her eyes, his own filled with sorrow and self-blame. “What your Niang told me… what she reminded me, I failed to do. I was supposed to be there—to guide you, to hold your hand when you were uncertain, to listen when you needed to speak. But I wasn’t. And now, I’ve missed it all… the time I should’ve used to love you properly before you became someone else’s responsibility. Before you became someone’s wife.”

He exhaled a long, broken breath. “I’m happy for you, Flo, truly. But I’m also torn. Because I see now just how much I’ve lost.”

Clarissa reached out, her hand cupping the side of his face as her thumb gently wiped away a tear that had escaped. Her expression was tender—softened by years of longing for this exact moment. And yet, she remained composed, her voice a quiet reassurance.

“It’s okay, Papa,” she whispered, calming him as he shook his head in guilt. “I’m okay. Really.”

She took a deep breath, resting her forehead lightly against his shoulder. “You don’t have to look back and carry it all like a burden. I understand, more than you think. Life… took us through a lot. It broke us apart before we could really know each other. But I still have space in my heart for you, and time—maybe not the same kind, but still time—for us.”

Arya’s eyes brimmed again, not with regret now, but with a fragile hope.

Clarissa continued, “I’ve grown, Papa. Even through the distance, I kept pieces of you with me. And now, with you here, it doesn’t feel too late. You’re here now, and that means something.”

She smiled faintly. “Let’s not mourn what we lost. Let’s hold onto what we still have.”

Arya nodded slowly, overcome by her grace and strength. “Thank you… for still allowing me a place beside you. Thank you for not closing the door.”

She simply leaned into him again, their silence full of healing.

In that quiet afternoon, beneath the soft breeze of Jakarta’s air, a father and daughter sat side by side—relearning each other, and finally beginning to bridge the distance years had placed between them.

“You grew up… just like your mother,” Arya said, his voice low, thick with emotion. He reached for Clarissa’s hand gently, as if afraid she might disappear if he held on too tightly. “The grace… the beauty… the way you carry yourself. Everything. Every time I look at you, I see her. I see the woman I loved—soft-spoken, radiant, strong even when life weighed her down.”

He paused, brushing his thumb over her knuckles, eyes shimmering as they studied her features. “You have her smile. Her silence when she’s thinking. That same way of tilting your head when you’re listening. And just like her… you walk into a room and the air changes.”

Clarissa’s chest ached. The lump in her throat grew too large to swallow. She had never heard him speak like this—never been compared to the mother she lost so young, the woman who had always felt like a distant, unreachable memory. To hear her father's voice tremble with affection, with recognition—it stirred something deep inside her.

Arya blinked slowly. “But you’re not just like her. You’re your own woman too. Fiercer. Braver, maybe. You made a life out of chaos. You led yourself when no one else did. And for that, I…” he faltered. “I admire you, Flo. I truly do.”

Clarissa's lips trembled as tears once again filled her eyes. She gave his hand a tight squeeze and whispered, “Thank you, Papa.”

There was no need to say more. The words had finally reached her. The years they lost were still there, yes—but so was the love, and now, finally, the healing.

The quiet of the terrace was broken gently by the sound of soft footsteps approaching.

Winston emerged from the hallway, fresh from his meeting, now dressed casually, his eyes scanning the scene before him. His gaze softened immediately as he saw Clarissa sitting beside her father, both of their faces touched with tears, eyes red but peaceful.

He paused for a second, not wanting to intrude. “Everything okay?” he asked quietly, his voice low and careful, as though he didn’t want to disturb the delicate moment.

Clarissa turned to him, wiping the corner of her eyes with a faint smile. Arya, still holding her hand, looked up at Winston.

There was a pause—long enough for the weight of emotion to fill the space between them—before Arya stood up slowly and walked over. He placed a firm, steady hand on Winston’s shoulder.

“Please…” Arya said, his voice softer than usual, but clear, “take care of my daughter well, Winston. She’s all that I have.”

Winston's chest tightened at the request. The way Arya said it—it wasn’t just a statement. It was a handing over of trust, of years, of silent regret, and deep paternal love. A father entrusting his most precious person to another man’s hands.

Winston nodded with conviction, swallowing hard. “I will, Papa. I promise,” he said with all the sincerity he could gather. “With everything I have, I’ll protect her, love her, and stand by her.”

Arya gave a short nod, his eyes glimmering. Then, to Winston’s surprise, he pulled him into a brief, quiet embrace.

Behind them, Clarissa sat quietly, watching the two most important men in her life—finally, somehow, speaking the same language without needing too many words.

Arya turned to her the moment she called. “Papa,” Clarissa said softly, her voice tinged with hesitation but full of clarity.

Without another word, she stood and walked into his embrace. He hugged her tightly, arms firm around her shoulders as if trying to hold all the lost years together in that single gesture.

There was a quiet pause before she gently whispered, “The wedding… can we have it without Kirana?”

Arya didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes and nodded—firm, steady, without a trace of doubt.

“Yes,” he said. “Without hesitation.”

He kissed the top of her head and held her again. In that simple answer, he gave her more than permission—he gave her peace.

The afternoon light slanted across the terrace, casting soft golden hues over the quiet moment they shared. Clarissa stayed in her father’s embrace for a while longer, feeling the warmth she once longed for return—quiet, sincere, and unconditional.

Winston, watching from a short distance, let out a slow breath of relief. He had seen many sides of Clarissa—her strength, her vulnerability, her fire—but this moment was something else. It was healing. It was closure.

Arya let her go gently and turned to Winston. “Take care of her,” he said again, voice steady with emotion. “She deserves peace. She deserves everything.”

“I will,” Winston promised, his voice quiet but certain.

As the breeze picked up again, the three of them stood there—father, daughter, and the man she chose—as the pieces of a long-fractured past slowly began to mend. Not perfectly. Not all at once. But enough.

The wedding in London would be small, intimate, and free of ghosts. It would be the beginning of something new—where love wasn’t weighed down by wounds, but carried gently by the ones who chose to stay, to hold on, and to begin again.

And for once, Clarissa let herself believe that she didn’t have to carry it all alone anymore. She had her father. She had Winston.

She had home.

END.

[siltrace]

Moments That Last

It was just past one in the morning when Winston stirred from his sleep, his throat dry and begging for relief. He sat up slowly, rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes, and reached for the glass on the nightstand—empty.

With a soft sigh, he got out of bed, his bare feet brushing the cool floor as he made his way to the kitchen. After gulping down a glass of water, the refreshing coldness finally cleared some of the heaviness in his head. But then he noticed something.

The bed was too still. The sheets beside him were untouched, cool to the touch—Clarissa hadn’t returned to bed. That unsettling realization jolted him fully awake. He glanced at the clock again to confirm the time, then quietly stepped into the hallway.

The house was silent, the air thick with stillness. He softly called her name into the quiet.

“C?”

No response. He walked down the hall, following the faint glow from the end of the corridor, and there he found her—curled up on the carpeted floor of the small study nook, slumped over the edge of the low table. Her laptop had fallen asleep, the screen now dark, while papers and notes were scattered around her like autumn leaves. Highlighters uncapped, her pen still in hand.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵’𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵���� 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

Clarissa was still wearing the soft cardigan she threw on before bed, her hair loosely tied back, strands falling over her face. No blanket. Just the carpet and her willpower keeping her warm. Winston stood there for a moment, heart tightening at the sight.

How long had she been there like that? Working until her body simply gave out? He walked closer, careful not to wake her just yet, kneeling beside her quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her cheek. She looked peaceful—too peaceful for someone who had clearly pushed herself far past her limit. His chest ached with a quiet mixture of love and guilt.

Winston gently began to clean up the chaos she’d left behind. He gathered the loose papers, stacked them in neat piles, and closed her notebook after bookmarking the last page she was writing on. He reached for her laptop, opened it just enough to wake the screen, and quickly scanned through the tabs and files. Saving everything she had been working on, he shut it down properly—making sure nothing would be lost. Every movement was done with care, almost reverently, not wanting to disturb her fragile slumber.

The dim light from the hallway cast a golden glow across her features, and as he finished, he lingered beside her, watching the way her breathing moved gently through her back and shoulders. Then, softly—tenderly—he placed a hand on her shoulder and tapped twice, just enough to stir her from her exhaustion.

“C…” he whispered. “Let’s move to the bedroom, okay?”

Her eyelids fluttered as she slowly looked up, still disoriented from sleep. He gave her a reassuring smile—warm and calm—the kind that told her everything was taken care of, and she didn’t need to be strong for one more minute. She blinked at him, then gave the faintest nod.

“Come on,” he said softly, wrapping an arm around her as he helped her up. “You’ve done enough for tonight.”

As Winston gently helped her up from the floor, Clarissa leaned into him instinctively, her body still heavy with sleep. But just as he reached to guide her toward the bedroom, she stirred more fully—her brows furrowing.

“My work’s… not done yet,” she murmured, her voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

Winston paused, steadying her by the waist, and looked at her. Her eyes were half-lidded, but determination still flickered faintly beneath the exhaustion. He could see the weight she carried behind those words—not just the work itself, but the pressure, the perfectionism, the invisible expectations she never spoke of.

The kind of burden she should never have to bear alone. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Clarissa… your body’s already shutting down on you,” he said softly, not with scolding, but with concern etched deep into his tone. “You’re falling asleep at the table. That’s not working, that’s punishing yourself.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes brimmed with the kind of tiredness that went far deeper than just lack of rest. It was emotional fatigue—worn edges, silent battles, and years of holding everything together on her own.

“I just…” she began, but her voice cracked.

“You just want to do everything,” he finished gently for her. “I know.”

A moment of silence passed between them. “You’ve done enough for today,” he said again, more irmly this time, and wrapped her fully in his arms.

“Please, come rest. Let me take care of you for once.”

Winston guided her carefully back into their bedroom, his hand never leaving the small of her back. The soft lighting cast a warm glow across the room, but nothing softened the concern furrowing his brow. As Clarissa sat on the edge of the bed, he knelt in front of her, holding both of her hands in his.

“C,” he said gently, yet with a weight that couldn’t be ignored. “Your health has been miserable lately. You’re barely eating, you’re not sleeping properly, and I can see it—every day, little by little, you’re breaking yourself down."

She tried to open her mouth to argue, to say she was fine—but he squeezed her hands, silencing her gently.

“I know work matters to you. I know it gives you purpose. I would never take that away from you,” Winston continued, his voice steady, “but this pace… this obsession with being everything to everyone, all the time—it’s hurting you.”

He reached up and touched her cheek softly, brushing his thumb under her eye where the dark circles had deepened. “If it’s about money, or stability—C, I can give you that. We’re not struggling. You don’t have to push yourself to the edge just to prove something. Not to them. Not to me. Not even to yourself.”

Clarissa lowered her gaze, her breath trembling. She didn’t argue—but she didn’t respond either. Winston leaned in and kissed her forehead, then stood and pulled back the comforter.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Lie down.”

She nodded faintly and let herself sink back onto the mattress. Winston lifted her legs gently, tucking them beneath the blanket. He straightened it over her body with delicate precision, as though wrapping her in a promise. He stood over her for a moment, watching as her eyes fluttered closed. Her breathing steadied. The room fell quiet—only the subtle rustle of fabric, the distant hum of wind through the trees, and the slow exhale of exhaustion long ignored.

He leaned down once more and whispered, “I just want you to be okay, C. Let me be strong for you, too.”

Then he pressed a tender kiss to her temple and sat beside her in silence, keeping watch over the woman he loved more than anything.

As Winston sat at the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing absently over Clarissa’s hand resting above the blanket, his mind wandered—far from the quiet bedroom, far from the ticking clock on the wall. It drifted, inevitably, to her.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰 𝘐 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺?

It wasn’t the first time the thought crossed his mind, but tonight, it landed heavier than usual. Watching her curled beneath the blanket, her face still tense even in sleep, it broke something soft in him. He had always admired her fire—the way she took charge, the way her calendar overflowed with responsibilities that she still handled with grace. But lately, that fire looked more like a burden she carried on her back.

He sighed, quietly.

As much as he had on his own plate—the demands of the mining expansion project, his lectures at the university, the vineyard business in Napa that always seemed to need his attention—Clarissa’s pace was something else. Unrelenting. Almost impossible.

She didn’t just take on one thing at a time. She carried everything, all at once. Without pause. Without asking for help.

And that frightened him.

He leaned back slightly, resting on one hand, eyes never leaving her. She’d never admit when she was tired. Never say no to a meeting. Never ask someone else to carry the weight. It was as if she was afraid that the moment she stopped—even for a breath—the world would collapse.

But he knew better. What would collapse… was her.

His heart tightened with helplessness. She deserves more than exhaustion. More than waking up on the floor at one in the morning with a stiff neck and a laptop clinging to her side. She deserves rest. Joy. Soft mornings without stress. Late nights filled with warmth—not deadlines. He had wealth. He had resources. He had time he was willing to give. But none of it seemed enough if she wouldn’t let herself slow down.

A sigh escaped him again, deeper this time.

“How do I protect someone who won’t stop fighting everything alone?” he whispered to himself. Winston reached down and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb lingered on her temple for a beat longer than necessary, a silent vow unspoken in the quiet night.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴, he thought. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳… 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘺.

Winston sat quietly. The silence was not empty—it was full. Full of things left unsaid, of emotions too deep to be explained with words. His gaze stayed on her face, soft and vulnerable in sleep, and he felt it again—that ache in his chest that only love could create.

He knew he couldn’t change her.

He couldn’t ask her to be someone she’s not. He couldn’t demand that she slow down, abandon the work she so deeply believed in, or mute the fire that kept her going. That fire was a part of her. It was what made her Clarissa. It was what drew him in from the very beginning.

But just because he couldn’t change her didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to help. He didn’t want to fix her—she didn’t need fixing. He just wanted to hold her up when she was too tired to stand. To remind her that she wasn’t alone. To be the soft place she could fall into when everything else demanded she stay strong. To keep her okay, even if she never asked him to.

His heart swelled as his fingers gently traced the curve of her knuckles. So much had shifted in such a short time. Just weeks ago, she had been wrapped in grief, guarded, drowning in her own silence. He remembered the way she looked at him when he first offered her kindness—not with trust, but with disbelief. And still, she let him in. She welcomed him, even when her hands were shaking. She laughed again, even though her eyes still held the ghosts of old pain. She stayed up late with him, planned their future in soft whispers, kissed him like she wanted to believe in forever—though she once didn’t believe in tomorrow.

She cried, yes. She broke down sometimes, quietly. But she tried. She kept trying. And Winston knew… that kind of strength was beyond anything he had ever known.

He smiled faintly, heart full, hand still resting on hers. “Thank you,” he whispered, not to be heard but to be felt. “For trying. For staying. For choosing to be here, even when it hurt.

Winston leaned down and pressed a quiet kiss to her forehead.

In that moment, gratitude wrapped around his love like a promise. He would walk beside her. Not in front. Not behind. But right beside her—where she didn’t have to carry the weight alone. And whatever came next, he would be there. Not to change her. But to love her exactly as she was.

He knew. He had always known. Harvey was irreplaceable. There was no rivalry in death, no competition in memory. The love Clarissa once held—and perhaps always would hold—for Harvey wasn’t something Winston could challenge, nor would he ever dare to. That chapter of her life was etched in permanence, carved in grief and love and loss so deep it echoed in her silence, in the way she sometimes stared out the window too long, in the tears she thought no one saw.

But Winston didn’t come to replace. He came to walk beside.

Harvey was a special case. An irreplaceable name written on her soul. Winston had accepted that truth early on—perhaps before even she did. There would always be a part of her heart that belonged to someone else. But that didn’t make what he and Clarissa shared any less real. Any less whole.

It was different.

Not built on fireworks and instant clarity, but on patience. On healing. On deep conversations over cups of tea and quiet understanding. On showing up—again and again—even when she pushed him away or pulled into herself. It was built on the trust she never thought she’d offer again. The slow, painful, beautiful process of letting someone in when all you’ve ever known is loss. And Winston—he didn’t need to be her first love. He just wanted to be her last.

He didn’t want to erase her past. He wanted to live alongside it. With full awareness. With full heart. With a promise that said, “I see all of you, even the parts that don’t belong to me, and I still choose you.”

He looked at her again, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“I’m not here to replace Harvey,” he whispered into the stillness. “I’m here to love what’s left. To love you.”

And in his heart, he meant it more than anything he had ever said. Morning arrived quietly, blanketing the villa in a soft golden hue as sunlight filtered gently through the curtains. The air was cool, still holding the whisper of dawn, and the world outside had yet to fully stir. Clarissa shifted under the blanket, her brows furrowed slightly as the light kissed her cheeks. Her body ached just a little—a telling sign of how long she had pushed herself the night before. Slowly, her lashes fluttered open.

The familiar ceiling greeted her, and for a second, she wasn’t entirely sure how she had ended up in bed. Still wrapped in warmth, her eyes turned toward the side of the room. She yawned softly, stretching her arms with a sleepy groan before rubbing at her eyes. Her hair was a little tousled from sleep, her cheeks still flushed from exhaustion. The softness of the sheets felt comforting… grounding.

“Winston?” she murmured, her voice still raspy from sleep, eyes scanning for him as she slowly sat up, the blanket sliding off her shoulder. The quiet told her he wasn’t in the room—at least not at that moment—but something in the air told her… he had been. The glass of water on the bedside table, the laptop now closed and neatly stacked with her papers nearby. The gentle care she hadn’t asked for, but always received from him. Her heart softened.

𝘏𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, she thought. 𝘏𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵… 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

Still sleepy, Clarissa pulled the blanket tighter around herself and sighed—half guilt, half gratitude. Morning had come, and with it, the slow unraveling of yesterday’s weight.

The bathroom door creaked open with the faintest sound, and Winston stepped inside, a towel still draped around his neck, the scent of fresh soap lingering on him. His hair was damp, a few drops of water sliding down his neck, and his shirt clung just slightly from the steam of the shower. His eyes immediately found her— sleepy, half-upright in bed, clutching the blanket like a child too tired to pretend otherwise. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, tender and affectionate.

“Rest, darling. Rest,” he said gently, his voice deep and comforting in the quiet room. He approached her slowly, not wanting to rush the stillness she was in.

Clarissa blinked slowly, watching him with tired eyes. She opened her mouth slightly to say something, but he leaned down and placed a hand lightly on her head, brushing her hair back from her face with a thumb.

“You don’t need to say anything,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You did enough. You always do enough.”

She closed her eyes again, leaning into his hand, and for a moment— despite the endless work, the pressures, the broken pieces she kept patching inside herself— she felt whole. She felt safe.

“I just wanted to finish it all,” she murmured, still half-asleep.

“I know,” he said. “But even the strongest need to sleep. Let me be strong for you today.”

He pulled the blanket back over her shoulders, sitting down beside her on the edge of the bed, as if guarding her peace. “Close your eyes. I’m right here.”

And this time, she did.

Winston set the towel aside, running a hand through his still-damp hair as he pulled on a soft, casual shirt and a pair of linen pants— simple clothes for a quiet day at home. The morning light had begun to spill through the curtains, warm and golden, casting gentle patterns on the floor. He glanced back at the bed, where Clarissa had shifted slightly, now half-curled under the blanket, her face turned toward the sunlight with a peaceful, if still tired, expression.

Crossing the room quietly, he approached her and sat on the edge of the bed. With a tenderness born of familiarity and deep affection, Winston leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. His lips lingered for a second longer than usual— as if trying to pass some of his calm into her.

“I love you.” he whispered softly against her skin.

Clarissa stirred, eyes fluttering open just enough to see him, before closing again with a sigh that sounded like surrender— not to exhaustion this time, but to comfort.

To safety. To love.

He brushed his fingers along her temple. “You sleep a bit more. I’ll make us some breakfast.”

She nodded faintly, the smallest of smiles forming on her lips, and let herself sink back into the warmth of the sheets as he stood up again— already thinking about her favorite kind of tea.

END.

[siltrace]

The Future of Us

The soft breeze of Melbourne danced through her hair as she stood quietly on the balcony of their villa, the one they’d call home for the week. Clarissa looked worn—elegant, but undeniably tired. Her figure, tall yet delicate, bore the weight of a long day filled with back-to-back online meetings.

Though she and Winston had been only rooms apart, each was immersed in their own virtual battleground. The planning sessions for the upcoming academic year had been relentless.

While Winston handled the business faculty discussions, Clarissa had taken on the Visual Communication Design program. The conversations were intense, the decisions heavy, and her mind still echoed with unresolved debates.

Just then, Winston appeared beside her, two glasses of red wine in hand. He offered one with a knowing smile, joining her at the balcony’s edge. Her white silk nightdress fluttered gently in the wind, and for a moment, framed by the evening light, she looked like a painting—quiet, wind-touched, breathtaking.

“How’s everything?” Winston asked softly, offering her the glass. Clarissa took it, her fingers brushing his just briefly. She sipped slowly before answering, her eyes still focused on the skyline.

“Under control,” she said, almost too calmly.

But Winston knew her better than that. He could hear the fatigue hiding behind those two simple words—how her voice was steady, yet her shoulders were tense; how her eyes were fixed far out, but her thoughts were nowhere near the view.

He didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he leaned beside her, letting the silence fall between them like a soft blanket, giving her the space she didn’t know she needed.

Winston let the quiet settle for a moment longer before speaking again, his voice low and even. “They’re still arguing over the new assessment policy,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “The faculty board wants it implemented next semester, but half the staff say they’re not ready.”

Clarissa gave a dry smile, her gaze still set on the horizon. “Typical. Always rushing things. We barely finished last year’s transition.”

He glanced at her, noticing how the wind played with the strands of her hair. "What about VCD? Did you get any clarity on the new thesis structure?”

She sighed. “Clarity? If only. Half of them want to follow industry trends, the other half are stuck in theory. I spent an hour trying to keep the debate from turning into a shouting match.”

Winston chuckled under his breath, then looked at her more intently. “You handled it, though.”

She finally turned to him. “I did. But it’s draining, Winston. Some days, I feel like I’m holding it all together with thread and a handful of hope.”

He reached out, gently brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers. “You don’t have to do it alone.” Clarissa’s expression softened, her shoulders easing a little at his touch. “I know,” she whispered. “But I’m the rector. I carry everyone’s storms—students, staff, the board, the community. And still somehow… I carry myself.”

Winston moved closer, his voice firm yet warm. “You carry it with strength, Clarissa. But let me help. Even if just to carry you.”

The breeze picked up slightly as she looked down at her wine, then leaned her head against his shoulder. “Just be here,” she said quietly. “That’s enough for tonight.”

The wind whispered between them, catching the hem of Clarissa’s dress and the silence that had briefly settled. The night air was cool, crisp with Melbourne’s winter breath. Winston looked at her from the side, his eyes lingering longer this time—she looked small, not just physically, but in spirit too. Fragile, like glass that had been shattered and pieced together too many times. He took a sip of his wine, then placed the glass on the edge of the railing.

“Are you always this… weak?” His voice wasn’t accusing. It was laced with concern, almost fear. Not of her weakness, but of the quiet suffering she had become so skilled at hiding. Clarissa didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed forward, distant.

“Father said yes,” she replied plainly, her voice nearly lost in the wind. “That’s what he called me. Weak.”

Winston’s heart tightened. “How did you manage everything on your own, then?”

She hesitated—then finally turned her gaze toward him, tired eyes meeting his. There was no self-pity, no drama, only honesty. “I simply gave away in the middle,” she said quietly. “Not all at once… just little by little. I gave parts of myself away to survive. Until there wasn’t much left but duty and deadlines.”

Winston swallowed hard, suddenly aware that the woman who carried titles and power also carried silent wounds, wrapped neatly behind pressed blazers and composed expressions. He stepped closer, his hand finding hers without needing to ask. “You don’t have to keep giving yourself away to be worthy, Clarissa.”

She looked down at their hands, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then what else do I give, if not that?”

“Let me help carry it,” he said. “Not because you need saving… but because you deserve someone who stays, even when you fall apart.”

The silence returned—but this time, it was warmer. Less distant. Shared.

"What if we got married?"

Winston turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing not in anger, but in disbelief. Her words hung in the air, suspended between the sound of rustling trees and distant waves from the bay. He blinked a few times, trying to absorb what he’d just heard.

“C?” he asked gently, his voice edged with hesitation, not because he didn’t want it, but because she had once told him she wasn’t ready. Not soon. Not after Harvey. Not while she was still healing.

Clarissa kept her eyes on the horizon. Her posture didn’t change, but her fingers tightened slightly around her wine glass.

“I’ve been thinking about this lately,” she said, still gazing forward. Her voice was calm, but there was something else behind it—vulnerability. “I feel like I just want to settle down. I feel the warmth and safety in you.”

Winston took a deep breath, watching her carefully. “You told me back then that you needed time. That you weren’t ready. That you were still healing.”

She nodded.

“I was. I still am, maybe. But I’ve come to understand something…” she paused, choosing her words. “Healing doesn’t mean waiting to be whole. It means choosing what’s good for you while still carrying the wounds. And I don’t want to run from what feels good anymore.”

Winston moved closer, standing in front of her now, gently taking the wine glass from her hand and setting it aside. His eyes searched hers.

“Are you sure this isn’t just another way to escape the noise?” he asked, voice low, not wanting to wound, but needing to protect her from herself too.

“I’m not running,” she whispered. “I’m choosing. For the first time, I want to choose not out of fear, or grief, or pressure. I want to choose you.”

Winston's breath trembled, his hand reaching up to gently touch her cheek. “Then say it again. Not because you’re tired or afraid or alone.”

Clarissa looked at him—eyes tired, but steady.

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥?” she asked again, softer this time, but certain.

He exhaled slowly, a bittersweet smile forming. “Then we’d better start planning something beautiful… for all the right reasons.”

“Can we keep it small?” she asked softly, brushing a strand of her hair away from her face. “Something intimate… just a civil ceremony. For our inner circle only. No press, no grand ballroom, no noise.”

Winston nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting the moonlight, calm yet filled with something deep. “Yes,” he whispered. “Something quiet… away from all the eyes, all the noise. Far from expectations.”

She turned her body slightly toward him, the silk of her dress catching in the breeze. “I don’t want a spectacle. I don’t want the crowd. I just want something that feels like… us. Quiet, sacred. Private.”

Winston smiled, tenderly.

“Then let it be just that. You, me… and only the ones who truly matter.”

She leaned her head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “A new beginning,” she murmured, “but this time, not for anyone else’s approval. Just ours.”

His arms wrapped around her, sealing that promise—simple, unspoken, but deeply understood. They held each other for a long moment—tightly, as if neither wanted to let go.

The chill of Melbourne’s evening breeze was no match for the warmth that passed between them. Clarissa’s arms wrapped around Winston’s waist, his hands gently cupping the back of her head, pulling her closer until their foreheads met.

Without a word, they each reached to set down their half-finished glasses of wine onto the small table beside them. The soft clink of glass against wood was the only sound between their silence—until their lips met. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. It was slow, tender, and filled with meaning. A quiet agreement sealed in that kiss: this was their moment, their promise, their future—no longer dictated by anyone else.

Just them.

Clarissa’s fingers tightened against his shirt, while Winston held her as if she might slip away, anchoring her in a world that had too often felt unstable. She pulled back just slightly, resting her forehead against his again, eyes shut.

“Let’s do this right,” she whispered. “For once… just right.”

Winston nodded, a smile brushing his lips. “For us.”

He held her face gently in his hands, his thumbs softly brushing her cheeks as he looked into her eyes—deeply, unwavering. The city lights below flickered in the distance, but all he saw was her.

“I mean it, C,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I’ll take care of you… the way you deserve. Not just when things are good, but even when it’s hard. Even when you shut down. When you're tired. When you're silent. I’ll still be here.”

Clarissa's lips trembled faintly, eyes glistening with something unspoken. He continued, more firmly this time—still gentle, but from the heart.

“I’ll never ask you to be more than what you already are. You don’t need to prove anything. Just be with me. Let me carry some of it when you’re too tired to stand on your own.”

A breath caught in her chest. Then she nodded, slow and fragile—like someone who hadn’t let herself believe in this kind of promise in a long time. “I want to believe you,” she whispered. “Then let me show you,” he said, pulling her in again—this time into a quieter, warmer kind of embrace. One that held no rush. Just home.

Tears streamed gently down Clarissa’s cheeks—quiet, unhurried, as if her heart had finally allowed the dam to break. It wasn’t rare for her to cry, but this time, something felt different. This moment peeled her open—layer by layer—until she stood before him, wholly vulnerable, yet deeply seen.

Winston didn’t flinch. He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the trails of tears. Then, without needing to ask, he leaned in and kissed her—tender, reverent, full of devotion. Not a kiss to silence her, but one that embraced her fragility.

He rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed as he whispered against her skin.

“My wife. My beautiful wife,” he said with breathless adoration. “The goddess I worship and live for. You are, my love, everything I’ve asked for.”

His voice was steady, but filled with emotion—raw and grounding.

“I love you… from the very first time we bumped into each other. You—your presence—it shook something awake in me. You’re the existence I’ve longed for. The woman I adore. The warmth I need when the world turns cold. You’re the moon to my heart.”

Clarissa let out a small sob as she pressed her lips to his again—grateful, undone, and slowly, deeply letting herself believe. In him. In them. In everything that now felt like home.

Winston held her tighter, as though any space between them would risk losing this sacred moment. His arms wrapped around her waist, firm but tender, as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. Her scent, familiar and soft, grounded him in the here and now—where all the noise of the world fell away.

He breathed her in slowly. His heart, usually calm and composed, now pulsed with a rhythm only she could evoke. It ached, not out of pain, but from the overwhelming rush of love that surged through every part of him.

This woman—complex, brilliant, brave, and broken—was giving herself to him, fully. It shook him to his core.

“I don’t think you’ll ever know how much I needed you,” he whispered into her shoulder. “Not just wanted… needed. You walked into my life, Clarissa, and everything made sense. The chaos. The loneliness. The way I used to guard myself.”

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes—those weary, shining eyes that carried a thousand storms.

“I used to think I was okay on my own. That being in control was safer. But then you happened. You walked into my world with your strength and sorrow, and without even knowing it… you unraveled me. And I’ve never felt more whole.”

Clarissa tried to speak, but he gently placed his finger on her lips, just for a moment.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just stay. Just let me love you the way you deserve. Let me carry what hurts. Let me protect the fire in you, even on the days you can’t see it.”

His voice faltered slightly, emotion catching in his throat.

“I’m not perfect. I’ll fail sometimes. But I will never stop choosing you. Never stop loving you. You’re my clarity, C. My peace. My reason.”

And in that quiet, wind-brushed Melbourne night, with hearts exposed and walls fallen, Winston knew—deep in his bones—this wasn’t just love. It was a vow, unspoken but sacred. One he’d keep for the rest of his life.

Clarissa leaned into him, her forehead resting gently against his. Her eyes, still shimmering from tears, closed—finally finding a rare stillness in the storm that had been her life. His breath was warm against her skin. Safe. Real.

The wind outside the villa hummed softly, rustling the sheer curtains behind them, as if the world had quieted just for them. Below, the city lights of Melbourne flickered like stars scattered across the ground, unaware of the quiet miracle unfolding above.

Clarissa’s fingers slid slowly into Winston’s, interlocking like they were meant to be there all along. “I want this,” she whispered. “Not just tonight. Not just when things are beautiful and easy… I want us. Even when I break down. Even when I fall silent. Just... be there.”

Winston nodded, holding her hands tighter. “Always.”

Together, they stood on the balcony, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the night sky their witness. There were no grand gestures left to make—no fireworks, no crowd to impress. Just two souls, battered and brave, choosing love in its rawest, simplest form.

And in that stillness, they both knew: This was the beginning of something unshakable. Not perfect, but true. Not loud, but infinite. A love they would build not with vows alone— But with presence, with patience, and with quiet, everyday grace.

And for the first time in a very long time, Clarissa believed… she would be okay.

Because he was home.

END.

[siltrace]

Tension in Between

The meeting room was quiet—too quiet, for Clarissa’s liking. The air-conditioning hummed low as the faculty board sat around the polished teakwood table, papers in hand, expressions unreadable. Outside, the campus buzzed with the typical energy of midday lectures, but inside this room, it felt like time had slowed.

Professor Rendra, head of the senior board, leaned forward, clearing his throat. “Madam Rector, with the upcoming reformation in administrative structure, I’d like to propose a name for the new Vice Rector for External Relations…”

Clarissa sat upright, eyes focused.

Rendra continued, “Winston Langford.”

A murmur of agreement moved across the table. A few heads nodded. His credentials were strong—academic experience, ties to international business networks, an active role in cross-border education partnerships. But Clarissa didn’t blink.

She folded her hands atop her folder and, after a moment of silence, spoke clearly. “I appreciate the recommendation, Prof. Rendra, and I recognize Mr. Langford’s contributions. However, I must dismiss the motion.”

It was calm. Controlled. Professional.

Rendra raised an eyebrow. “May I ask why?”

Her voice didn’t waver. “We value integrity in our leadership—not only in qualifications, but also in perception,” Clarissa said steadily, her eyes calmly scanning the faces seated around the long oak table. “While Mr. Langford is indeed capable and has demonstrated professional merit, his relationship with me presents a clear conflict of interest.”

The room grew tense. Several glanced at one another, unsure whether to challenge or retreat. She continued, her tone even but resolute, “I want to be perfectly clear. This is not about a lack of trust in his capabilities, nor is it some personal disagreement. But the suggestion itself—while perhaps made in goodwill—invites a dangerous precedent.”

Clarissa looked directly at Professor Rendra, then slowly to Prof. Intan, and the others. “This university does not belong to me. It belongs to the public. To our students. To the communities we serve. If we appoint someone who is not only affiliated with me professionally, but also connected to me personally—regardless of his qualifications—we compromise the very principles we teach.”

She could feel it coming—the assumptions. So she went ahead and met them head-on.

“And let me add this before it’s whispered outside this room: This decision has nothing to do with who my father is. Nor does it have anything to do with the fact that Winston Langford is my fiancé. He did not lobby for this role. He never even mentioned it.

In fact, if he knew this conversation was happening, I’m sure he’d oppose it outright.” She took a breath, letting the weight of her words settle.

“I didn’t get to where I am today because I leaned on someone’s name. I didn’t get here because of the man I was with, or because I played the politics of inheritance. I got here because I worked. I earned it. And I will protect this university with the same tenacity.”

A few in the room glanced down at their papers, guilt simmering quietly beneath the surface.

"Recusing myself from a vote doesn’t erase the implications. My title alone makes neutrality impossible in this situation. Every decision Winston makes, every policy he introduces, every mistake—real or perceived—will be seen through the lens of favoritism. That isn’t fair to him, and it isn’t fair to this institution.”

A beat of silence. Then another. “And let me remind you,” she added softly, but with a quiet edge, “that the strength of this university lies in its discipline and its accountability. I will not be the one to blur that line.”

Professor Rendra let out a slow exhale, nodding—reluctantly, but with respect. “Understood, Madam Rector. We’ll revisit the shortlist with fresh eyes.”

“Thank you,” Clarissa replied gently, with a small nod of acknowledgment.

One by one, the board members stood and began to leave. Papers shuffled, chairs creaked, and quiet footsteps filled the room as it slowly emptied. Clarissa lingered, hands still folded on the polished table. She stared out the large window overlooking the campus quad, a storm of unspoken emotion behind her otherwise composed eyes. Winston would understand.

He would never want a title that questioned her integrity, or his own. And this, too, was love. Not the romantic kind whispered in bedrooms or written in letters.

But the quiet kind—the kind that protects from behind the scenes. The kind that says no when yes would be easier. Because real love, when placed beside power, must remain unshakably principled. Even when it hurts.

Later that evening, the light from the window had long faded. Evening wrapped the room in a muted blue, broken only by the soft golden glow of a desk lamp beside Clarissa. She was seated in her armchair, still in her formal blouse, though her heels were long discarded. A cup of untouched tea sat cooling beside her. She heard the door open quietly behind her. Winston stepped in. She didn’t look up—not yet. Just closed the document in her lap.

“I heard,” he said softly.

Clarissa finally met his eyes. “From who?”

“Intan. She thought I should know.” Silence stretched for a moment.

“She didn’t mean harm,” Winston added. “She was just… surprised, I think. That you rejected the motion so quickly. Without even consulting me.”

Clarissa’s fingers tightened slightly around her pen. “Because I knew what you would say.

Winston crossed the room slowly and knelt down in front of her, gently taking her hands into his. His voice was soft. “Say it anyway.”

She hesitated.

“Because I knew you would say no. Because I knew you’d rather earn it through your own path than have it handed to you through proximity to me. Because you’d never want to put me in a position where anyone—anyone—could say I made that choice out of anything but merit.”

A silence passed. She tried to blink away the weight building behind her eyes. “And because I love you too much to let the world ruin you in my name.”

Winston looked up at her, eyes gentle, brows slightly pulled with quiet ache.

“You didn’t ruin anything. You protected everything. Me. The institution. Yourself.” He paused, then added with more gravity, “But who protects you, Clarissa?”

The question broke something inside her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe no one. Maybe I stopped asking a long time ago.”

Winston pulled her into his arms. She let herself fall into his chest, letting her breath still against him. For a while, they stayed like that—no speeches, no more arguments, just the quiet kind of holding that only two deeply connected people understand.

After a long moment, Winston whispered against her hair, “You’re not alone anymore. Even if I have to stand behind you quietly while you lead. Even if the world only sees your light, not the way you carry mine too.”

Clarissa shut her eyes, and this time, let the tears fall. She didn’t need a title beside his. She didn’t need recognition for choosing the hard road. She just needed this.

The steady rhythm of his heart beneath her ear. The promise, spoken not with grandeur, but with truth: That even when love has to take the back seat to principle—it never leaves the room.

The silence between them had turned heavy. Clarissa was brushing her hair at her vanity. Winston stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze somewhere distant beyond the city lights of Tangerang.

“You’ve barely said a word since,” she said quietly, not turning around.

He didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled slowly, like he was trying to contain something. “I’m just thinking,” he finally said. “Thinking or resenting?”

Clarissa turned slightly, watching him through the mirror. He looked at her then. “Is that what you think this is?”

“I think you’re upset I made a decision without you.” “I’m upset that you didn’t trust me enough to make it with you.”

Her brush stilled. She stood up. “It wasn’t about trust. It was about protecting you.”

“But I didn’t ask to be protected, Clarissa!” he snapped, louder now, surprising even himself. “You made that choice for both of us, like I was some liability you had to manage.”

Her jaw clenched. “Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not. I’m telling you how it felt,” he replied sharply. “Do you know how humiliating it is to hear from someone else that the woman I love shut down a proposal in a meeting I wasn’t even invited to?”

Clarissa stared at him, the weight in her chest growing.

“You think this is easy for me? Do you know how many people think I sleep my way through power just because I exist in a position they can't handle a woman holding?”

“I know,” he said, more forcefully now. “I know you’ve had to fight twice as hard for half the damn credit. I’ve seen it, Clarissa. But for once, can we not make this about your war alone? We’re supposed to be a team. A team. And today? You left me on the sidelines like I was just some intern you needed to manage.”

Silence. Thick and suffocating.

Clarissa’s eyes narrowed slightly. Her voice came out low, rough with strain. “You think I wanted to do that? You think it didn’t gut me too?” Her voice rose, breaking. “I’ve lost so much, Winston. My name. My family. My place in every goddamn room I walk into. I’ve rebuilt myself from ashes—and every time I start to feel safe, it’s like the world is waiting to set me on fire again.”

Winston looked at her, but the softness wasn’t there yet. His jaw clenched. “Then why won’t you let me burn with you?”

“Because I can’t lose you too!” she snapped, eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “I’ve had knives in my back and shame shoved down my throat for years. I’ve been called a whore, a manipulator, a woman who sleeps her way to power. I’ve fought to stay clean in a system designed to crush people like me. And I will not let them turn you into another target just because you’re mine.”

Winston flinched at the word—mine. His voice lowered, controlled but heavy with anger.

“So you get to decide what happens to me? What I’m allowed to face? You think I’m so fragile I can’t stand up for us?”

“I think the moment they tie you to me, they’ll come after you, not your work. Not your name. You think they’ll care about your qualifications once they paint you as the rector’s boytoy?” He stepped toward her—slow, seething. “Let me be angry, Clarissa. You made a choice for me. You told an entire boardroom that I wasn’t ready without ever asking me if I wanted the job. You didn’t even give me a chance to fail. You just cut me out.”

Clarissa stepped back, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “You’re right. I did. And I did it because I was scared. Because I love you too much to watch them tear you down.”

Winston’s expression cracked—just a little.

“Do you have any idea how small that made me feel?” he asked, his voice shaking now. “To find out from someone else? To sit there, smiling through gritted teeth, while they all talk about how I was ‘handled’ by the rector?”

A beat.

“I didn’t need your shield, Clarissa,” he continued. “I needed your partnership.”

Her shoulders dropped. Her lips trembled. “I didn’t mean to humiliate you.”

“I know you didn’t,” he said. “But you did. And even if your reasons came from love… it doesn’t change the fact that it hurt.”

Silence again. Not cold, this time—just heavy with emotion. He stepped closer, slower now, his voice finally softening. “I need to know that next time, you won’t walk through hell for me while locking me out. I need to walk through it with you. Side by side.”

Clarissa looked at him—truly looked. Raw. Wounded. Honest. “I’m trying to unlearn how to be alone in survival,” she whispered.

“I’ve done it for too long.”

Winston reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away this time. “Then let me remind you. You’re not alone anymore.” She nodded—tired, but slowly healing.

“Then come here. Fight beside me.”

And he did. This time, with fire in his chest and her hand in his. The first fight they had— and a big one, in fact.

. . .

The office door slammed shut—louder than necessary. Clarissa didn’t look up. She knew it was Winston. Only he entered like that when he was holding too much anger to speak.

She kept her eyes on the report in front of her, pen tapping against the desk. “You’re mad,” she said calmly.

“Mad?” His voice cracked like lightning. “Mad doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

Clarissa slowly placed her pen down and looked up. “Then say what you need to say.”

“I don’t know, Clarissa. Should I be grateful?” he sneered. “Grateful you saved me from... what exactly? Public perception? A title I didn’t ask for, but the board thought I deserved?”

She met his eyes. “You weren’t ready.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I do when it affects this entire university. When it affects me. When people start talking behind my back about favoritism. About how I sleep with my staff and hand out positions like wedding gifts—yes, Winston, I do.”

He took a step forward, eyes sharp.

“But that’s not what this is about, is it? It’s about you. About how you’re terrified of losing control. How everything in your life has to be managed and measured and dictated by you. You don’t know how to share the wheel.”

She stood up, her voice rising. "Because the last time I did, it cost me everything! My name. My career. My relationship with my father. I built myself back brick by brick—and I won’t let you burn that down just because you feel emasculated over a goddamn position.”

He stared at her. His jaw clenched. “This isn’t about the title, Clarissa. It’s about the fact that you don’t trust me to stand beside you.”

“I trust you,” she replied, chest heaving. “I love you.”

“You love the idea of me. The man you can hold at night, not the one you’ll stand next to when the lights are on and everyone’s watching.”

“Stop it.”

“No. You stopped believing in me the second this got real. You didn't even discuss it with me. You made the decision on your own. Again.”

“You want the truth?” she snapped. “I didn’t just stop believing in you. I stopped believing in us the moment you stood there in front of that boardroom looking at me like I was your obstacle. Not your partner.”

The silence exploded between them. Winston stepped back.

“Maybe that’s what you are.”

Clarissa’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened—but nothing came out. And then—

“GET OUT!” she screamed.

The words ripped through the room, sharp and painful. Her voice broke. “Just get the hell out of my office, Winston.”

He froze. For the first time, visibly shaken.

“Is this how you handle conflict?” he said bitterly. “You shut it down. You scream and push people away so you don’t have to feel.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

“No. This is how I protect myself. Because every time I let someone get too close, they leave. Or die. Or decide I’m too much. And you—right now—you’re proving I was right to fear this.”

He looked away. Regret already forming behind his frustration. But Clarissa wasn’t done.

“I’ve been fighting every day of my damn life to be taken seriously. As a woman. As a rector. As someone who didn’t inherit her title or her place at the table. I’ve bled for this job, for this life. And you think I would just throw it all away—for you?”

Her voice cracked again, and this time the tears fell, silent and angry. Winston’s mouth opened. He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Not now.”

And he didn’t.

He left. This time, quietly.

Outside the office, silence had fallen like a heavy curtain. The sharp echo of “GET OUT!” still rang faintly in the mind of the secretary, Andien, who sat at her neat desk just outside Clarissa’s door. It was the first time she'd ever heard Clarissa raise her voice.

Andien had worked with her for nearly four years. Through packed meetings, difficult board reviews, and the loss of Clarissa’s late fiancé—never once had she seen her break composure. Clarissa Florentine was known for her unshakeable grace.

Cold at times, yes, but always composed. Always in control. But this... was something else. The door burst open, and Winston stepped out—face tense, jaw clenched, a deep frown digging into his features. Andien’s eyes dropped immediately. She stood and bowed slightly, an automatic gesture of respect. Her gaze, however, couldn’t help but catch the pain flickering in Winston’s eyes.

He didn’t say a word.

Just ran a frustrated hand down his face, breathing hard. The veins on his temple visible. For a moment, he seemed lost—torn between going back in and walking away.

Then he turned.

Andien stepped aside as he passed her desk and strode down the hallway with heavy, angry footsteps. His dress shoes clacked sharply against the polished floor. His usually calm demeanor had all but evaporated, replaced with something jagged and wounded.

She watched as he disappeared into the east wing and entered his own office, slamming the door with far less force than the one before—but it was still loud enough to make her flinch. Andien sat back down slowly.

Her fingers trembled a little as they hovered above her keyboard. For the first time in years, she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do.

Clarissa had screamed. Winston had stormed out. And whatever had happened behind those closed doors… it wasn’t just a lovers’ quarrel. It was something deeper. Something beginning to unravel. And somewhere in her heart, Andien worried—this wasn't the end of it.

The loud bang echoed through the hallway, followed by an eerie silence—and then came the sound of chaos. Winston didn’t look up right away. He had been pacing in his office, mind still simmering from the fight he had with Clarissa earlier that morning.

Harsh words, raised voices, the way she screamed at him… it all clung to him like static. He had never seen her like that. And she had never seen him so angry.

But then—shouting. Feet pounding. The unmistakable swell of panic rising like a wave just outside his door. He hesitated. His hand froze on the edge of the desk.

Then someone screamed. The sound of students rushing, heels clacking, voices trembling—it became impossible to ignore.

He stepped out into the corridor. The sight that greeted him knocked the air from his lungs. Dozens of students were crammed into the hallway, some standing on their toes to see past the forming wall of bodies, others already crying. Phones were out. Panic was thick in the air, and no one seemed to know what to do. Winston scanned the crowd, frowning. And then—

“Professor Winston! That’s Professor Clarissa!”

The words hit him like ice water. “No—what?” he stammered.

But the student had already pointed down the hallway. “She collapsed! We think it’s her—please!”

He ran. No hesitation. No more thinking.

He shoved past students, ignoring the shocked gasps, pushing toward the center of the crowd. People made way—some reluctantly, some with recognition in their eyes—as he barreled through, heart hammering, dread clawing up his throat.

And then he saw her. Clarissa.

She was on the floor, her head tilted unnaturally, eyes barely open. Her body limp in the arms of another faculty member, her breathing shallow. Her silk blouse wrinkled. Her hands cold. Her skin—so pale.

“Clarissa!” Winston dropped to his knees beside her.

His hands trembled as he cupped her face. “Clarissa—hey. Hey. Look at me. Wake up. Come on—please…”

No response. Her lips parted slightly, but there were no words.

“Get an ambulance—now!” he roared at the crowd behind him.

“I already called!” a student cried. “They’re five minutes away!”

Winston bent over her, cradling her carefully, his chest aching. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you. It’s me—Winston. Just hang on. Please don’t close your eyes.”

But her eyelids fluttered like she was slipping under water.

And then came the faculty.

“Langford! What happened?!” one of the senior lecturers barked, pushing through the crowd. “What did you do?!”

Winston looked up, stunned. “What?! I—no! I didn’t—”

“You fought with her!” another professor snapped, panic on her face.

“I heard it! Everyone heard it! She screamed, Winston!”

“I know! I know, but—” his voice broke, gaze darting between them and the woman fading in his arms. “We argued, but I never thought—she was fine. She was just tired. I thought she just needed space—”

“You pushed her too far,” one muttered, shaking their head. “Damn it, Langford. She’s not just your colleague—she’s our rector!”

“I know that!” Winston yelled, anguish leaking into every word. “She’s also the woman I love!”

The hallway fell into stunned silence for a second as students whispered and faculty exchanged looks. Winston didn’t care. He bent over Clarissa again, his hand brushing through her damp hair, whispering her name like a prayer.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured, eyes glistening.

“Please don’t leave me like this. We were supposed to fight, laugh, forgive. That’s what people do when they love each other… right?”

Her lips moved, almost imperceptibly. But her eyes didn’t open. A few faculty began herding students back.

"Go, everyone, go! Back to your classes, now!”

Others tried to maintain order, while still throwing glances toward the unconscious rector and the man holding her like she might vanish in his arms. And then—sirens. They were close now. Blinding red lights flared through the glass windows at the end of the hallway. Winston didn’t move. He leaned his forehead against hers, voice cracking into silence.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Don’t let this be our last conversation. I can’t lose you, Clarissa. Not like this. Not when I was just starting to understand you. Not when I’ve only just begun.”

Paramedics rushed in. But Winston held her tighter, as if letting go might break something beyond repair.

The moment the paramedics knelt beside her, a tall woman in a white coat swiftly pushed through the gathering. Dr. Amara Santosa—head of the medical faculty—firm, seasoned, and commanding—knelt down next to Clarissa and immediately checked her pulse.

“Step aside, Winston,” she said sharply without looking at him. “I—please, just let me—”

“I said move.”

Her tone left no room for argument. She gently but swiftly shifted Clarissa into the paramedics' care, guiding their hands with the precision of someone who had done this many times before. The emergency responders followed her lead, placing an oxygen mask gently over Clarissa’s face as her shallow breathing continued.

Winston stumbled back, hands shaking, helplessness rising like a tide. He looked pale, shattered. A voice came from behind him. Low, disappointed.

“You can’t push her like this,” Professor Rizal, an older faculty member from law, said with a frown. Winston turned to face him, swallowing hard.

“We take precautions around Clarissa because we know her,” Rizal continued. “You may see her as strong, calm, poised—but she’s been carrying more than most of us could ever bear. And we—her colleagues, her students, this institution—have done our part to protect her.”

Another professor, this time from the psychology department, stepped forward. “She screamed for the first time in years this morning, Winston. Do you have any idea what that meant to those of us who’ve worked with her since the beginning? She’s not well. You were supposed to be her partner, not her pressure.”

Winston clenched his jaw, tears forming in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. We just fought—people argue. I didn’t know she—"

“Exactly,” the psychologist interjected. “You didn’t know. Engaged to her, and yet...”

“Yet you missed the signs,” Rizal finished. “She’s not just a rector. She’s a woman who lost someone she loved—twice. Harvey didn’t just leave. He died. Do you really think she just snapped out of it?”

“Engaged to you doesn’t mean she’s healed,” Amara said without looking up as she worked. “It could just be her coping mechanism. You should’ve known that. You should’ve been more careful.”

Winston’s heart felt like it was caving in.

The words didn’t just sting—they buried him. He turned his head slightly to the side, watching as Clarissa’s still, pale body was gently lifted onto the stretcher.

“Let’s get her to the hospital. Stabilize her en route,” Amara instructed the paramedics, standing up as the team began to move. Winston instinctively reached out toward the stretcher.

“Don’t,” she said, turning to face him directly now. “Let the professionals do what needs to be done. You’ve done enough.”

The corridor was quieter now, but the silence was heavier than before. Clarissa was wheeled away. And all Winston could do was stand there. Empty. Paralyzed.

He had come to this university for a job, and he found love. But now, he wondered… had that love—his love—become another burden for her to carry?

END.

[siltrace]

The Family Dinner

Tonight wasn’t just another night. It wasn’t the kind of evening Clarissa could brush off with a sigh or pass with quiet indifference. It was the kind that made breathing feel like a conscious effort. This dinner, this gathering—meant more than it appeared.

It wasn’t just about food or polite conversation. It was about her return. Her re-entry into a family she had distanced herself from for so long. A reunion not only with her father, Arya, but also with those she had kept at arm’s length: Kirana, Melissa, Derek, Kala, Dewa… and now, even her new sister-in-law, Tessa.

She had built walls. Walls that protected, yes, but also isolated. And tonight, for reasons too deep to name, she was choosing to show up. To sit at this table again.

Beside her sat Winston—her fiancé. A man she barely knew in full, but somehow trusted enough to let into this intimate part of her world. Tonight, he was her anchor.

The table brimmed with elegant small talk. Derek, ever composed with his American flair, lifted his glass first. “This is truly a joyful occasion,” he said, tone gracious, charming. “We’re so grateful to spend this evening together. Thank you for welcoming us.”

Melissa smiled warmly, her poise natural, effortless. “It means the world to us to be part of this evening. Welcoming new members into the Langford and Spencer families is a gift, Arya. Thank you for this.”

Arya nodded, clearly proud. “The honor is ours. It’s only a small start, really. But I believe it marks a meaningful new chapter—for all of us.”

Clarissa glanced across the table, noting how Melissa radiated grace without needing to flaunt status or symbols. A simple dress, delicate jewelry—yet everyone knew who she was. Old money. Aristocracy wrapped in quiet elegance.

Beside her, Kirana sparkled—literally—in a gown weighed down by oversized diamonds and glittering accessories. Yet somehow, beside the effortless sophistication of the Spencers, Kirana’s shine felt... loud. Slightly desperate. And in that moment, Clarissa knew: the Langfords weren’t trying to impress. Kirana was trying to keep up in a game they never agreed to play.

With a slightly stiff smile, Kirana tried to hold her posture, but Clarissa could see through it. This dinner wasn’t easy for her stepmother, and perhaps never would be.

Then came the moment Arya signaled her with a gentle nod. Clarissa placed her glass down softly, inhaling through her nose before speaking.

“I want to thank you all for being here tonight,” she began, her voice steady but filled with emotion. “Especially you, Mummy and Daddy.” She turned to Derek and Melissa, her words sincere. “It should be me thanking you—for welcoming me into your family with such warmth.”

Melissa reached over and touched her hand gently. “Oh Clarissa, you’ve always been a joy. We’re honored to have you.”

That was when Arya’s pride practically glowed from his face.

“I also wanted to take this moment,” Clarissa continued, looking at everyone, “to formally introduce someone very important to me.” She turned to Winston, a soft, quiet smile tugging at her lips.

“This is Winston Langford… my fiancé. We met at the University of Madhava, where we both teach in the Business Faculty. It started from something simple, just work, but over time… it grew.”

She paused, her voice softening, weighted by memory.

“I know it hasn’t been long since Harvey’s passing. And I know that some may think it’s too soon. But I want you to know… I’m not forgetting him. I never will. He was a chapter of love in my life—one that shaped me."

She glanced at her lap, gathering strength, then looked up. “But I’ve spent too long just surviving. Grieving. Being still. And when Winston came into my life, I didn’t plan it. I didn’t expect it. But I felt something shift inside me. I felt the courage to try again. To feel again. And the Langfords… all of you… have shown me nothing but grace and kindness.”

A flicker of emotion caught in her throat. “I’m choosing to live again. That’s why I’m here tonight. That’s why I’m sharing this with you.”

The table fell silent for a moment, and in that pause, there was something sacred. Acceptance. Acknowledgement. Even love.

Clarissa felt like maybe—just maybe—she belonged.

Winston stood from his seat with calm confidence, adjusting his posture before gently placing a hand on Clarissa’s shoulder. His eyes scanned the table—new faces, unfamiliar yet tied together now by this gathering, by her.

“Good evening,” he began. “I’m Winston Langford. I currently teach part-time in the Business Faculty at the University of Madhava… and outside of that, I manage certain operational matters for my family’s mining business—part of the Spencer side, my mother’s heritage, here in Indonesia. I’m also involved in our family winery in Napa Valley, which is where I spend much of my time when I’m back in the States.”

He paused briefly, then smiled softly. "But tonight, I’m not here as a professional. I’m here simply… as a man who is deeply in love. And I wanted to personally introduce myself, and ask for your blessing—as I am becoming part of this family through Clarissa.”

He reached down, took her hand with a tenderness that drew the room’s attention, and looked at her—like she was the only person that existed in that moment. “I fell for her the very first moment I met her,” he continued, his voice warm.

“It was at the campus, and I didn’t even realize she was the rector—my boss, in fact,” he added with a light chuckle, easing the mood. “We bumped into each other—literally. And I just… knew. There was something about her. Something strong, yet soft. Wounded, but still willing to stand.”

He glanced at her again, the pride in his expression undeniable.

“She’s brought joy into my life in a way I didn’t know I needed. And when she asked for this engagement… I understood. She wanted to heal. To move forward, even if it’s hard. And I told her then what I’ll say now…” He looked around the table again, voice unwavering. “Whatever makes her happy, I’ll stand by it. And I’ll stand by her. Every step of the way.”

Clarissa smiled at him, eyes shimmering just faintly under the lights. She mouthed a quiet, grateful thank you—small, but full of meaning. And in the silence that followed, it wasn’t just approval that hung in the air, but something deeper.

Understanding. Connection. Family.

“I’ve proposed for a marriage, actually,” Winston added, his voice gentle but sure. “But Clarissa… she asked for time. And I understand that. After everything she’s been through, her healing matters more than a date on a calendar. So I told her—take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

He gave her hand a soft squeeze, as if to say I’m here. Still here. Always.

“I’ll wait for the day she’s ready to walk down that path again, fully—without fear, without hesitation. And until then, I’ll just keep loving her the way she deserves.”

Everyone at the table applauded warmly, some with wide smiles, others with softened expressions, touched by the sincerity in Winston’s words. Clarissa gave a small, polite bow of her head as Winston returned to his seat beside her. Their hands found each other again beneath the table—quiet, steady, interlaced.

Derek rose with a gracious smile, lifting his glass ever so slightly as he spoke, his voice calm and composed with a practiced elegance.

“We brought with us a little something from home,” he announced, gesturing to the servers as they moved around the room with silver trays. “A bottle of our estate’s very special red wine, and of course, our handcrafted grape juice—for those who prefer something non-alcoholic. All harvested from our vineyards in Napa Valley. Please, do enjoy.”

The servers gracefully filled each glass—deep red wine glowing softly under the lights, and the vibrant hue of the grape juice catching the crystal like stained glass.

The rich scent of the vintage began to mingle with the warm air of the room. Arya nodded appreciatively. “It’s not every day we’re treated with something this exquisite. Thank you, Derek. And thank you, Melissa.”

Melissa smiled, ever poised. “We thought it fitting for a moment like this—to celebrate new beginnings, with something aged just right.” Clarissa lifted her glass, glancing across the table. Her eyes lingered on her father, then flicked to Kirana and the others—her step-siblings, her past, and everything that once made her distant. But tonight, she wasn’t alone in facing it.

“To family,” she said gently.

Winston, softly, echoed, “To healing and family.”

Glasses clinked lightly, one after another, a chorus of crystal and warmth filling the space. Kirana’s smile twitched at the corners as the Langfords continued to radiate poise, calm, and what she could only interpret as subtle dominance cloaked in impeccable manners.

Her dress—glittering with oversized gems and a plunging neckline—suddenly felt loud. Excessive. Especially next to Melissa, whose understated, cream-toned silk blouse and tailored trousers seemed to scream old money in the quietest, most elegant way possible.

There was a heat rising in Kirana’s chest. Not from the wine.

“I do hope you’re her last one, Winston,” she said suddenly, voice honeyed but edged. “In any case, she’s already a 'widow' before a marriage—twice failed. That’s not something we’re exactly proud of, is it?”

The room stilled slightly. A small clink from a fork dropping onto a plate. Clarissa remained silent, her expression unreadable, but her hand subtly slipped away from Winston’s beneath the table. Arya inhaled sharply, biting the inside of his cheek. He knew this side of Kirana. He also knew this could turn the entire evening into a disaster.

But before he could speak, Melissa’s voice—warm and polished—cut cleanly through the tension.

“Oh, don’t say that,” she said with a small, gracious smile. “Clarissa’s a blissful woman. Intelligent, accomplished, stunning. We’re very, very proud to welcome such an angel into our family. Right, Derek?”

Derek gave a small nod and placed his wineglass down gently, his calm gaze fixed on Kirana.

“Yes, certainly,” he replied, his tone just as smooth. “And let’s not rewrite history, shall we? From what we understand, those weren’t failures on her part, but rather tragedies. If no vows were ever taken, she’s not a widow. She’s simply someone who loved… and lost. We deeply admire her resilience.”

Winston gently reached again for Clarissa’s hand under the table. This time, she didn’t pull away.

Kirana’s eyes darted briefly, her posture stiffening as she masked her irritation with a forced sip of wine. Once again, the Langfords had outclassed her with grace and clarity. And once again, her attempts to undercut Clarissa were neutralized before they could take root. She hadn't learned her lesson from the engagement dinner—but now the humiliation was doubled.

The Langfords didn’t just defend Clarissa. They honored her.

Publicly. Firmly. It wasn’t a game anymore.

It was lineage, legacy—and Clarissa now stood under a shield no snark could crack. Clarissa, still composed despite the lingering sting of Kirana’s comment, lifted her wine glass slightly before placing it back on the table, offering a graceful smile to the room.

“I’d also like to introduce my siblings,” she said warmly, her voice calm yet confident, pulling the conversation forward like a gentle tide. “These two—” she gestured toward the identical pair seated nearby, “—are Dewa and Kala. My older brothers. Twins.”

The room responded with polite nods and smiles, and Clarissa added with a bit of lightness in her tone, “Yes, I know, we don’t look alike—thankfully,” she teased, glancing at her brothers, who chuckled in return.

“Dewa is with Rose and Kala is with Alia. Both amazing women I’m grateful to now call my sisters.” Clarissa paused, just a beat, before her eyes gently glanced toward the far end of the table. Her smile softened, but her tone changed—measured, polite, distant.

“And the ones seated beside Kirana’s side of the table…” she continued, a slight wave of her hand in their general direction, “…are my step-siblings. They’re also part of the family, of course.”

It was clear enough to everyone—there were names mentioned for some, warmth offered freely. For others, a line was drawn with subtle poise. She did not speak with bitterness, but with clarity.

Winston glanced over at her, proud and quietly in awe of her composure. Arya noticed it too. He saw the way Clarissa carried herself—diplomatic, but unmistakably in control of the room. Her voice, though soft, had its own power. Kirana? She shifted in her seat again, visibly uncomfortable, adjusting her necklace as though it could somehow distract from the invisible wall Clarissa had just—and elegantly—put in place.

Just as the last ripple of conversation softened at the table, a butler stepped forward quietly, bowing slightly toward Arya.

“Sir,” he said in a low, respectful voice, “dinner is ready to be served.”

Arya nodded once in acknowledgment before rising gently from his seat, the subtle clink of his wine glass setting down echoing faintly. He cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention without needing to raise his voice.

“Everyone,” he began with a pleasant smile, “thank you again for being here tonight. Now that the kitchen has prepared everything, let’s proceed with the dinner. The staff will be serving each of you shortly.”

A few approving murmurs went around the table, and the butlers moved gracefully into action—each trained hand placing plates with care in front of the guests. The aromas began to fill the room, rich and warm—traditional Indonesian dishes served with a fine, elevated touch. A blend of heritage and luxury.

Arya sat back down, his eyes subtly scanning the room to see how everyone responded—from the Langfords’ gracious nods to Clarissa’s serene smile, from Dewa and Kala’s ease to Kirana’s stiff posture, still trying to maintain composure.

As silverware gently clinked and wine glasses sparkled beneath the chandelier, the next course of the evening quietly began—each plate, like the conversation, layered with meaning.

The dinner began, warmth returned to the table—but not all of it was from the food. The Langfords chatted with ease, particularly Melissa, who complimented the dishes with genuine delight. Derek, with his polished presence, treating them as equals, not just introductions.

Clarissa watched all this quietly at first, her fingers brushing over the edge of her wine glass. It had been years since she sat at a table with this many people who were supposed to be her "family."

And yet, only tonight did it feel like a family was finally forming. Not forced. Not fabricated. But something real—organically growing through kindness, not blood alone.

She caught Winston’s eyes across the table, who smiled reassuringly. That one look, amidst the flicker of candlelight and refined chatter, made something inside her settle. Not fully healed, no. But grounded. Safe.

Kirana, on the other hand, remained silent, her fork clinking a little too harshly against her plate. Her gaze shifted between Melissa’s quiet elegance and Clarissa’s unbothered poise. And she knew she had lost this round again—whatever game she thought she was playing.

Arya, seeing everything, said nothing more. But in the way he smiled gently at Clarissa and occasionally filled her wine glass without being asked, he’d said everything that mattered. He was proud.

And Clarissa? She exhaled. Long. Quiet. The kind of breath you release when you know something heavy is finally starting to lift. Around this table, with Winston’s hand resting subtly on hers beneath the linen cloth, she wasn't the broken woman everyone pitied.

She was someone rebuilding. Piece by piece.

With love that didn't ask for the past. Just the future.

END.

[siltrace]

For Who I Am

There was something.

Something has been lingering ever since that morning several days ago. It crept into her chest quietly—soft, subtle, but persistent. It began on that particular day when she and Winston spent their time out in the vineyard.

He’d taken her through rows of grapevines, explaining each step of the winery business with such passion. The varieties of grapes, the cultivation methods, the fermentation process back at the distillery—it was a whole new world for Clarissa, one far from her own corporate routines. And yet, she was captivated.

He made her laugh. He waited for her under the golden sky. He held her hand when she tripped, pointed out the small things—how the soil smelled, how the wind shifted right before sunset.

Napa Valley itself was breathtaking, but with Winston beside her, it felt tangible. Intimate. Real.

Now, back in Tangerang—Jakarta, as people still interchangeably called it—they were back to reality. The two of them had just returned home after a long day at the university. Meetings had dragged well beyond the usual hours, draining what energy they had left. The homemade dinner they had initially planned was inevitably scrapped. Instead, they ended up having a late dinner at Haka Dimsum, not far from her old workplace—a comfort meal, simple, familiar.

“The dinner was great. Thank you, C,” Winston said as they stepped into her house.

𝘊.

It echoed. It echoed louder than she expected.

That name. Just a letter. But it stirred something in her. That’s what Harvey used to call her—C. And for a moment, that warmth swept through her like a ghost of memory. That voice, that tenderness. She used to adore the way Harvey called her that. It felt personal. Like a secret name only for the two of them.

But now, Harvey was gone. Physically gone—yes. Emotionally, though, he was still tucked away in the corners of her heart. Quiet. Present.

Winston didn't know he had said anything special. It was just a nickname, casual, affectionate. But Clarissa stood frozen for a second too long, wondering why such a simple word could draw tears that never quite fell.

She breathed in.

Time had moved forward. So had she. But grief—grief doesn’t just disappear. Sometimes it disguises itself in the smallest things. A nickname. A scent. A laugh.

And still, Clarissa smiled at Winston, softly. As if telling herself: 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴.

Ever since their trip abroad—sharing hotel rooms, stolen late-night conversations, and long vineyard walks—Clarissa and Winston had grown noticeably closer. There was something unspoken between them now. A tenderness. A familiarity. Yet, sometimes, the nearness still made her stumble internally. Not out of dislike, no—but rather, out of uncertainty. Out of old scars not fully healed.

It was normal, she told herself. At least, it should be. And then, without any clear reasoning, she asked him to stay.

Winston had a week of special early morning classes, and instead of renting a hotel near the university like he had planned, Clarissa—almost impulsively—offered her place. The words had left her mouth before she even thought them through. Perhaps the silence of the house had grown heavier. Perhaps loneliness had begun to feel less noble and more like something cold and hollow. Having Winston around changed that. His presence filled the spaces. His voice softened the quiet. His laughter reminded her that life was still breathing forward.

"I'm going to shower first then?" Winston asked gently. Clarissa tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear, nodding.

“Go ahead. It’s been a long day. I’ll finish up some things in the kitchen.”

They parted to tend to their own quiet rhythms. Winston headed for the bathroom, while Clarissa floated through her evening chores. Folding the laundry in the warm light of the laundry oom, setting aside clothes for the next day, rinsing off the cutting board and prepping ingredients for breakfast. The domesticity of it all felt strangely grounding.

Later, when everything was done, Clarissa took her turn to shower last. Steam rose and curled around her face as the hot water poured over her shoulders. Her eyes fluttered shut beneath the warmth. The tight ache in her muscles slowly unwound. Her shower cap held back her hair as she tilted her head into the stream.

A deep inhale. A long exhale.

This was the moment she always kept for herself. A small pocket of stillness between the days. The warmth of water soothed the fatigue of standing in heels too long, the endless lectures, the hours in meetings where she led with composure even when her heart wasn’t fully present. And yet… she liked the pace. She liked the busyness. Because being busy meant not having time to feel too much. It filled the voids that grief had left behind.

But now… now there was Winston. And with him, the quiet wasn’t so lonely anymore. Clarissa stepped out of the bathroom, her skin glowing slightly from the warmth of the shower, dressed now in her black satin nightwear that glided softly along her frame. The night air inside her room was still and quiet, the kind of quiet that felt safe.

Winston was already on the bed, propped comfortably under the white blanket, bathed in the dim amber glow of the night lamps. The overhead lights were off—just the way she preferred it. He remembered.

She offered him a small, tired smile. “Thank you,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. Winston looked up briefly from his iPad, where rows of numbers and graphs glowed against the screen—reports from the mining division his family owned. “You’re welcome, Clarissa,” he replied, his voice equally gentle.

Clarissa padded quietly to her vanity table in the corner, sitting with a kind of grace that never left her, no matter how long the day had been. She began applying her skincare, each motion slow and practiced. The years had barely touched her—her face still calm, composed, quietly radiant. It was hard to believe she was nearing forty.

Winston glanced over at her again, his gaze lingering a little longer this time. There was something grounding about watching her in these quiet, unguarded rituals.

“How’s everything?” Clarissa asked softly, now standing beside the bed with a cup of warm tea in her hands. She sat gently on the edge, her presence as comforting as the tea she sipped.

Her tone was warm—intimate—not just a question, but an invitation to open up, if he needed. He set the iPad down on his chest, letting out a quiet breath. “Busy. Complicated. But manageable,” he replied, his eyes finally leaving the screen and settling on her.

“Today was better… because of you.”

Clarissa smiled faintly and wrapped both hands around her cup. The way he said it, so effortlessly, caught her off guard—like he meant every word. And somehow, in that moment, even after all the things she’d lost, all the things she still carried—being beside someone who saw her, remembered her preferences, and chose to stay close… made it a little easier to breathe.

“How’s everything with the university? Is everything okay?” Winston asked, his voice lower now—slower, more personal. He placed his iPad gently on the nightstand, the weight of the day finally setting aside with it. He leaned in a little, his hand moving up to brush through Clarissa’s soft hair. It was a subtle gesture, but one that carried quiet affection. His touch was warm, comforting. A small smile played at his lips as he looked at her—really looked at her.

Clarissa gave a faint nod. “All is well. Just… tiring,” she said softly, the weariness showing slightly in her eyes. “But manageable, as always.”

Winston studied her for a beat longer, the smile fading into something more sincere—more concerned. “You’ve looked really tired these days,” he said gently. “Not just busy. Worn.”

“Hmm?” Clarissa tilted her head, placing her now-empty cup on the nightstand. “I should be okay. It’s tiring, yes, but not in a bad way. The kind I’ve already made peace with.”

Winston reached for her hand, his thumb brushing against the back of her fingers. “Alright then, Lady Rector,” he murmured with a playful glint in his tone, though the worry hadn’t entirely left his eyes. “As your employee, I’ll follow orders. But as your fiancé, I’m allowed to care.”

A small laugh escaped Clarissa, tired but genuine. “And that’s okay,” she said quietly, meeting his gaze. “Nobody’s blaming you for that.”

For a moment, silence settled between them—calm and comforting. Nothing more needed to be said. Just two people sitting close, trying to carry each other through the weight of their worlds. “Should we watch something before we go to sleep?” Clarissa offered, her voice kind and light. “I don’t mind that,” Winston replied with a small smile, shifting slightly beneath the blanket.

Clarissa reached for the remote and turned on the television. A movie was already playing—neither of them recognized the title, but they decided to let it run.

The room settled into a soft, quiet rhythm, the hum of the screen casting a subtle glow against the walls. They watched in silence… until the scene shifted.

It escalated.

The characters on screen were no longer talking. The atmosphere thickened with rising tension, every sound and movement drenched in intimacy. Soft moans filtered through the speakers. A steamy, unfiltered scene unfolded in front of them—sudden, passionate, and far too detailed.

Clarissa blinked and instinctively pulled the blanket tighter around her, as though it might shield her from the awkward heat creeping up her cheeks.

“This… movie…”

“Yeah,” Winston murmured, his eyes still fixed on the screen—but now more out of confusion than interest. They turned to glance at each other—briefly—and then broke into a small, nervous laugh together. Not quite knowing what to do, not quite looking away. It was silly. A little embarrassing. And unexpectedly intimate, in the strangest of ways. Clarissa exhaled a soft breath and said under it, almost laughing, “We’re too old to be blushing at movies like this.”

Winston grinned. “Speak for yourself. I feel sixteen again. And I bet you’re a pro. You should teach me.”

And just like that, the tension dissolved into gentle laughter, the kind that filled the room with something much softer than what the screen was offering. Their laughter slowly faded, lingering like the warmth of a shared secret. The kind of laughter that told stories unspoken—of two people who had been through too much, carrying too many layers, finally finding a little softness in between.

Clarissa reached for the remote and turned the volume down slightly, letting the movie continue in the background like distant noise. She leaned back against the headboard, the blanket still wrapped around her. Winston shifted slightly to sit beside her—close, but not touching. Just near enough that she could feel his presence, steady and grounding.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like a breath they both needed.

“You know…” Clarissa said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, “I never imagined I’d be sharing these quiet nights with someone again.”

Winston turned his head toward her, listening. She didn’t look at him—her gaze stayed on the muted television, the flicker of light reflected in her thoughtful eyes. “I used to think love ended when people left,” she continued.

“When things broke. When promises didn’t last. But lately… I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t end. Maybe it just… changes shape.” Winston swallowed, and for a moment, didn’t respond. Then quietly, he said, “Maybe love isn’t about the promise. Maybe it’s about the presence. Being here. Even when it’s awkward. Even when it’s quiet.”

Clarissa slowly turned to him, their eyes meeting under the low golden hue of the night lamp. Something passed between them. Something fragile. Something real.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” she admitted. “But it feels… honest. And I haven’t had that in a long time.”

Winston reached out, gently, not to grab or pull—just to rest his hand lightly on top of hers. “We don’t have to name it tonight. Let’s just… be in it.”

Clarissa nodded, her throat tight with emotion. She gave his hand a small squeeze.

Outside, the city dimmed into slumber. But inside that room, a new kind of quiet wrapped around them—tender, vulnerable, and full of beginnings neither of them dared to hope for until now. She blinked a few times and turned her gaze back to the screen. The scene was still playing—slow, sensual, too loud in a room that suddenly felt smaller. But she wasn’t really watching. Her eyes were fixed, yet her thoughts were drifting—lost somewhere between memory, emotion, and something she couldn’t name.

A long breath escaped her lips before she turned to Winston with a sheepish shake of her head.

“Oh... sorry,” she murmured, voice barely laced with self-awareness. “I just—blanked. My brain kind of shut down for a second. Like… totally empty.”

Winston had been quietly watching her, noticing the way her expression stilled, the way her presence flickered like a light dimmed by thought. He chuckled under his breath—not mocking, but endearing. Her honesty made her even more real to him. “I figured,” he said gently, amusement softening the lines on his face. “You looked like you’d just seen a philosophical ghost.”

As he lifted a hand, intending to brush her cheek with the back of his fingers, Clarissa reacted first. Like a startled cat, she squeaked and darted under the blanket, cocooning herself entirely. Winston laughed, this time louder, the sound filling the room with ease. “You okay under there?”

“Nope,” her muffled voice came through the blanket. “Totally malfunctioned. Just pretend I’m rebooting.”

He leaned back against the headboard, still smiling. “Take your time. I’ll be here when you come back online.”

Beneath the blanket, Clarissa was burning up—her cheeks flushed, heart racing with a weird mix of embarrassment and affection. Was it the movie? The intimacy of the moment? Her own vulnerability catching up with her? She didn’t know. But what she did know was: she felt safe. Ridiculously seen.

And that was new. Beautiful, terrifying—but new.

She peeked a single eye from beneath the edge of the blanket. Winston was still there, scrolling casually through something on his iPad, pretending to mind his own business—but the corner of his mouth curled just enough to tell her: he noticed everything. And he was waiting.

“I can’t teach you that.”

Winston glanced her way, eyebrows lifted in amusement. “What ‘that’?”

“That... ‘that’...?” she muttered from under the blanket, barely peeking out. He turned his full attention toward her, eyes narrowing playfully. “You mean 𝘵��𝘢𝘵?” he asked, pointing toward the television, though the steamy scene had long since faded into something else. Still, he was trying to follow her scattered train of thought.

Clarissa blinked at him, her expression somewhere between stunned and sheepish. “Oh!” she gasped, her mouth falling open for no reason at all. “I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore,” she admitted, cheeks warming. “I think my brain’s still... buffering or something.”

Winston chuckled softly, the warmth in his voice making it hard for her to hide. He reached forward and gently tugged the blanket down from her face, just enough for him to see her clearly.

And just like that—silence fell.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the world softened around them. “Is that a confession?” he asked quietly. Clarissa’s brows knit in confusion. “What…?”

“That one,” he said again, eyes still on hers, steady and calm. “When your brain wasn’t working. Was that your way of confessing something to me?”

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her thoughts, usually so well-ordered, were a jumbled mess of half-finished feelings. She couldn’t even make sense of what 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 meant anymore.

“Uh…” she managed, unsure, maybe even flustered. The air felt thick with unspoken things.

Winston’s smile softened as he leaned just a bit closer—not to close the distance, but to be seen a little more clearly.

“Then let me make mine,” he said gently.

Clarissa stared at him, still stunned. “Your… confession?”

He nodded, his voice calm but filled with sincerity.

“I love you.”

It landed like a hush in the middle of her storm—soft, but grounding. Clarissa’s breath caught. Her heart gave a slow, deliberate thump. She felt it echo all the way through her spine. Her lips trembled ever so slightly, and for once, she didn’t try to cover it up. There were no sarcastic remarks. No sudden excuses. Just the flutter of a heart that had taken too long to feel safe again.

And now, here he was—Winston. Steady. Waiting. Telling her he loved her, in a moment that wasn’t planned, wasn’t perfect—but perhaps, for that very reason, it was exactly right.

She had heard those words before.

𝙄 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪.

Spoken in moments when emotions ran high, or whispered when he kissed her forehead goodnight. She remembered them from other days — after long walks, during wine tastings, after laughter-filled dinners. But somehow, tonight… it felt different.

Winston’s gaze wasn’t playful. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t distracted.

It was 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭.

Focused entirely on her, like the world had narrowed into just this small, warm room, and the space between them had never mattered more. His voice had no urgency.

Only truth.

The kind that comes from someone who had been holding something inside, not because he was unsure, but because he wanted it to be said 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. Clarissa blinked slowly, almost like her mind needed time to catch up with what her heart already knew. She had heard him say “I love you” before.

But not like this.

Not with a tone that felt like it was reaching into the pieces of her that were still healing, gently wrapping around the part of her that still hesitated to hope. Not with eyes that didn’t just look at her, but saw her— with all the history, all the grief, all the love she was scared to hold again.

And it hit her.

Why this felt different. It’s because… for the first time, she wanted to believe it.

Her chest rose and fell with a trembling breath. She didn’t answer right away. How could she, when something inside her had just started to shift? So instead, she reached for his hand. Fingers hesitant at first, then firmer — certain. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles.

“I heard you,” she said softly. Her voice barely above a whisper. “And… I can feel it.”

And that was all it took.

Without hesitation, without weighing consequences or second-guessing the timing, Winston leaned forward and closed the distance between them. One hand at the side of her face, the other gently slipping behind her neck, he kissed her. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was soft—𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 soft. A kiss that asked, not took. And yet… it stole everything.

Her breath. Her stillness. Her composure. It was her 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨.

The one she never gave to anyone else before in thirty nine years. A kiss untouched by past lovers or stolen moments. It was hers—completely—and now it was his. His lips, warm and patient, carried something deeper than passion. They carried a promise. Clarissa didn’t respond at first. Her body tensed, stunned by the suddenness. Her mind, for a moment, halted. Like every system inside her paused to register the shock of what was happening. Her heart—too loud in her chest. Her thoughts—blurred. But in that stillness… something inside her unfroze.

Slowly, as if surrendering to something far greater than she could control, her body leaned in. Her hand found his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—beating just as fast. Her lips, once frozen in surprise, began to follow his lead. Tentative. Fragile. Honest. The kiss deepened slightly—not in intensity, but in meaning. She didn’t need to say anything.

He had already heard it… 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

And so, in the quiet of her room, with only the faint sound of the forgotten movie playing in the background and the night wrapped around them like a secret, Clarissa let herself fall into a moment she never knew she was allowed to have.

A beginning, and the ending of every hesitation.

Clarissa's hands, once hesitant, now moved with quiet purpose. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around him—pulling him closer, letting herself fall into the warmth of his body. Her palms rested on his back, feeling the rise and fall of each breath he took, grounding her in a moment that felt both surreal and unmistakably real. The kiss deepened—not rushed, not frantic, but deliberate. A slow surrender of walls that had taken years to build.

Beneath the soft cover of the blanket, they weren’t two professionals with histories and pain; they were just two people who finally let each other in.

Winston held her like she might slip away again, like this moment had waited too long to arrive. His hands caressed her gently, respectfully. Memorizing her as if he’d been waiting for this very closeness all his life. Their lips moved in a quiet rhythm, speaking what words hadn’t yet said. There was no space left between them now, only the unspoken truth of shared longing and a love that had quietly taken root.

Clarissa’s heart beat rapidly. Not from fear, but from the sheer gravity of what she was allowing herself to feel. It wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, raw, and terrifyingly real.

She didn’t stop him. She didn’t want to. Not tonight. Not anymore.

Wrapped in warmth, under layers of both fabric and emotion, Clarissa let herself feel something she hadn’t in years:

Safe. Wanted. Loved.

She quiet hum of the night surrounded them, broken only by the soft rhythm of their breathing—syncing slowly, deeply. Beneath the blanket, everything outside ceased to matter. The world could wait. Here, time slowed to the pace of their heartbeats. Clarissa felt the warmth of Winston’s hands sliding up her back—slow, careful, as if asking for permission with each inch. His touch sent a quiet shiver through her spine, awakening nerves that had long gone untouched.

Her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt at first, then loosened—trust unfolding with every breath. Their lips parted only to find each other again, this time slower, deeper, with a quiet hunger that wasn't rushed. Her body pressed into his, not just out of longing, but from the need to be seen, to be held—not as a professor, not as someone's daughter or someone's widow, but just… Clarissa.

She gasped softly when his hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face up for another kiss, one that lingered just a little longer. His lips brushed hers with a tenderness that contradicted the heat growing between them. He wasn’t trying to claim her. He was cherishing her. Every sigh, every pause, carried the weight of feelings that had gone unsaid for too long. Clarissa’s hand slipped beneath his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the quiet strength beneath it. She wasn’t used to being this close to someone. Not like this. Not with this kind of intensity that didn’t just want her body—but everything she was.

Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling. Eyes locked.

“Still okay?” Winston whispered, his voice slightly hoarse, filled with restraint. Clarissa nodded, her lips barely brushing his. “Yes... I want this. I want you.”

And that was all he needed.

Winston’s gaze lingered on her face—soft, searching—as if memorizing every detail in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. His fingers gently tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear, tracing the delicate curve of her cheek, pausing to feel the warmth that bloomed under his touch.

“I’ve never wanted to rush anything with you,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, as though speaking louder would shatter the moment. Clarissa's breath hitched. Her chest rose and fell slowly beneath the thin fabric of her satin nightwear, still partly hidden beneath the blanket they shared. She reached up, her hand gently brushing along his jawline, feeling the stubble that gave contrast to his otherwise polished presence. His eyes fluttered shut at her touch, leaning into her hand.

Winston dipped his head once more, but this time the kiss was different—slower. It was reverent, as though he were offering a promise between their lips. His hand found her waist, resting there, not taking more than she gave. The weight of his touch was grounding, secure. She leaned in, letting the tension melt, surrendering to the softness between them. His lips left hers only to kiss the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the sensitive skin just beneath her ear.

Clarissa let out a quiet exhale, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other slipping behind his neck. Her skin burned where his fingertips traveled—light, exploratory paths along her side, the curve of her back, the softness of her waist. Nothing rushed. Nothing demanded. Just presence. Just care.

“I want you to feel safe with me,” he said, his voice low, tender. “Always.”

“I do,” she whispered, eyes barely open, heart wide awake.

He guided her gently, laying her back against the pillows. The blanket shifted with them, forming a quiet cocoon around their bodies. She reached up to him, pulling him closer, and their lips met again—this time slower, deeper, and filled with longing that unfolded like a story written only in touch.

The night whispered on, and so did they—two souls meeting, not in haste or urgency, but in quiet reverence, finally finding in each other something they never thought they’d have again: comfort, trust… and the beginning of love, spoken in skin and breath. Winston hovered just above her, his hand brushing her temple as he studied her face, making sure—absolutely sure—that she was with him in this moment, that she wanted this as much as he did. Clarissa met his gaze and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod—an unspoken yes, trusting and full of quiet anticipation.

His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, finding the delicate straps of her nightwear. He slid them off her shoulders with reverence, his touch featherlight, as though he feared breaking something fragile. He paused, giving her the space to stop him if she needed to. She didn’t. Instead, her hands gently held his forearm, grounding herself with him.

As the fabric slipped further, baring more of her skin to the soft light, Winston lowered his head and placed a kiss on her collarbone, slow and tender. Then another, just beneath her jaw. Then lower, to the hollow of her neck. His lips moved with gentle intention, like tracing a map of someone he had loved quietly for a long time, and was now finally allowed to know fully. Clarissa shivered beneath his touch—not from cold, but from how much she felt.

Her breathing deepened, her hand weaving into the back of his hair as she leaned into every kiss, every whisper of warmth from his lips. She didn’t feel exposed. She felt seen. Adored.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against her skin, his voice low, velvet-like. “Every part of you.”

The way he said it wasn’t lustful—it was worshipful. Like she wasn’t just someone he desired, but someone he cherished. And in that stillness—wrapped in night, in shared breaths, in the slow unfolding of their guarded hearts—they found themselves not lost, but found. Not undone, but becoming whole in each other’s arms.

Clarissa closed her eyes, breathing in his nearness—his scent, his warmth, the way his presence made her feel like she wasn’t carrying the weight of the world alone anymore. Winston was slow, deliberate, his touch never rushing, always asking silently for permission she never needed to say out loud. Her fingers ran lightly down his back, anchoring herself to this moment, this closeness, this newfound sense of being wanted—not for what she had endured, but simply for who she was.

He kissed the curve of her shoulder next, his lips lingering like they were memorizing her skin. Every gesture was soft, like a quiet vow. Her heart raced, but not with fear. For the first time, it beat with the thrill of trust—of being cared for so gently, so deeply. She cupped his cheek, pulling him down again—not in urgency, but in surrender. Their lips met once more, this time slower, fuller, carrying the weight of everything unspoken between them: grief, healing, longing, and the beginning of something sacred.

Under the blanket, in the quiet glow of the night, they weren’t rushing toward something reckless. They were choosing one another, slowly. Carefully. Her nightwear slipped away completely as he held her with care, his fingers tracing gentle lines down her spine. His kisses followed, skimming her neck, her shoulder, every inch with reverence. Clarissa’s breath trembled, her body responding not just to touch—but to the feeling of finally being held without judgment, without question.

Just love. Just Winston.

They moved like a lullaby, gentle and slow, letting vulnerability lead them deeper. Nothing hurried. Nothing forced. Just the kind of closeness that mends things broken. That wraps around old wounds with something warm enough to say: you’re not alone anymore.

Winston slowly sat up, his eyes never leaving hers. With a quiet breath, he pulled his shirt over his head and let it fall gently to the floor. Clarissa’s gaze followed the motion, taking in the soft lines of his chest, the steady rise and fall of someone who wasn’t just baring skin, but vulnerability. He unbuttoned his pants next, deliberate and unhurried, as though time had no power here.

The moment was quiet. Heavy with meaning. Clarissa felt it in her bones, the depth of care in his every move. He was offering himself, not just physically, but fully. No masks, no weight of legacy or names. Just Winston.

She reached for him, her fingers tracing the shape of his arm, his chest, pulling him closer. Their bodies finally touched—skin to skin. Warmth to warmth. The heat wasn’t just physical, it was the rush of knowing she was seen. Chosen. Cherished.

“Clarissa…” he murmured against her shoulder, his voice a soft plea. “You don’t know how beautiful you are. Not just tonight. Always.”

Her breath hitched, emotions swelling in her chest. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She let herself surrender, heart wide open. Winston laid her gently back onto the bed, treating her like something precious, treasured. His hands moved with reverence, exploring her like he was memorizing the map of her—each curve, each breath, each tremble. His lips followed, leaving soft kisses on her collarbone, her chest, down to where he could feel her heartbeat race beneath his touch.

“You’re safe with me,” he whispered again. “I’ve got you.”

And he did. Not just in his arms, but in the way he looked at her like she was everything he’d ever wanted to protect. To hold. To worship.

Clarissa's arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer. Their breaths mingled, bodies moving in rhythm—slow, deep, tender. Every moment drawn out like it mattered. Because it did. He whispered praises into her skin, calling her radiant, strong, soft—all the things she had forgotten she was.

He leaned into her, their foreheads gently touching as the air between them softened. His breath was warm against her skin, his voice a quiet confession.

“I love you, Clarissa,” he whispered, the words trembling with truth.

“From the very first moment I bumped into you—I knew. Something about you stayed. Your eyes… the way you carried yourself even when you were tired, broken, and pretending you weren’t.”

His fingers brushed her cheek, reverent and slow, like he feared she might anish if he touched her too fast. “You’re so beautiful,” he continued, his voice low, almost fragile. “Not just now. Not because of this. But always. You walk into a room and something shifts. You speak, and I listen like your words carry weight I’ve been waiting to hear my whole life.”

Clarissa’s heart clenched. The world around her grew distant—quiet—until it was only the two of them. “You’re precious to me,” he said. “So precious, I just want to wrap you in every safe thing I can give. To protect you. Not because I think you’re weak—but because you’ve been strong for far too long.”

He kissed the space just beneath her ear, softly, slowly.

“You enchant me,” he breathed. “You always have. Every laugh. Every silence. Every wall you let me see behind.”

She felt his heartbeat against hers. She felt the sincerity in his hold—the way his body molded around hers, not to possess, but to cherish. Every past scar, every quiet grief she carried, loosened its grip. Because his love wasn’t loud. It was steady. And it filled her in places she didn’t know had been hollow for so long.

Clarissa buried her face into the curve of Winston’s neck, her breath trembling against his skin. Her hands clutched softly at her chest, overwhelmed not just by sensation—but by emotion.

Everything about this was new. Every touch, every whisper, every moment where their closeness made the world outside feel like a faraway blur.

Winston’s hand moved tenderly along her back, his fingers gliding down her spine with care, drawing gentle lines that sent chills across her skin. His touch wasn’t rushed. He moved with reverence, like he was memorizing her, like he was making sure she felt everything—not just physically, but deep within.

A soft moan escaped her lips—unfiltered, instinctive. Her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting as she breathed his name like a secret.

“Winston…”

He stilled, just for a second, eyes fixed on her as if the sound of her voice had struck something sacred inside him. She didn’t shy away. Not this time. There was no fear. No hesitation. No question. Everything about this—him—felt right. Not just because he was gentle. But because he saw her, cherished her. And because for the first time in her life, she was giving herself entirely, wholly, to someone who held her heart with both hands. And that made all the difference.

His lips found their way lower, brushing against the bare skin of her chest, and a wave of tingling pleasure coursed through her: sharp, electric, and all-consuming.

Her breath hitched, stolen by the moment, her lungs barely keeping up with the chaos of emotions that surged within her. There was no pretending now—no illusions to hide behind. This was them, stripped of titles, reputations, and pride. This was the real game.

The one love plays when it’s unafraid to burn.

Soft moans spilled from her parted lips, the red tint once painting them now long faded—replaced by something more vulnerable, more her. She could do nothing but feel. Want. Need. And the helplessness itself was its own kind of torment.

As he moved lower, peeling away each layer between them like a slow unraveling, her body instinctively responded. His mouth never left her skin. He moved lower, lips brushing down her torso. Both his hands cupped her breasts, he felt their shape filling his grasp as if it’s warming his palms. He stroked her nipples with his thumbs, drawing small circles over them.

Every subtle change in her breathing, every shift in her body caught his attention as he watched her respond. Closer now, he took one into his mouth, sucking gently while his tongue circled around the sensitive point. Wet heat spread across her skin as he sniffed there before giving the other side the same slow attention. His hand supported her breast while his mouth moved in soft, wet circles. Then he pulled back just enough to see her face. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips parted slightly as she breathed out, her eyes dark with need.

Something inside him tightened at the sight. Without a word, his hand slid down her body. Her bare skin stood out against the thin stretch of her panties clinging to her hips. Only one piece of black lace remained, clinging delicately to her. The rest—her composure, her walls, her control—lay scattered with her night dress.

In that moment, time itself seemed to falter—caught in the hush between heartbeats and heavy sighs. The storm outside mirrored the one within them, thunder rolling like the hunger in their veins. Skin to skin, gaze to gaze, they were no longer just lovers, but poetry written in fevered touches and silent promises. She, the flame that dared to dance; he, the night that swore to hold her. And together, they burned—slow, sacred, and infinite. What could rival the divine sight in front her now? There he was—unapologetically powerful, breathtaking in the rawness of their shared vulnerability.

In that moment, she knew without a doubt: she would kneel, beg even, just to feel the grace of his touch again. To have his soul intertwine with hers through every gasped breath, every moan that slipped like prayer, and every drop of sweat staining the sheets from their sacred love.

Stripped bare, with nothing but him above her, the air between them thickened with tension. He had her breath caught in his grasp, the space between their bodies humming with unspoken need.

The wetness between her thighs was the loudest confession her body could make. He had become the altar she willingly worshipped at, the only truth she needed to believe in. There was no stopping him, nor did she ever wish to. He moved with purpose, with a knowing edge, teasing her like a man well aware of the havoc he wreaked on her senses. The arousal surged as he withheld the one thing she longed for most—his fullness, the hard press of him buried deep within her.

Winston moved lower between her legs. He kissed her inner thighs slowly, feeling her skin warm and soft against his lips. Every time he kissed closer to hers, he felt her legs tense for a second, then relax again. His hands held her thighs apart.

He looked at hers, wet and already glistening. The sight made his chest feel tight, like something was pulling him deeper without words. He leaned in and gave her clit a slow, wet lick from bottom to top. Her body twitched a little. He did it again, slower, tasting every part of her. The taste was warm, a little sweet, and a little salty. It was all her. His tongue circled her clit in small movements. His lips closed around it and sucked gently, making her hips shift closer.

Winston didn't rush. He licked her slowly, spreading her folds with his thumbs so he could taste her deeper. His tongue moved lower, pushing into her hole, feeling the heat and wetness waiting inside.

He pulled back for a second, just enough to see her face.

Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips parted with shallow breath. Her eyes were heavy and lost in him. It made him harder than ever. Without saying a word, he leaned back in. His tongue pressed flat against her clit while his fingers slipped lower, rubbing her entrance gently before sliding one finger inside her warm cave. The tightness wrapped around his finger right away. He sucked her clit again, firmer this time, while his finger moved in and out of her slowly; not to tease, but to feel her, to know her body better.

Every sound from her mouth felt like a reward. Every breath, every small shake of her thighs, pulled him deeper into this moment. This was her. This was real. And he wanted to taste all of her. The passion between them raged like a sacred fire, relentless and ancient, never dimming. Her mind spun with desire, with the need to have more of him, all of him. The elegance of his tongue had left her undone from the start—now, she was fraying at the edges. And then, as the tension reached its peak, the moment arrived.

What was this rapture he was leading her to? A heaven crafted from skin and sin, where he reigned over her body with reverence and fire. The world outside ceased to exist. Silence reigned, but it was the kind of silence that screamed—filled with gasps, with shudders, with the weight of devotion. Tonight, she let him worship her wholly, entirely—laid bare before him like a sacred offering. Her thighs trembled from the crescendo of pleasure, her back arched in sweet rebellion, her soul unraveled beneath him.

He was divine in the way he touched her, and she was a willing disciple—chanting his name in breathless pleas as he sent her spiraling. With his fingers buried deep and his tongue dancing along her most sensitive edge, she couldn’t hold back any longer.

"Winston—"

His name tore from her lips in a cry that blurred pleasure and desperation. She was soaked, aching, clutching him from within—her body begging for more, for all of him. For the moment where their fire would finally meet and burn as one. It was then when he looked into her eyes close. So close that he didn’t want her to look anywhere else but him.

"It might hurt," he whispered in her ear, soft and gentle. Their eyes met. They knew they wanted each other and now, there's no point of return. It was at that point that she knew her heart landed on him. He was that person she’s looking her whole life.

She looked into his eyes, when she felt it in. His shaft entering hers, deep, yet careful. They didn't blink, as if Winston tried to let her know that he was there for her. That he loved her. And she trusted him. She bit her lower lips.

It was her first. First lips. First sex.

Her hands on his back. Her body felt a sharp pain striking her whole body to the head. Clarissa tried to take a deep breath from the emotion that started to rush in. It was something new, something overwhelming, something beautiful, something she craved— all that unspeakable feelings inside her heart, overflowing.

Moan escaped from his lips, once. Then he moved his hips, it hurts. Again, it still hurts. And somehow, he moved. He moved again and again with their eyes still locked. Then pleasure came through. Moans slowly escaped her lips. Winston smiled, nodding his head as he moved inside her.

"I love you."

Tears fell from both of them. They cried. They cried that they found themselves with each other, not just physically. Feelings that long suppressed and gone, now return to find their forever owner. Every moan that escaped their lips sounded like a beautiful melody in the room, a song to the confessions of the hearts.

The night became the witness to their burning passion and love. The witness to their forevermore. The proof of their resilience.

He moved slowly, enjoying every second he had with her. Inside her. Every moan that escaped her lips had encouraged him to move faster, gradually. He wanted to taste her more. The sexy view in front of him that brought his wild side in. For him, she’s a goddess he needed to profess his love, his life, his devotion to. Clarissa was all that he needed in life.

His hips moved harder than before. His moans and hers were louder. Their heavy breaths collided with each other. The messy hair and husky voice of hers, it felt like heaven for him already. The pleasure she brought for him and the love they had for each other became real for every time he found herself deep inside her.

He pulled her to sit on his lap. His shaft was still deep inside her. Their legs on each other’s waist, with her on top of him.

“Winston… fuck.”

She cursed in between while trying to catch her breath. But he didn’t let her. He never intended to give her a break from this heavenly pleasure of a blurred line between love and sin. He penetrated deeper, hitting her sweet spot inside, causing Clarissa— his boss, his fiance, his forevermore, gasped in pleasure.

“Do you like it, Clarissa?”

She nodded as she gulped. He moved his hips again, this time, harder than before. Ecstatic, that’s what she could describe of him. Clarissa hugged him tight as the pleasure got to her even more than she thought she would. Her head felt dizzy from him doing her this way. The fear that was once in her, now gone. Lust took over. Her body naturally seeked for him, the pleasure he gave her.

Deeper. Tighter. Faster.

She moaned right in his ear. Her cries of lust clouded his mind and that’s when he knew, he knew he’s getting close. He circled his shaft in hers, deep, intoxicating her with the indescribable spark inside of her. Their lips met each other again as they kissed deeper. Her head tilted to the right as he deepened the kiss. Savoring her wet, plumply, pink lips that he always adored and wondered. He got to taste it now. The lips that caught his attention; where soft and gentle words escaped beautifully with her voice.

His hands wrapped around her small waist, helping to keep her posture upright. The kisses ended when she couldn’t control her moaning, again and again, as he moved faster— faster than before. No mercy for her.

“Ah… Winston—” she cried out loud. “I can’t hold it anymore…”

That’s the exact point where Winston moved his hips like crazy, then he felt the need to finally have his release. He pounded one last time, deep inside her. Her body trembled as she screamed his name out loud, not even trying to hold it back. Her hands wrapped tightly around his body as they reached their climax.

“Fuck…” he breathed, voice low and shaky, trying to steady the rhythm of his chest. “I love you so much, C. I really, really love you.”

His arms wrapped tightly around her, protective and warm, his hand gently tracing soothing circles along her back. Every touch was tender, almost reverent, as if he was holding something too precious to ever let go. He leaned back just enough to take her in—her flushed, glowing skin, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and softness. Clarissa, bare and resting against him, looked ethereal—like a dream he never wanted to wake from.

“You know I love you, right?” he whispered, voice nearly breaking with how much he meant it.

Clarissa gave a slow, delicate nod, her gaze never leaving his. She pulled back slightly to study his face—those familiar eyes, full of honesty and fire. A small, tired smile tugged at her lips. His hand came up gently, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear, his touch so tender it made her close her eyes for a second, just to feel it more deeply.

They kissed again—soft, slow, like a quiet promise exchanged between breaths. No urgency now, only warmth. As their lips parted, he gently pulled himself out of her, careful and tender, not wanting to break the delicate stillness that now settled around them.

He guided her back onto the bed, cradling her as if she might dissolve into the silence. Then, with one smooth motion, he pulled the blanket over their bodies, tucking her in close to his chest. His hand moved in slow, rhythmic strokes across her arm and down her back, a gentle caress filled with care—no longer fueled by passion, but by deep affection.

The room was quiet except for their breathing. Her head rested against his heart, listening to its beat, while his fingers continued their loving path along her skin. No words were needed. In that moment, everything was said through touch, through presence—two souls lying still in the afterglow, safe and whole in each other’s arms.

Winston pulled her closer, their bodies wrapped in the warmth of the blanket and each other. He pressed his lips softly to her temple and whispered, his voice a low tremble of emotion, "You're mine, Clarissa. And I won't let anything happen to you. I love you... so much. Thank you—for everything. For letting me in. For choosing me."

Clarissa, still nestled in his embrace, tilted her head up slightly to meet his eyes. There was a soft glow in her gaze, vulnerability laced with quiet courage. "You were my first," she whispered back, voice barely audible. "My first kiss. My first time. All of this... it was with you."

Winston’s breath caught. He searched her eyes as if to make sure he heard her right. Then his expression softened, tender and reverent, his hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Clarissa..." he murmured, his voice cracking ever so slightly, "I'm so grateful. That you trusted me this much. That you let me be the one to hold you like this. In this moment... in your most vulnerable state."

He kissed her forehead gently, then rested his own against hers. "I’ll carry that honor with me for the rest of my life." Wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside faded into a distant hum. The rain they didn't even realize, had long stopped tapping on the windows, leaving behind only the stillness of the night and the steady rhythm of two hearts beating as one. Clarissa let her fingers trail along Winston’s chest, memorizing the rise and fall of his breath. He held her as if she was something sacred, something fragile and fiercely loved.

And for the first time in a long while, she felt safe. No scripts, no lights, no crowds—just the warmth of his skin against hers, and the unspoken promises hanging softly in the silence between them.

As their eyes met one last time before sleep claimed them, Winston whispered, “This is only the beginning.” Clarissa smiled, her heart full. “And I wouldn’t want it with anyone else.”

The night cradled them gently as they drifted off—two souls, tangled in vulnerability, stitched together by love, and wrapped in the quiet certainty that whatever the world threw at them next, they’d face it side by side.

END.

[siltrace]

Morning of Affection

The morning light crept slowly through the slits of the window blinds, casting long, golden beams across the soft wood of the bedroom floor. The air was cool and still, wrapped in the gentle silence of early dawn. Winston stirred.

His eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the quiet brightness of morning. For a moment, he wasn’t quite sure where he was—until the faint scent of jasmine and warm cedar reached him. Then it clicked. Clarissa’s home. Her bedroom.

He shifted slightly, feeling the weight of something over his shoulders. His fingers reached up, brushing against soft fabric. A blanket—folded and placed with care. Not his. Not there when he had fallen asleep.

He sat up straighter in the chair, realization dawning in his sleepy eyes. She had placed it there.

His gaze drifted to the bed just beside him. Clarissa lay facing the other way, still curled under her own blanket, her breath slow and steady. One hand rested near her cheek, the other barely peeking from under the fabric. She was fast asleep, her expression completely peaceful—more peaceful than he’d seen her in a long time. Winston didn’t move for a long while.

He just sat there, letting the moment settle over him. There was something in watching her like that—vulnerable, soft, at ease—that struck something quiet inside him. This was not the poised, composed rector or the controlled, elegant figure he often saw in meetings and social circles.

This was simply Clarissa. Real, human. Healing, slowly.

And she had noticed. She had seen him asleep, probably cold, and decided to do something about it. Winston smiled faintly to himself.

He leaned back into the chair, wrapping the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders, like a quiet thank-you. He didn’t want to wake her. Not yet. Let her rest. Let her have this morning peace a little longer.

Instead, he reached for the book on the nightstand—One Thousand and One Nights, still folded open where he left off—and quietly returned to Scheherazade’s tale, his eyes flicking back to Clarissa every so often. Just to check. Just to watch over her a little longer.

Clarissa stirred gently under the soft warmth of her blanket, her fingers twitching slightly as the morning light filtered through the curtains. A quiet sigh escaped her lips as her eyes blinked open, adjusting to the calm glow of daybreak.

There was a moment—one of those slow, sleepy stretches between sleep and wakefulness—where she didn’t move, didn’t think, just let herself exist in the quiet. Then her gaze shifted slightly.

Winston.

He was there, right beside the bed, still seated in the armchair, a blanket draped over his shoulders. The same blanket she had quietly wrapped around him last night before crawling back into bed. He looked peaceful, completely at ease, flipping slowly through the pages of her copy of One Thousand and One Nights, his eyes darting occasionally toward her—watching over her in silence.

She blinked again, slower this time, and her voice came out barely above a whisper.

“Winston...”

His eyes lifted instantly from the book, a soft smile forming across his face as he placed a silk ribbon between the pages and closed the book. “Hey,” he said, warm and calm. “Good morning.”

Clarissa shifted gently onto her back, then up to her elbows.

Her hair was slightly tousled, her eyes still heavy with sleep, but she looked rested—less weighed down.

“How long have you been awake?” she asked, her voice husky from sleep. “A while,” he replied. “Didn’t want to wake you. You looked... peaceful.”

Clarissa lowered her gaze for a second, almost shy. “I didn’t mean to keep you here all night.”

“I stayed because I wanted to,” he said simply. “And I’m glad I did.”

There was a pause. Comfortable, unhurried. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. Clarissa ran a hand through her hair slowly, then glanced toward the window. “It’s morning already.”

“Yeah,” he said. “The city’s still quiet. You slept well?”

She nodded. “I think I did... better than I expected to.”

Winston didn’t press further. He just reached forward gently, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. “I’m glad.”

Clarissa studied him for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between grateful, cautious, and vulnerable. Then she murmured, “Thank you… for staying.”

“You don’t need to thank me. I’m here because I care about you,” Winston replied, steady. “That’s what I want to do. Be here.” Clarissa lay back down slowly, resting her head on the pillow, her eyes still fixed on him.

“I’m still learning,” she whispered. “To let someone stay.”

“And I’m not in a rush,” Winston said, voice softer now. “You wake up at your pace, Clarissa. I’ll still be here.”

And in the quiet of the morning, without pressure or expectation, she gave him the faintest smile—small, real, and enough. Clarissa lay quietly, still adjusting to the slow rhythm of morning when Winston stood from the chair with a gentle stretch. The blanket that had kept him warm slipped slightly off his shoulders, and he folded it neatly before placing it at the foot of her bed.

He glanced at her, noticing the way her eyes followed him—curious, still soft with sleep, but more awake now. “Do you want some breakfast?” he asked, voice warm, casual. Clarissa blinked.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” Winston interrupted with a small smile. “But I want to. Something light, maybe? Toast? Eggs? Or I saw some fruit and oats in the kitchen last night.”

She hesitated. For a moment, it was clear that she was trying to figure out how to respond.

She had always done things herself—waking up to someone else making her breakfast wasn’t something she was used to.

“You’re a guest, you know,” she murmured, voice faintly teasing. Winston chuckled. “Fiancé privilege. I’m temporarily promoted to domestic guest.”

A reluctant smile curved on her lips. “Okay. Maybe something simple, then. Fruit and toast would be enough.”

Winston nodded, stepping closer and pressing a hand gently to her forehead again. “Your fever’s a little better now,” he observed.

“Good. You rest a little more, and I’ll go make us something. No arguments.”

Clarissa let her head fall back on the pillow, her eyes following him until he reached the door.

“Winston?” she called softly.

He turned, hand on the doorframe. “Thank you,” she said, barely louder than a breath. He held her gaze, the soft sincerity in her voice like a balm to every reason he came back from Kalimantan early. He gave her a slight nod, smiling gently.

“I’ll be right back.”

In the quiet of the morning, Winston moved through Clarissa’s kitchen with a calm focus, but his heart was far from steady. There was something about this—this ordinary, domestic moment—that stirred something deep inside him.

He wasn’t just making breakfast; he was doing something for her, with her, in her space. And that meant more than he could put into words. He set a few slices of bread into the toaster, then reached for the fresh strawberries he noticed in the fridge the night before. He rinsed them gently, slicing them neatly as he laid them on a small plate beside a handful of blueberries. He brewed a pot of tea, the kind he knew she liked—mild jasmine with a hint of honey—and watched as the steam curled into the sunlight pouring through the window.

Butterflies stirred in his stomach.

This wasn’t just a morning chore. It was something meaningful. The thought of her upstairs, resting—letting him be there, allowing his presence, his care—it made him feel closer to her than any words had managed so far.

He plated the toast, placed the fruit carefully, and poured two cups of tea. Every movement was gentle, mindful. There was no rush. Just quiet purpose. As he reached for a small tray to carry everything up, he paused for a second, fingers gripping the edge.

He let out a slow breath. This was the beginning of something real. No grand gesture, no sparkling lights—just jasmine tea, sliced fruit, and toast on a tray. And yet, to him, it felt like everything.

Winston balanced the tray carefully in his hands, the quiet clink of porcelain the only sound breaking the early morning calm. As he made his way up the stairs, his heart beat a little faster—not out of nervousness, but something softer, deeper. Something like hope.

When he reached the bedroom, the door was still slightly ajar. A pale wash of morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a serene glow over the room. Clarissa was no longer asleep, but she hadn't moved much either.

She sat against the headboard, wrapped in the comforter, hair slightly tousled, eyes still clouded with sleep. She looked at him, surprised but softened, when she noticed the tray in his hands.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, her voice quiet and still hoarse from sleep. “I know,” Winston said, smiling gently as he walked closer, “but I wanted to.”

He placed the tray carefully on the bedside table and began arranging everything within her reach.

Clarissa watched him in silence—his movements calm, his expression kind, his presence… steady. “I made jasmine tea. And fruit. Toast too. Not the fanciest, but I promise I was careful,” he said with a touch of humor, trying to lighten the moment.

Clarissa let out a soft laugh, almost reluctant. “You remembered the tea?”

“Of course,” he replied. “You mentioned it once, in passing. That’s more than enough.”

She looked down at the food, then back at him—this man who had entered her life so unexpectedly, now standing here like he belonged. She felt something strange twist inside her chest. Not pain, not guilt. Something… unfamiliar.

“Thank you, Winston. Really.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, not too close. Just near enough to show he was here, but not to press. “Eat what you can,” he said softly. “You need something warm in your system. Then you can rest again. Or we can talk. Or not."

"Whatever feels okay for you.”

Clarissa nodded. She picked up a piece of toast, broke off a corner. She chewed slowly, not from lack of hunger—but the weight of the moment was something she hadn’t expected to feel this early in the day.

And Winston—he sat quietly beside her, sipping his tea, not watching her too intently. Just being there. It wasn’t a grand act of love. But it was something better. Steady, patient, quiet devotion. And for someone like Clarissa—who had always carried the world alone—this, perhaps, was the loudest declaration of care she’d ever known.

Clarissa ate in quiet, unrushed bites—her body still a little heavy from the fever, her mind lighter somehow, though she couldn’t quite explain why.

Winston didn’t fill the silence with questions. He didn’t pry. He simply remained, his presence grounding, like gravity itself decided to take human form and stay beside her.

After a few moments, she placed the last piece of toast back on the plate, taking a sip of the tea he had brewed. “It’s perfect,” she murmured, voice softer than before. “Just the right amount of sugar.”

Winston looked at her, a small smile forming as he watched her settle more comfortably. “I’m glad,” he said.

“You looked like you needed something sweet this morning.”

Clarissa didn’t respond right away, only looked at him—really looked at him. The clean shirt he’d changed into, the way his hair was still a little messy from the night spent in the armchair, the quiet crease of concern between his brows that hadn’t quite gone away. And then it dawned on her: he didn’t sleep in his own bed last night. He stayed. All night.

“You didn’t have to stay,” she said gently, guilt brushing the edge of her tone.

“I know,” Winston replied, leaning forward slightly to take the tray from her lap. “But I wanted to.”

There was no hesitation in his words—no expectation either. Just care. Just truth. He set the tray on the table and turned back to her. For a moment, he didn’t speak.

Instead, he reached out slowly, waiting for any sign of resistance, and then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the back of his fingers—gentle, reverent.

Her breath caught slightly. She hadn’t been touched like that in a long time—not with pressure, or desire, but with tenderness. “You’re warm again,” he said quietly. “Better than last night. That’s a good sign.”

Clarissa nodded. The weight of her body still rested against the pillows, but something in her chest felt lighter.

“Thank you, Winston,” she whispered. “For last night. For breakfast. For staying.”

He smiled, a warm, boyish kind of smile that reached all the way to his eyes. Then, with slow caution, he brought her hand into his. Just their fingers, brushing gently, folding together.

No demands. Just a silent offer to remain.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “But I’m here. If you ever need someone to lean on—even if just for a morning tea.”

Clarissa looked down at their hands, then up again at him. Her heart, still bruised and cautious, beat a little differently this time. Unsure. But open. She gave his hand a squeeze. “Okay,” she said. “Then stay a little longer.”

Clarissa leaned back against the pillows, the teacup now empty in her hands, and her gaze turned toward the window as soft daylight filtered through the sheer curtains. The quiet between her and Winston had grown comfortable now—no longer burdened by the weight of unspoken things. She was still recovering, but something in her chest didn’t feel as heavy this morning.

Winston cleared his throat softly beside her, breaking the stillness.

“There’s something I should tell you,” he said, cautious but calm. Clarissa turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. “What is it?”

He hesitated—not because he doubted her, but because he didn’t want to startle her with too much too soon. Still, he believed in honesty. That had always been his way.

“My mother asked a question yesterday,” he said finally. “Melissa.”

Clarissa tilted her head, a small smile tugging the corners of her lips.

“What kind of question?”

“She asked whether we’ve talked about… living together,” he said, his voice gentle. “After the engagement, of course. Not out of pressure, more like… suggestion. She thought it might help us know each other better.”

Clarissa blinked. Her eyes didn’t widen, but her expression became still, thoughtful. She set the cup down on the tray before speaking. “I see.”

“I told her we haven’t talked about it yet,” Winston added quickly. “And that we’d only do whatever feels right for you. For both of us.”

Clarissa nodded slowly, then exhaled a quiet breath. She looked away, not out of avoidance, but to gather the words carefully. “I could,” she said after a moment. “Maybe. I just… not this fast.”

Winston gave her the softest of smiles, reassuring.

She looked back at him and added, “Maybe in a month or so. Once the work settles a bit, and once I feel like I can breathe without looking over my shoulder. It’s not that I don’t want to try—it’s just… I’m not ready yet.”

He nodded, never breaking eye contact. “Clarissa, you don’t owe anyone speed. You don’t have to rush your healing or your pace to match someone else’s expectations. I’m just glad you’re willing to consider it.

There was a long pause, filled with quiet understanding.

“I appreciate you telling me,” Clarissa said softly. “And tell Melissa thank you… but maybe just give me a little more time.”

“I will,” Winston said with warmth. “And when that time comes, whether it’s a month or more—just say the word.”

She gave him a small, grateful smile and reached for his hand again. It was the quiet kind of gesture that said everything she didn’t say out loud: 𝘐’𝘮 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

Clarissa glanced at the clock beside her bed, then turned her gaze toward Winston who was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching her with that quiet gentleness of his. She rubbed her eyes, the remnants of sleep still lingering on her face, beforea sking softly,

“What time is it? I need to be at the campus this afternoon… there’s a meeting I can’t miss.”

Winston frowned, his concern evident in his expression. “You really should rest more. You’re still warm,” he said, touching her hand again briefly.

"I know,” she murmured, pushing herself up to sit properly. “But this one I can’t skip. I’ll be fine. It’s not too long.” Winston didn’t argue further. Instead, he shifted gears. “I’ll be at the campus too later. I’ve got a class to teach. Want to go together?” he offered, casually yet with a subtle undertone of care.

Clarissa looked at him, surprised. “Really? You’re teaching today?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Just one lecture. I thought I’d swing by a little early, actually. So if you’re okay with it, we can head there together.”

She gave a slight nod, brushing her hair back from her face. “Okay,” she agreed. “That’ll work.”

Winston stood and stretched his arms slightly, then asked, “Mind if I take a quick shower and get changed here? I brought clothes.”

Clarissa blinked for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead. You know where everything is.”

“Thanks,” he said, leaning down just a little to press a brief kiss on her forehead—then caught himself midway and instead just brushed a reassuring hand along her arm. “I’ll be quick,” he added, and made his way toward the guest bathroom with the ease of someone slowly being accepted as part of a home.

Clarissa watched him go, her chest filled with a quiet, strange warmth. Not love, perhaps not yet. But trust, presence, and comfort—things she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Winston stepped quietly into Clarissa’s bedroom after finishing his shower in the guest bathroom, his steps light in case she was still resting. But the moment he entered, he froze mid-step.

Clarissa stood in front of her bed, her damp hair clinging to her neck and shoulders, a towel in her hands as she tried to dry it. She wore a silk satin mini dress—elegant, simple, probably her regular home attire—but the sight caught him off guard.

She hadn’t heard him at first, focused on her routine, until she finally noticed his presence. Her eyes widened slightly, startled. Winston immediately looked away, clearing his throat, flustered.

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in. I thought you were dressed.”

Clarissa blinked, her hand tightening slightly around the towel before she offered a small, awkward smile. “It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to be back that quick.”

The air between them was quiet but not tense. Just new—tentative, like the space between them was slowly learning to be shared. Winston stepped a little closer, his voice gentler now. “Sit at your dressing table,” he said, pointing toward the vanity across the room.

“Let me help. I saw your dryer on the counter."

Clarissa raised a brow, surprised by his offer, but said nothing. She walked over and sat obediently, still holding the towel lightly at the ends of her hair. Winston plugged in the dryer, testing the heat on his palm before gently beginning to work through her damp locks with one hand and the dryer in the other.

“You can do your skincare now,” he said with a small smile. “You’re hands-free.”

Clarissa let out a soft giggle, almost involuntarily. It was sweet, like a drop of honey in tea. “How do you know about that?”

Winston smiled, eyes focused on her hair. “I pay attention. I listen,” he said casually. “And Melissa always told me skin prep is sacred. You don’t interrupt a woman doing it, you support her so she doesn’t skip it.”

Clarissa laughed quietly again, pulling out her toner and creams. “Your mother’s a wise woman.”

“She is,” he agreed. “And she’d be thrilled to know I’ve finally dried someone else’s hair besides my sister’s cat.”

Clarissa chuckled again, a bit more freely this time, and as he worked through her hair with careful attention, a soft warmth settled in the space between them.

As Winston continued drying her hair, the soft hum of the hairdryer filled the room, but his mind was louder than the machine in his hands. Clarissa sat gracefully before the mirror, her skin glowing from the moisture of freshly washed hair and the light dab of her skincare.

The silky mini dress she wore clung delicately to her form, revealing more of her bare shoulders and legs than he’d ever seen before. It wasn’t inappropriate—it was intimate. Real. A glimpse of Clarissa in her own world, her private space, where the polished public figure gave way to a quiet, vulnerable woman at home.

He swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how much he was seeing her not just as his fiancée, but as a woman: soft, strong, and impossibly graceful even in such a quiet moment. The dress, the bare skin, the trust to let him in—this wasn’t a scenario she was used to, he could tell. She carried herself with that same gentle composure, but the slight blush on her cheek when he entered earlier, the subtle tension in her posture, it spoke of unfamiliarity. Even with Harvey, or Christian during her weakest hours, he doubted she ever shared this kind of proximity in such a tender, domestic setting. This was a first. A quiet, unspoken first.

“How do you like the heat, Clarissa?” he asked, his voice low, almost cautious—gentle enough to keep the balance between care and awareness of her boundaries. Clarissa glanced at him through the reflection in the mirror. Their eyes met, her gaze soft, open, and unexpectedly calm. She offered a small smile.

“Okay, Winston,” she replied, her voice just above a whisper. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just gratitude for the hair drying. It was for his presence. For handling her with such care. For staying within the lines, even when the intimacy of the moment gave every opportunity to cross them. And in that space—warm with the hum of the dryer, the scent of tea still lingering faintly in the air, and Clarissa’s trust so delicately handed over—Winston realized something: He was falling in love not with her idea, not with the image of Clarissa Madhava. But with her—in her silence, in her strength, and in her quiet vulnerability.

Clarissa sat quietly as the warm air of the hairdryer brushed against her damp hair. The moment was unfamiliar—soft, domestic, and somehow delicate. Her eyes followed Winston’s reflection in the mirror.

He stood behind her, focused and gentle, his fingers occasionally brushing strands of her hair away from her face with an ease that made her chest tighten—not from discomfort, but from something far more tender.

She wasn’t used to this. Not the act itself, but the feeling that came with it. The quiet presence of someone tending to her not out of obligation or expectation, but simply because they wanted to. Christian had helped her once—when her legs wouldn’t support her and grief left her broken—but even that moment hadn’t held the same weight as this. That was necessity. Survival. This was... care. And closeness.

Not even Harvey had ever seen her like this—fresh out of the shower, skin bare, hair undone, vulnerable and without the shield of perfect outfits and polished words. There had always been a space she didn’t let anyone in, a room in herself she kept locked for safety. But now, here she was, letting someone inside, and it wasn’t frightening. It was strange, yes. But not frightening.

Clarissa’s gaze lowered briefly, catching sight of Winston’s hand adjusting the heat settings, his other resting lightly on the edge of the vanity. He was respectful, measured, never once overstepping—even when the boundaries felt like they were blurring on their own.

That restraint, that quiet reverence, made her feel something she hadn’t in a long time: safe.

Her fingers moved carefully as she applied her serum, and then her moisturizer. She could feel him watching—not in a way that made her shrink back, but in a way that made her feel seen. It wasn’t about her appearance, or the way the silk hugged her frame. It was something deeper. Her—just her.

And for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to be seen.

As Clarissa applied the final touches to her makeup—a light dab of powder, a subtle stroke of lipstick—Winston turned off the hairdryer, setting it gently on the table. The room settled into a quiet hum of intimacy, soft and comforting. She was about to reach for her hairbrush when Winston stopped her with a gentle touch on her wrist.

“Let me,” he said, voice low but calm.

Clarissa raised a brow in surprise, but didn’t argue. Instead, she handed him the brush and sat back, watching him through the mirror with a curious softness in her gaze. Winston moved behind her again, slowly brushing her hair with care and precision, untangling each strand like he was handling fine silk. She had thick, straight hair that flowed easily under the bristles, and he admired how effortlessly elegant she looked, even like this—at home, quiet, without an audience.

“You really shouldn’t have washed your hair last night, Clarissa,” he murmured, brushing slowly. “Especially with a fever. It’s not good for you.”

Clarissa glanced at him in the mirror, a little amused, a little stubborn. “It wouldn’t make sense to come to campus looking like I haven’t showered in days. What would people think?”

Winston chuckled softly, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I think they’d understand if you weren’t at your best while sick.”

She smirked, almost fondly. “You clearly don’t understand how ruthless my colleagues can be.”

“Oh, I do,” he said. “But I still think you’re too hard on yourself.”

Clarissa said nothing, but her eyes lingered on him a second longer. There was something disarming about the way he treated her—like she didn’t need to be perfect, like she didn’t have to keep performing. Like being sick, being undone, being just her was enough.

Once he finished brushing her hair, he gently set the brush down. “Alright,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll give you some space to get dressed.”

She nodded, quietly grateful, and stood to make her way to the dressing room. Just before entering, she glanced back at him.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Winston just smiled, hands in his pockets now, watching her disappear behind the door—still in awe of how natural this all felt, how quietly significant these small moments were.

It didn’t take long before the door to the dressing room creaked open, and Clarissa stepped out, fully dressed and composed—yet effortlessly elegant. A crisp white shirt tucked neatly into high-waisted dark jeans, paired with low heels that gave her posture more grace.

Draped over one arm was a black blazer, adding just the right amount of formality to the look. In her other hand, she carried a sleek black tote with her laptop and documents inside, organized as always.

Winston, who had been waiting near the hallway, looked up and paused for a moment. There was something about her—clean, simple lines, quiet confidence, eyes still a little tired from the fever yet carrying that sharpness he’d come to admire.

“You look beautiful,” he said warmly, genuine in every syllable. “Professional. Casual. But somehow still… stunning.”

Clarissa offered a soft smile at his words, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she said, her voice still carrying that gentle tone from the morning. “I’m ready if you are.”

Winston nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

He reached for her tote bag, gently offering to carry it, and she didn’t resist. With that, they stepped out of the house together. The morning air was fresh, a soft angerang breeze lifting the edge of her blazer as they walked to the car. It felt easy—no rush, no pressure. Just two people, side by side, finding their rhythm in this new part of their lives.

During the entire ride to campus, the atmosphere in the car was quiet—but not heavy. Clarissa was deeply focused on her tablet, scrolling through documents, responding to messages, and reviewing her meeting notes. Her brows furrowed with the kind of silent intensity Winston had grown familiar with.

It wasn’t that she was ignoring him; it was just who she was when she had something on her plate—fully present, fully responsible.

Winston didn’t interrupt. He leaned back in his seat, watching the city pass by through the window, respecting her space.

“Thank you,” she said, just enough for him to hear.

They walked side by side through the pathway lined with greenery, exchanging light conversation—nothing too deep, just comfortable words about the weather, how the campus had changed, small anecdotes from the last lecture Winston gave. Clarissa chuckled lightly at one of his remarks, but her focus was already shifting toward her agenda.

When they reached the faculty wing, she paused in front of her office. “I’ll let you know when I’m done,” Clarissa said softly.

Winston nodded, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Take your time.”

She gave him a final look—grateful, a little apologetic—and disappeared behind the door of her room.

As Winston turned down the corridor to make his way to his own classroom, a familiar voice called out to him.

“Bro,” Vincent called, falling into step beside him. “What’s with you and the rector lately?”

Winston raised an eyebrow but kept walking. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Vincent grinned. “First, you made her fall—literally—and now you two are arriving together like a couple. Did you manage to actually go out with her after that? What's going on?”

Winston let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head, keeping his tone cool.

“Something like that.”

Vincent narrowed his eyes, nudging him. “Don’t ‘something like that’ me. That’s 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘢 𝘔𝘢𝘥𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘢, man. You’re not just tutoring her in Excel sheets, are you?”

Winston smiled but didn’t give a direct answer.

“Let’s just say… things changed.”

Vincent whistled low under his breath. “I need to hear the full story. But after class.”

“After class,” Winston agreed, pushing the door open to his room. Still smiling to himself.

Winston stepped into his lecture hall, the buzz of early students filtering in and filling the room with energy. He greeted them with his usual calm and welcoming tone, but his mind drifted—just briefly—back to Clarissa.

She was somewhere down the hall, conducting a meeting, holding the room the way she always did—with quiet authority and understated grace. Even now, even sick, she was fully herself. Composed. Strong. Beautiful.

He knew whatever this was between them—this slow unfolding of trust, this cautious step into something new—it wasn’t simple. Not with her past. Not with her pace. But that was exactly why he was here. Because he saw her for who she was, and he had no intention of rushing her healing or interrupting her path forward.

It wasn’t about the chase anymore. It was about staying.

And so, while Vincent pestered him with questions and the classroom filled with noise and notes, Winston waited—just as he promised he would.

Not just for the end of Clarissa’s meeting. But for her, whenever she was ready.

END.

[siltrace]

Cutting The Distance

The arrangement of being a part-time lecturer was never just about convenience for Winston—it was about intention. The flexibility it gave him was something he cherished, not just for academic balance, but more so for his responsibilities in the family’s mining and resource ventures.

His work had recently brought him to Kalimantan for a few days—inspecting new sites, reviewing proposals, and meeting with the ground team. It was productive, no doubt. But through every meeting and every check-in, one thought persisted quietly at the back of his mind: Clarissa.

Though they had agreed to take their engagement slow—built more on getting to know each other deeply rather than diving into a romance—they had quickly grown used to each other's quiet presence.

Two days apart might seem trivial to most, but for Winston, the distance felt noticeable, even sharp. Clarissa had her own responsibilities too: between administrative work at the university, planning for future international conferences, and her travels between Bali and Jakarta, she had little room to breathe, let alone to be doted on He knew better than to get in her way.

He didn’t text much during her work hours, didn’t expect long calls at night. But today, after wrapping up things in Kalimantan a little earlier than planned, he chose to take the evening flight back. It was almost 9 PM by the time he arrived in Jakarta, but that didn’t matter.

Now, he stood in front of her door—one hand in his coat pocket, the other pressing the bell with a quiet firmness.

There was something humble and gentle in the way he waited, his suitcase placed neatly by his side. He could’ve gone home first, unpacked, rested—but no. He wanted to see her first. Even just to say good night.

It was quiet.

A single warm ceiling light above his head lit the entrance modestly. He waited.

One minute passed. Then two. Still no answer. He checked his phone to make sure he didn’t miss a message.

He debated whether he should press the bell again, but before he could, he heard soft footsteps approaching from inside. The lock clicked, the door cracked open slowly, and there she was. Clarissa stood in front of him in a simple oversized sweatshirt, her hair tied loosely back, her eyes just the slightest bit puffy—clearly exhausted. But to Winston, she looked just as graceful and lovely as always.

She blinked once, then recognized him.

“…Winston?” her voice was soft, a little surprised.

He offered her a warm, tired smile. “Hi,” he said, his voice as calm and tender as his presence. “I landed a little while ago. Thought I’d come see you before heading home.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, perhaps because she wasn’t expecting him. Then a small smile tugged on her lips—quiet, but genuine. She opened the door wider.

“You must be tired.”

“A little,” he admitted. “But mostly, I just missed you.”

Clarissa stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in, the air between them gentle and unforced. Just two people finding their way, step by step, through the beginning of something tender and real.

"I didn't expect you to be home this early. It’s rare," Clarissa said, her voice soft as she leaned slightly against the edge of the door, watching him enter.

"Really?" Winston replied with a faint smile, unbothered but intrigued.

Clarissa returned his smile—subtle, not too wide, but warm. She stepped aside as Winston made his way in, already familiar with the path to her living room. He removed his coat and draped it over the side of the couch, settling in comfortably, yet with the respect of a guest. She closed the door quietly behind them and followed at her own pace.

"Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?" she offered, her tone gentle, almost like a habit of kindness she didn’t think much of.

Winston looked up at her. "Tea, please. Whichever tea you like," he answered. His words were light, but it was clear that he valued anything she'd prepare.

Without another word, Clarissa gave him a small nod and disappeared into the kitchen. Her steps were unhurried. The kitchen was quiet, except for the soft clink of cups and the low hum of the kettle heating water.

She moved around with practiced efficiency—selecting a jasmine blend from the tin and placing two tea bags into simple ceramic cups.

Though she wasn’t one to speak when silence worked just fine, there was a calm, nearly comforting air about her. She never felt the need to fill every moment with words. Her way of showing care was in the small, precise gestures. The kind that, if someone wasn’t paying attention, they might miss.

Five minutes passed, then she returned. In both hands, she held the two cups, warm and lightly steaming. She placed them gently on the coasters she’d already prepared on the living room table.

"Thank you," Winston said quietly, taking one of the cups into his hands. He let the warmth soak into his palms before taking a sip. "How are you?"

Clarissa took her seat across from him, folding one leg under the other. She cleared her throat lightly. "I guess all is good," she said, her voice thoughtful.

"Work is done. I had a few meetings today, mostly to close up the planning side. Everything’s been sorted out pretty well."

Winston nodded slowly. "I’m glad to hear that. Sounds like it’s all under control." He paused, then added with genuine interest, “And the campus, how’s that coming along?”

She offered a brief, composed smile. "Demanding. But manageable. We’re finalizing schedules for the next quarter." Then she glanced back at him. "How’s your business there?"

Her tone was careful—not formal, but not overly familiar either. It was a small step forward, like she was still figuring out how much space she could give. He leaned back into the couch, crossing one leg casually.

"It needed more supervision than I’d expected. There were a few delays with the logistics and some crew rotation issues. But nothing too serious. I think they’ll get it sorted by the end of the month, hopefully sooner."

Clarissa nodded.

"I’m happy to hear that," she said softly. "It’s a relief." There was a pause—not uncomfortable, but still. The kind of silence that follows when two people are still learning how to move around each other's presence. But in that quiet space, the warmth of the tea and the flicker of the soft lighting made it feel like home—maybe not entirely yet.

Winston’s eyes wandered subtly around the room as he took another sip of his tea, letting the warmth ground him in the quiet of the evening.

It was then that he noticed something different—something missing. The large photograph of Harvey and Clarissa that once hung prominently on the wall was no longer there. Its absence was immediately felt. The empty patch of wall, slightly discolored in contrast to the rest of the paint, gave it away.

He didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered just a little too long, tracing the faint rectangle left behind. It wasn’t meant to be noticed, but Clarissa had always been attuned to the quiet shifts in a room, in people.

She followed his eyes, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Then she spoke, softly, not out of obligation, but out of clarity.

“I took it off,” Clarissa said, confirming what he had silently deduced. Her voice was calm, but something faintly vulnerable lingered beneath it. “I just... needed a space to breathe. A start to move forward.”

Winston didn’t rush to respond. He looked at her with gentle understanding, not trying to fill the silence with reassurance, but waiting until his words would feel honest.

“Hey,” he finally said, setting his cup down and leaning slightly forward, his tone reassuring but respectful. “It’s okay. I know you know what’s best for you.”

He glanced briefly again at the smaller framed photos still placed on the shelf—moments frozen in time, quiet memories that she hadn’t let go of just yet. He respected that too.

“Whether you had that hanging still or not,” he continued, “that’s fine. You know your pace, Clarissa. I’m not here to erase anything. I’m just... walking beside you.”

His words weren’t grand or poetic. But they carried weight, because they were real—spoken with no expectation, only quiet support. And Clarissa, though still processing everything in her own way, gave him the faintest nod, as if to say thank you without speaking at all.

The room fell into a stillness that wasn't uncomfortable, just delicate—like the hush after a long day. Clarissa was about to reach for her tea again when a voice echoed softly in her memory.

“Have you eaten dinner?” 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘺’𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦.

It came out of nowhere—unbidden but familiar, a ghost of routine and tenderness that used to color her evenings. Her hand paused mid-air, and her eyes blinked slowly, like she was trying to steady herself. That question used to mean he was nearby, that he cared whether she'd eaten, even if he was late or tired himself.

But the man across from her now wasn’t Harvey.

Winston noticed the shift in her expression. A flicker—quick, but there. He didn’t push, didn’t ask. He simply sat quietly, giving her the space to return to the present. She finally lowered her hand, curling her fingers into her lap. Her voice was quiet when she spoke, steady but soft.

“No,” she answered—not to the ghost in her head, but to the man sitting right in front of her.

Winston smiled gently, knowingly. “Then let’s fix that.” He didn’t try to replace anyone. He didn’t try to offer her what she’d lost. He just stood, calmly, and walked toward the kitchen with ease.

“Do you have anything to cook? Or should I order us something?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

Clarissa let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding—maybe from the weight of the memory, maybe from relief that Winston never rushed her grief.

She stood slowly. “Let’s see what I’ve got.”

As Winston opened the fridge and scanned its contents, he glanced over his shoulder—and then really looked at her. Clarissa was leaning slightly against the kitchen counter, her movements slower than usual.

Her skin was a shade paler under the kitchen lights, her eyes dimmed with the kind of fatigue that goes beyond tiredness. She was trying to keep up, trying to be present, but Winston saw through it. He closed the fridge gently and turned to face her, concern softening his features.

“Clarissa,” he said quietly, not alarmed, just attentive, “are you really okay?”

She blinked, then gave a small smile—one of those instinctive ones people give when they’re used to saying 𝘐’𝘮 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦 even when they’re not. “Just a little tired, I guess. It’s been a long week.” Winston stepped closer, not too close, but close enough to offer something steadier than words. His voice lowered, kind. “You look pale. Have you eaten at all today?”

Clarissa hesitated for a moment before answering, her gaze dropping briefly. “Only coffee and a sandwich earlier this afternoon. I’ve been in meetings non-stop.”

He nodded slowly, thoughtful. “Okay. Then let’s not bother with cooking. You sit down. I’ll order something warm and easy—soup, maybe?” His tone wasn’t pressing, but steady, grounding.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised a gentle brow. “No arguments. Let me take care of you a little. That’s all.”

Clarissa finally gave in with a soft sigh and a nod, walking over to the sofa again. Winston watched her for a second longer—quietly thankful that she let her guard down enough to show her exhaustion. Trust didn’t come in grand gestures; sometimes, it looked just like this.

He took out his phone and began scrolling through a delivery app, but his eyes kept glancing at her—still making sure. Just being there, as promised.

"Would mushroom soup be okay for you?" Winston asked gently as he scrolled through the food delivery app. His eyes flicked up from the screen to study her carefully. "Any allergies I should know about?"

Clarissa, curled slightly into the corner of the couch, her legs folded under her, gave a faint shake of her head. "No, Winston. That sounds okay."

He gave her a small smile, one that lingered with quiet affection. “Alright then. I’m ordering one for you.”

After placing the order, he set his phone down on the coffee table and moved closer, his attention shifting completely toward her now. There was something in the way her body leaned—tired, not just physically but deeply worn.

Without another word, Winston gently reached out.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, and then carefully placed the back of his hand against her neck, and then her forehead. The warmth shocked him. “You’re burning, Clarissa,” he said softly, brows knitting in concern.

“You have a fever. How did you even manage to get to campus today?”

She paused for a moment, as if trying to figure out the easiest answer. Her voice came out quieter than before, slightly raspy. “I didn’t. I stayed at home all day.”

That only made his concern grow. He pulled his hand back, but his gaze stayed on her. “And you said nothing about it to me?” Clarissa looked away, lips pressed together, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to explain.

“You were in Kalimantan,” she replied simply. “It wasn’t something urgent. I thought I could manage.”

Winston shook his head slowly, not in frustration, but in disbelief. His voice dropped, calm but firm. “Clarissa… I’ve told you—it’s okay to tell me these things. I want to know.”

He leaned forward slightly, his hand resting near hers on the sofa cushion. “I’m your fiancé now. That means something to me. You won’t ever be a burden to me. If I need to fly home early, I will. If I need to show up at your door with soup and medicine, I’ll be there.”

Her eyes flickered up to his, and he could see it—just beneath the surface of her calm demeanor, the hesitation, the quiet endurance, the fear of being too much. “I’m not trying to replace anything or anyone,” he added, his tone softer now. “But I need you to know that taking care of you—worrying about you—it’s not a weight. It’s something I want to do.”

Clarissa didn’t respond right away, but something in her shoulders loosened, a wall slightly lowered. She gave him the smallest nod, a silent gesture of surrender—not to weakness, but to trust.

“I’ll let you know next time,” she said quietly.

Winston smiled, warm and reassuring. “Good. Starting tonight.”

Winston had always known Clarissa as a woman of poise and calm control—always composed, always collected. But standing there now, in the quiet of her home, he saw something different. A pattern.

He thought back over the months: how she never asked for help, how she carried burdens alone, how she barely mentioned if she was unwell, how she stood at the center of chaos and responsibility without flinching. It struck him deeply.

There was a kind of strength in her silence, but it also carried a loneliness that pained him. She had always been independent—resolutely, perhaps stubbornly so. And now, watching her fold quietly into the couch, pale and burning with fever, something inside Winston twisted.

She had never let anyone see her like this.

“You need to rest now,” he said gently, standing and reaching out his hand toward her. “Come on. Let’s go to the bedroom—you need to lie down.”

Clarissa looked hesitant. “But…” she began, as if she was going to protest out of habit. But she stopped herself. Her eyes flickered down, and then back up to meet his. She gave him a small nod. “Okay.”

Without saying more, she stood and turned toward the staircase, her steps slow and unsure. Winston followed her up to the second floor, quiet and respectful. He understood—this wasn’t about the bedroom. This was about trust. About letting someone past the emotional barricade she’d built so meticulously.

At the top of the stairs, she paused in front of a door and placed her hand on the knob. She hesitated, just for a second, then pushed it open.

The room was minimalistic, but warm. White walls, wood accents, a soft curtain that let in just enough of the city’s dimmed evening light. It smelled faintly of lavender and something he couldn’t name—maybe just her. There were books stacked on a nearby shelf, a single framed photo of her family by the bedside, and the bed itself was neatly made with white linen sheets.

She stepped inside and awkwardly sat on the edge of the bed, as if unsure of her own presence in this moment.

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, her voice just above a whisper. “I’ve never let anyone beyond the first floor. Not even… not even Harvey.”

Winston paused by the door, struck by the weight of her words. He was about to say something, but before he could, she added softly, “Do you want me to give you space?” he asked, taken slightly aback, not wanting her to feel cornered.

She shook her head slowly. “It’s okay,” she said after a pause. “I did it once. With Christian… after Harvey passed. I couldn’t walk that day. He carried me upstairs.”

Her eyes found his again, more vulnerable than he’d ever seen them. “You’re the second.”

Winston’s chest tightened. He walked over slowly and knelt in front of her.

“Then I’ll honor that,” he said gently. “Thank you for trusting me.”

She nodded, then lay back on the bed slowly, her breathing still light and shallow. Winston adjusted the pillow behind her, tucked a blanket over her gently, then pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down beside her.

He didn’t speak again, just watched her fall asleep. And in that quiet, he realized: this—her trust, her presence, even her fevered silence—meant more than any vow or ritual. She was letting him in, piece by piece. And he would be there for every moment of it.

Winston sat quietly by her bedside, watching her breathing steady into sleep. Her face, usually composed and strong, now looked softer in rest—unguarded. As the city hummed faintly outside, a thousand thoughts crossed his mind, none louder than the quiet ache in his chest.

He knew.

He knew Clarissa wasn’t doing this because she was fully ready, not yet. She wasn’t letting him in because her heart had completely healed or because her grief had magically disappeared. No. He understood that much.

She was trying.

And maybe that was what hurt him the most—and yet moved him deeply too. This wasn't about romance or comfort. It was about survival. It was about her taking the next step, not because she wanted to rush ahead, but because something inside her told her she had to try.

That maybe, just maybe, if she didn’t take one step forward, she would stay in the same place forever.

He looked around the room again. The walls were clean and simple, but the absence of certain things spoke louder than presence. There were no traces of Harvey here. Nothing personal, nothing sentimental. Just the quiet echo of a space that had long been untouched by anyone else’s presence. He understood what that meant.

Clarissa was trying to move forward—not out of eagerness, but necessity. And by inviting him here, by lying down in front of him, fevered and exhausted, she was offering something far more sacred than affection. She was offering trust. A test of it. A fragile branch reaching out from a wounded place.

Winston leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her.

He whispered quietly, almost to himself, "𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘢. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺—𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺."

And deep in his heart, he knew: love isn’t just about someone close. Sometimes, it’s about holding space—without demanding anything back. Winston quietly stood and walked to the small nightstand tucked neatly beside Clarissa’s bed.

On it, just beneath her phone and a half-full glass of water, lay a worn copy of One Thousand and One Nights. The spine had softened over time, clearly read more than once. He gently picked it up, thumbing through the delicate pages until he landed on the beginning of a familiar tale—Scheherazade and Schahryar.

The room was dim, save for the warm bedside lamp casting a golden hue over her white-wooden walls. Clarissa lay still beneath the sheets, her breathing steady now. Feverish warmth still lingered on her skin when he last checked, but the rest had done her good.

He didn’t want to disturb her, not even with movement. So he sank into the lounge chair near the window, the book cradled in his hand. He read quietly, mind wandering between the ancient words and the woman resting nearby.

The tale of Scheherazade—wise, brave, selfless—felt oddly familiar in this moment. A woman who held back her own fear and pain to keep others safe. She told stories to survive, to soothe the broken heart of a king who had lost his faith in women.

Winston found the irony sinking in deeper the longer he read.

Clarissa, too, had been telling stories. Not with words, but with silence. With the way she carried herself, composed and strong. With the way she bore the pain of loss behind her steady eyes.

Her strength reminded him of Scheherazade—quiet, graceful, powerful not because she was loud, but because she endured.

Because she tried. The soft ping of his phone broke the silence—a notification from the delivery service. The food would arrive in fifteen minutes.

He bookmarked the page and glanced toward her again. She hadn’t stirred. Still resting. Still healing.

Winston exhaled slowly and looked down at the book once more. Perhaps tonight, he wouldn’t need to speak much. Perhaps his presence, this quiet waiting, was enough.

And perhaps Clarissa, though deep in sleep, would feel it too—that in this room, she was not alone anymore.

He stepped out of the bedroom as silently as he could, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The hallway carried the hush of the evening, the sort of quiet that demanded gentleness. He made his way downstairs, where the faint chime of the doorbell from earlier had signaled the arrival of their food.

At the front door, he picked up the plastic bags waiting on the welcome mat.

The rustling noise seemed too loud in the silence, so he moved quickly to the kitchen, careful not to let the sound trail upstairs. With quiet precision, Winston unpacked the containers, opening them one by one to check their condition—still warm, fragrant with the creamy aroma of mushroom soup, just as he’d promised her.

The kitchen was surprisingly full for someone who lived alone. The counters were spotless, the shelves neatly organized. Rows of spices lined a small rack, and fresh vegetables peeked out from a woven basket. A few handwritten labels on jars revealed her subtle domestic side—“cinnamon,” “cloves,” “dried chili.”

It reminded him of a conversation they'd once had, when she shyly admitted that cooking was her favorite therapy.

It made sense now, seeing all this. The order. The cleanliness. The care. The home mirrored her entirely—precise, understated, quietly elegant. But it also whispered of solitude, the kind learned and refined over time.

Winston arranged everything on a tray, poured a glass of water, and took a moment to wipe the tray edges clean. He ascended the stairs carefully, mindful of each step.

Pushing the door open gently, he saw her still asleep, her figure half-curled under the blanket.

Her face had softened. Less tense now. Less guarded. He stood there for a moment, simply watching her breathe, grateful that she trusted him enough to let him in, to let him witness this softness. He placed the tray on the nightstand, then crouched a little closer and whispered, low but audible.

"Clarissa..."

No response. He said her name again, a bit firmer. She stirred, slowly fluttering her eyes open. Her gaze found him in the soft light.

"Let’s eat first, okay?" Winston said with a gentle smile, voice laced with concern. “Then you can go back to rest.”

Clarissa blinked at him, dazed from sleep, but she nodded faintly. The warmth of his presence, the care he’d shown without a word of demand, began to nestle somewhere quietly in her chest. She sat up, slowly, as Winston reached to support her. For once, she didn’t resist the help. Not tonight.

She leaned against the headboard, propped up by the pillows Winston had quietly adjusted for her. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, but she gave him a faint, appreciative smile. She looked down at the tray he had prepared—soup, toast, and a small bowl of sliced apples.

Simple. Thoughtful.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” she murmured. “I know,” Winston replied, settling beside her with the bowl of mushroom soup in hand, spoon already dipped in. “But I wanted to.”

He scooped up the first spoonful and brought it gently to her lips.

Clarissa blinked, surprised. “Winston…”

“I won’t force you,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “Just… let me take care of you. Just this once, if that’s all you can give.”

There was a brief pause between them. A pause filled not with discomfort, but with hesitation. The kind of hesitation that comes from someone who’s never allowed herself to be this vulnerable before. Not in this way. Not with someone new.

She nodded once. “Okay.”

Winston smiled faintly, gently offering the spoon again. She accepted it this time, quietly tasting the warm soup. It was good—comforting, mild, the kind of meal that soothes the body as well as the heart.

“Too salty?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, it’s good.”

He fed her another spoonful, taking his time. Between sips, Clarissa’s eyes occasionally met his. There was something unspoken in those glances. Not love—at least not yet—but a tenderness forming. A quiet acknowledgment of trust, of letting someone stay when the walls usually kept them out.

“You always do things like this for people?” she asked, her voice barely louder than the ticking of the clock nearby.

“Not for everyone,” he replied truthfully. “But for you? I will.”

Clarissa looked away for a second, as if collecting herself, then turned back to him. “I’m not used to this.”

“I know,” Winston said, feeding her again. “But I’m not asking you to get used to it overnight.”

He paused, watching her slowly chew. “I just want to be here when you need someone. That’s enough for me.”

They said nothing for a while after that. He continued feeding her, letting the silence be soft, not heavy. Her head leaned slightly toward him by the time the bowl was half-finished, her body more relaxed.

In that quiet, domestic moment, something shifted—something gentle and true. She didn’t need to say thank you. He already knew.

After several spoonfuls, Clarissa gently raised her hand to hold the bowl herself. Winston hesitated but let her, watching closely in case she needed help again. “I think I can take it from here,” she said with a small, tired smile.

He gave her a nod and leaned back slightly, still sitting beside her. “Okay. But I’m not going far.”

She took a few more bites, slower now, her body still fighting off the weariness that clung to her like fog. Once she finished, she placed the bowl on the tray, which Winston carefully took and set aside on the small table near the door.

Clarissa leaned her head back against the headboard and exhaled, long and quiet. Her eyes drifted to the ring on her finger—the one he gave her not long ago.

It still felt foreign there, heavy in meaning, delicate in emotion.

“I didn’t expect today to end this way,” she said softly. Winston turned back to her, his posture relaxed but his gaze steady. “Neither did I. But I’m glad I came home early.”

She chuckled faintly under her breath. “You flew back just for me.”

“I did,” he confirmed. “And I would again.”

There was a beat of silence between them—one not of tension, but quiet understanding.

“I’m not always going to be like this,” she murmured, her eyes still on the ceiling. “Weak. Needing help.”

Winston’s brows drew slightly, not out of frustration but a gentle kind of protest. He stood up, walked over to her side of the bed, and knelt down beside it so they were face to face.

“Clarissa,” he said, voice low, “Needing rest doesn’t make you weak. Asking for help doesn’t make you any less of who you are. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. But even the strongest need someone.”

Her eyes welled slightly. She wasn’t crying, not really—but the truth in his words nudged something deep in her. She’d been holding everything up on her own for so long—without showing the cracks.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, barely a whisper.

“I don’t know how to let someone in again.”

“I don’t need you to know how,” Winston replied. “I just need you to let me stay. That’s enough.”

Clarissa blinked, steadying herself. She slowly nodded, her gaze not leaving his. “Okay,” she breathed.

Winston gently stood, brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead, and pulled the blanket up to her shoulder. “You get more rest. I’ll clean up downstairs.”

Clarissa reached for his hand before he walked away. She didn’t say anything—just held his fingers lightly in hers for a moment. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet, simple… and full of meaning

He squeezed her hand gently, then let go. “I’ll be right downstairs.”

And with that, he stepped out, closing the door softly behind him, giving her the peace she needed—knowing that when she was ready, he’d still be there.

The night deepened, silence blanketing the room like a soft veil. The only sounds were the faint rustle of leaves outside the window and the rhythmic breath of two people resting in different kinds of peace. Winston had drifted off in the chair beside her bed, his hand still gently wrapped around hers.

His head tilted slightly, resting against the edge of the bed, his expression calm—tired from travel, from care, from quiet patience.

In the middle of the night, Clarissa stirred.

Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light from the bedside lamp still left on at its lowest setting. The first thing she noticed was the warmth in her hand, the steady grip—his hand still holding hers. She turned her head and saw him there, slumped slightly, asleep in his seat. The sight pulled something gentle in her chest. Her brows lifted faintly, eyes softening. Slowly, quietly, she raised her other hand and reached out to him.

Her fingers brushed his hair gently, almost instinctively. A silent thank you.

With careful movements, Clarissa slid her hand out of his, mindful not to wake him. Winston stirred only faintly but didn’t wake. She pushed the covers off her legs and stood, her steps light across the hardwood floor as she made her way to the closet.

Opening the door, she reached for one of the folded blankets inside—a soft grey one she often kept for guests but rarely used. She held it close to her chest for a moment, breathing in deeply.

Then she returned to his side. Clarissa leaned down gently, unfolding the blanket and placing it carefully over his shoulders. She adjusted it until it rested snugly around him, tucking the edges with a tenderness that spoke more than words ever could.

Her hand lingered on his arm just a second longer, then she stepped back. For a brief moment, she watched him—this man who came back from Kalimantan just to see her, who fed her soup without asking for anything in return, who sat all night beside her without a hint of demand. Clarissa exhaled softly. She climbed back into bed, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and lay on her side, facing him.

The soft outline of his figure under the blanket was all she needed to feel something she hadn’t felt in a long time: 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦.

And then, just like that, she drifted off once more—into the quiet night that held them both.

END.

[siltrace]

Love, If It Comes

The Langfords’ arrival at the Madhava estate in Bali was marked by a quiet but undeniable weight in the air—expectation, curiosity, and perhaps, a thin layer of unspoken judgment.

After weeks of coordinating through Arya and Derek, the two families finally agreed on a date. The sun dipped low behind the lush jungle hills as the Langfords stepped out of their black vehicle, greeted by the scent of frangipani and the distant sound of gamelan music echoing softly from somewhere within the estate. The house—if it could even be called that—was more like a private temple. Ancient stone steps led into a sprawling compound of carved teak, with traditional Balinese pavilions framed by koi ponds and manicured gardens.

Arya met them at the entrance, poised as ever in a muted cream kebaya modernized with clean lines, her elegance understated yet unmistakably intentional. She bowed slightly, smiling.

“Welcome to our home,” she said warmly, her eyes flicking over each of them—Melissa with her perfectly pressed white silk blouse, Derek in a conservative grey linen suit, and Winston, sharp as ever in navy, but with an edge of nervousness hidden behind his smile.

“It’s stunning,” Melissa said genuinely, looking around. “Like something from a dream.”

“We’re so glad you could make the time,” Arya replied, gracious and practiced. “I hope the flight was smooth?”

“It was, thank you,” Derek said, adjusting his collar. “And we’ve been looking forward to this.”

As they moved past the threshold into the cool, incense-scented hallway, Kirana emerged from deeper within the home, flanked by two quiet staff members.

Her step was deliberate, her batik kaftan custom-made and dripping in labels no one asked for. She greeted the Langfords with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Melissa,” she said first, extending a hand with a touch too much ceremony. “Derek. Winston. Welcome.”

“Thank you for having us,” Melissa replied with polite warmth. Derek nodded. Winston offered a small, respectful bow, as he had researched to do. But Kirana’s eyes had already swept downward and lingered. Her gaze flitted over Melissa’s Cartier watch, Derek’s brogues, the cut of Winston’s trousers. Her lips tightened subtly, not enough to be noticed unless one was watching closely.

Of course she noticed Winston wore no local designer, no conscious nod to Balinese culture—not that she had ever worn anything with taste herself, but she fancied herself a gatekeeper of some social hierarchy no one ever officially installed her into. Ironically, the very shoes she wore—a monstrosity of bejeweled sandals imported from some gaudy boutique in Milan—clashed terribly with the batik she insisted on showcasing as “heritage couture".

But no one said a word. They never did. Not even Arya, who had grown masterful at enduring Kirana’s passive disapproval with the serenity of a woman who knew silence was power.

“Let’s move to the inner veranda,” Arya said smoothly, as if to cut the moment before it could stall. “There’s tea and some light snacks while dinner is being prepared. We’ve arranged a little something inspired by both our cultures.”

Winston glanced at her as they walked—grateful. She returned the glance with a quiet reassurance, her calm presence diffusing the brittle edges that Kirana always seemed to introduce into the room.

They passed open archways, revealing glimpses of a compound that spoke of serious, generational wealth—paintings by revered Indonesian artists, antique ceramics, sculptures older than most nations. It was, in every corner, a house that had been owned, not bought.

Lived in with lineage. The Madhava legacy.

Melissa whispered to Derek as they sat down, “You can feel it, can’t you?”

He nodded once, understanding exactly what she meant. This was no mere house; this was power dressed in civility. And yet, Winston was focused only on Clarissa—who hadn’t yet appeared.

As the staff gracefully served lemongrass tea and delicately plated tropical fruit, the Langfords settled into the wide veranda where carved wooden pillars framed a sweeping view of the garden and the slow trickle of a stone fountain. The tropical air was heavy but pleasant, stirred only by the subtle breeze that rustled through the palm fronds.

Melissa, ever the composed conversationalist, turned to Arya with a gentle smile. “And how are the children, Arya? It must still be a full house.” Arya smiled softly, the expression touching her eyes with something warm and almost nostalgic.

“They’re doing well, thank you. The twins are in their forties now—time moves too fast, I swear. Dewa is always busy—he has seven children of his own, can you believe that?”

“Seven?” Derek echoed, blinking.

Arya let out a low, amused breath. “Yes. His heart is always with the children. He’s a very hands-on father.”

“Impressive,” Melissa replied, eyebrows lifted.

“Kala just got married last week,” Arya continued, glancing at Melissa. “A quiet ceremony, just family. We welcomed another grandson from his new wife. So much joy.”

“Oh, congratulations!” Melissa said. “That’s wonderful.”

“And Clarissa—well, she’s here. Still upstairs,” Arya said, glancing toward the main house. “She got roped into a meeting. Typical. She's been buried in work lately. The restructuring in the holding company has taken most of her time. She’ll be joining us soon.”

Winston’s ears perked subtly at that, though he tried not to show it. The mention of her name sent a flicker of anticipation through him. He’d known she was here, of course. Arya had said so. But hearing that she was somewhere just above them, possibly finishing a call or still seated at her desk, grounded the moment in a reality he wasn’t quite ready for.

“And the others?” Melissa asked, sipping her tea politely.

Arya nodded. “The younger ones are mostly in university or school. Everyone’s spread out, but they come back when they can.”

“A large family,” Derek said, glancing at the gardens. “Must make for some very busy holidays.”

Arya chuckled softly. “Very loud ones, yes.”

From across the veranda, Kirana stirred her tea, saying nothing. Her perfectly arched eyebrow lifted just slightly when Dewa’s eleven children were mentioned, as though she found the number excessive and deeply unfashionable. She didn’t comment—perhaps to avoid revealing how little real parenting she’d ever been responsible for.

Winston, meanwhile, glanced once more toward the stairwell just inside the villa—wondering if Clarissa was on her way down.

Kirana might have been silent, but her thoughts were far from still.

As she stirred her tea again—more for something to do than to cool it—her eyes occasionally flicked to Melissa Langford. Everything about Melissa was understated yet pristine. The crisp linen of her white blouse, tailored precisely to fit without ever drawing attention to itself. The delicate silk scarf knotted loosely at her neck, something Kirana could swear was vintage Hermès. The way she spoke—measured, warm, with the kind of grace that didn’t need to perform.

Kirana had known the Langfords were wealthy, of course. Arya had told her enough. But now, sitting across from them in broad daylight, it hit her more sharply: they weren’t just wealthy. They were monumental. The Langfords had the kind of old money lineage that ran in the blood, that shaped the way you breathed and blinked and nodded across tables. They carried the ease of people who never had to prove a thing.

And Melissa—well, she didn’t flaunt a thing. That was the cruelest cut of all. She didn’t have to. Kirana could feel the gap between them widen with every glance. Kirana, in contrast, had spent years curating an image. It had taken her everything—her body, her youth, her charm—to even earn a place in the Madhava name. And now, in this quiet, sunlit afternoon, she realized with a bite of bitterness that the family she had once thought at the pinnacle of power and wealth was perhaps, in comparison to the Langfords, merely new money in tailored batik.

The Langfords were born of legacy: the Spencer name itself stemming from British aristocratic lines on one side, with Derek's own lineage tracing back to an East Coast American dynasty known for their winery business.

𝘚𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, Kirana thought, the inside of her smile hardening. No wonder Melissa doesn’t have to raise her voice or flaunt her bags. She doesn’t need to remind people who she is.

Even Derek exuded effortless elegance. And Winston—well, Kirana had heard of him before today, but she hadn’t expected someone quite so composed, so quietly self-assured. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, it was with the confidence of someone who had never been interrupted.

She hated to admit it, but as she sat there, watching Melissa ask about Arya’s children with genuine interest and warmth—Kirana felt it like a slow bruise: her usual tools wouldn’t work here. Not charm. Not showmanship.

Not subtle putdowns disguised as compliments.

This wasn’t a family she could impress. This was a family she could only hope to keep up with. Her ego was hurt, very much.

Clarissa finally emerged from the staircase with the kind of unintentional elegance that silenced a room. She moved with quiet poise, dressed in an ankle-length white lace dress that whispered with each step. Her hair, usually pulled back in her practical, working-day manner, had been loosely curled, framing her face in soft waves.

The afternoon sun had dipped low, casting golden streaks across the marble floor as she descended.

Everyone turned.

She paused briefly at the last step, offering a soft, composed smile before bowing her head politely. “Apologies for the delay,” she said with ease, her voice light and calm. “The meeting ran a little longer than expected.”

Arya smiled proudly at her, gesturing toward the guests. “Come, say hello properly. Melissa, Derek, Winston—this is Clarissa.”

Clarissa turned toward the trio with grace and greeted them in perfect English. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, bowing slightly. But inside, her thoughts flickered.

𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯? She had not expected him to be here. A flicker of surprise crossed her expression, just for a moment, before she tucked it away behind years of social training.

And then—Melissa. She had recognized her instantly.

The woman sitting beside Derek Langford, now smiling up at her so graciously, was the same Melissa she had met months ago at the private global women’s leadership conference in Singapore. They had spoken casually at a cocktail hour, not as Langford and Madhava, but as two strangers sharing a moment of candid conversation about legacy and responsibility. Clarissa had never known her full name, only Melissa.

And now, here she was.

Melissa’s smile carried a knowing softness as she stood to greet Clarissa with a gentle touch to her hand. “It’s lovely to see you again,” she said, her tone layered with quiet recognition.

Clarissa blinked once. “I didn’t realize we’d met again so soon,” she replied, her voice steady but her mind racing.

Winston, standing beside his parents, gave her a small nod. He, too, was more polished than she remembered him from their project meetings. The way he looked at her wasn’t one of surprise—but of intent. He had come here with purpose.

She took the seat beside her father, still catching her breath in the silence behind her practiced smile. Kirana, meanwhile, watched everything like a hawk dressed in silk.

Her eyes moved from Clarissa’s entrance to the warm recognition between Melissa and her stepdaughter, and something tightened in her jaw. Whatever small edge she thought she might have had—gone.

And Winston, his eyes never leaving Clarissa from the moment she appeared, felt something inside him settle. She belonged here. Not in the way of decorum or appearances—but in essence. Amid all the elegance and legacy and politics, Clarissa was the one who moved through it like she had been born for it, but without ever trying to prove a thing.

And that, Winston thought, only confirmed what he already feared and hoped at once.

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘍𝘢𝘴𝘵.

Kirana sat in silence, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable—yet her bitterness was loud to anyone who had learned to recognize the language of suppressed resentment. The way Melissa Langford smiled with warmth and authority, effortlessly commanding the attention of the room, reminded Kirana—painfully—of everything she had always wanted to be seen as.

The Langfords didn’t have to try. They didn’t have to wear logos or throw around surnames or remind people where they came from. Their presence spoke louder than all of Kirana’s years of effort.

Her eyes flicked over Melissa’s tailored, understated silk dress, the minimal jewelry, the subtle elegance that made her own bold choices look clumsy. She glanced at Clarissa too—her stepdaughter, now glowing in the soft lighting, dressed in that ethereal white lace without an ounce of vanity. Clarissa didn't even seem aware of the grace she carried.

And the worst part? Melissa had already taken a liking to her 𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥. Kirana’s lips pressed into a thin line as she adjusted the napkin on her lap for no reason other than to keep her hands busy. She smiled when people looked, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Then Arya, with his natural charm and grounded energy, stood up and clapped his hands gently.

“Let’s not keep the chefs waiting,” he said with a warm grin. “Please, everyone, the dining room is ready. Shall we?”

He gestured toward the carved wooden doors now being opened by the staff. The room beyond glowed with the soft flicker of candles and antique chandeliers, casting warm light onto a long teakwood table dressed in batik runners, ceramic chargers, and gleaming silverware.

Melissa rose with a gracious nod, linking her arm with Derek’s. Winston offered his hand in a gentlemanly gesture to Clarissa, who hesitated a moment before accepting with a slight smile.

As the group began to move, Kirana remained seated just a few seconds longer than the rest. Just long enough to be noticed, but not enough to cause comment. She stood last, smoothing the folds of her designer kebaya, and followed behind them—still wearing that curated smile, still wondering how, in her own house, she had become the least interesting woman in the room.

She knew exactly what this dinner was. And exactly what it meant.

The aroma of seared wagyu and herbs filled the air as the servers placed the steak courses gently in front of each guest. The plates were artful—medium-rare slices fanned neatly, paired with roasted shallots, Balinese-style butter potatoes, and a delicate jus that shimmered under the chandelier light.

Arya lifted his glass and smiled. “Please, enjoy the meal. It’s from a local butcher in Ubud. Clarissa picked the cut.”

That earned her a glance from Winston, subtle but warm. Clarissa nodded humbly, her eyes focused on her plate, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

The conversation began light, centered around design trends and the evolving digital space. Derek leaned in occasionally with genuine interest, drawing Clarissa into longer replies.

“So you’re leading the cross-market team for that campaign in Tokyo?” he asked between bites, visibly impressed. “That’s not an easy client.” Clarissa nodded, carefully modest. “They’re demanding, but the team’s good. I try to… hold the vision, while making room for collaboration.”

“She’s being humble,” Arya added with a chuckle. “The CEO requested her personally after the last project. And she managed the full redesign with a third of the proposed timeline.”

Derek laughed, eyes shining. “That’s a Langford-level move. You know that, right?”

Clarissa blushed slightly. Winston looked down at his fork, hiding a small smile. Kirana, seated across from Melissa, tapped her glass lightly with her nail.

“Design is wonderful, but you know, I’ve always believed it’s more about who you know. So many young people burn out chasing innovation without understanding the politics behind the curtain.”

She glanced sideways, tone airy but sharp. “Some things aren’t taught in school, or even in offices.”

Melissa didn’t miss a beat. “That’s true. Which is why upbringing is so critical. We’ve always taught Winston to navigate those things with clarity—but integrity first.”

Derek chimed in, gesturing toward Clarissa. “And I must say, it’s refreshing to see someone not trying to shortcut the work. We’ve seen too many careers collapse from that.”

Kirana’s smile tightened. She sipped her wine slowly.

Undeterred, she tried again. “I do wonder sometimes, Clarissa—do you think juggling so many international projects, with your age and, well, everything going on—do you ever fear losing touch with the... cultural essence?”

Before Clarissa could answer, Melissa gently interjected. “That’s an interesting question. But it seems to me Clarissa is striking a beautiful balance. The way she incorporates cultural elements into modern design—very few do that well. She’s... grounded.”

“Rare, actually,” Derek added. “In any region.”

Kirana dabbed at her lips with her napkin, eyes darkening ever so slightly. She had hoped to unsettle Clarissa, to shift the conversation in her favor, even just momentarily. But it was clear now: the Langfords saw through every attempt—without confrontation, without drama. They countered her every move with a graciousness that made resistance feel cheap.

Clarissa, for her part, remained calm, polite, and quiet. She hadn’t defended herself once. She didn’t have to.

The room was already on her side.

As the last bite of steak was cleared from their plates, the low hum of conversation softened. Dessert was on its way—individual plates of coconut panna cotta, drizzled with passionfruit coulis and garnished with edible orchids. The scent of roasted palm sugar and vanilla teased the air as the servers moved around the table with silent precision.

Arya leaned back in his chair, sipping from a small glass of after-dinner arak, clearly content. Kirana, meanwhile, sat stiffly, her spoon tracing the edge of her water glass. Melissa remained poised, her conversation with Clarissa effortless and low-toned, like they were already family.

It was in that pause—between the main course and the arrival of dessert—that Derek turned slightly toward Arya, his tone measured and warm.

“Arya,” he said, just loud enough to shift the attention at the table, “if I may, there’s something we hoped to speak to you about.”

Arya, always attuned, set down his glass and gave his old friend his full attention. “Of course. What is it?”

Derek gave a brief glance to Winston, who straightened slightly in his seat, his expression composed, though his fingers rested tensely against the napkin in his lap.

“It’s about Winston,” Derek continued, with a slow nod. “And Clarissa.”

The table went still. Clarissa looked up, confused, lips parting slightly as her eyes shifted between Winston and his father. Kirana’s jaw froze mid-clench, her gaze sharpening. Arya, however, kept his composure. “Go on,” Arya said, his voice steady.

Winston finally spoke, gently but with clarity. “I know this might come as a surprise. Clarissa and I haven’t known each other long, but… in the time we’ve worked together, I’ve come to admire her—deeply. Her integrity. Her mind. The way she carries herself. It made something clear to me.”

He paused, steadying his breath.

“I’m not here to propose a wedding, or make a rushed commitment. But I would like to ask permission—formally—𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩.”

Clarissa’s eyes widened, but she remained still, stunned. Winston continued.

“I don’t expect answers tonight. I only want to make my intentions clear to her family—that I am serious. And that I’m willing to take this path slowly, respectfully. To give us the time to learn each other properly, without pressure.”

Kirana scoffed under her breath but quickly masked it with a tight smile. Arya raised an eyebrow, then looked to Clarissa—not with surprise, but a gentle curiosity. She was quiet, processing.

Derek added, calmly, “We believe in intention, Arya. Not in rushing things. Winston asked us to support this approach—not a courtship with ambiguity, but a commitment to truly explore this, together, as two families.”

Arya nodded, deeply. There was something old and respectful in the way he folded his hands. “I appreciate the way you’ve approached this,” he said finally, looking at Winston. “And I won’t speak for Clarissa. She is her own person—strong, capable. Whatever this becomes, it will be her choice.”

He turned to his daughter, softly. “We’ll talk. When you’re ready.”

Clarissa gave a single, slow nod, her throat tight, lips parted like she wanted to speak but needed time. The desserts were served, quietly, but no one moved to touch them just yet. And for the first time that evening, Kirana had nothing to say.

The clink of silver on porcelain resumed slowly as the tension began to dissolve into the aroma of sweet coconut and tart passionfruit. The room had grown quieter—not out of discomfort, but a subtle anticipation that hovered just above the table.

Clarissa hadn’t spoken yet, and everyone was waiting. The lass herself was in so much confusion, she couldn’t think of a response properly.

Kirana, with her practiced tone of concern and control, seized the silence.

“I must say something,” she began, looking at Arya, then Melissa and Derek. Her voice was smooth, but her words were deliberate, aimed like tiny blades.

“I understand Winston’s sincerity, truly. But I do feel the need to remind everyone—Clarissa is still grieving. It’s only been three months since the funeral.”

Her eyes lingered on Clarissa, as if daring her to show a crack. “I’m not sure this is the time for her to be making any decisions—especially about engagement."

Arya exhaled quietly, his face unreadable. Melissa looked toward Clarissa gently, concern flickering behind her eyes—but she said nothing. Derek’s jaw clenched slightly, but he remained still.

Clarissa, however, didn’t look up right away. She took another graceful bite of her dessert—cool panna cotta melting softly against her tongue, the passionfruit bright and sharp like the moment itself. When she finally set her spoon down, she dabbed her lips with her napkin, placed it neatly beside her plate, and lifted her gaze.

“Kirana,” she said, with a tone both cool and serene, “thank you. But my grief does not make me incapable of thought. Nor does it put my life on hold indefinitely.”

Her voice was calm, each word clear. “This isn’t a decision made tonight. Nor was it a proposal asking for my answer now. Winston showed respect. So should we.” She turned slightly, facing everyone now—her father, the Langfords, even Kirana. Her composure was crystalline.

“I will give my answer. But I’ll do so at the end of the dinner.”

Winston glanced toward her, his face still, but his breath caught faintly at her words. Arya’s expression barely shifted, but there was something proud in the way his fingers tapped once gently against the wood of the table.

Kirana said nothing further. Her eyes dropped to her untouched dessert.

Clarissa took another bite. Her hand didn’t shake. But inside her mind, it was a storm. Winston’s voice echoing, her own past rushing forward, and the distant pulse of something new. Something real. Something terrifying. Somehow, this wasn’t the first, but her heart was beating so fast as if this was such a grand deal.

Melissa gently broke the silence that lingered after Clarissa’s poised declaration.

She set down her fork, her smile refined as always.

“Well,” she began, glancing at Arya, “this dinner is absolutely lovely. The food is excellent—please extend our compliments to the chef. The spice balance in the sambal butter on the steaks was just… brilliant.”

Derek nodded in agreement, leaning slightly forward, his tone both gracious and steady. “Truly impressive. And as for Clarissa,” he said, glancing toward her with genuine warmth, “we understand that it’s a lot to take in. No pressure from us, of course. It’s your life to live, your pace to choose.”

Clarissa offered a slight smile in response, her shoulders softening just enough to betray the relief she felt at the Langfords’ grace. She returned to her dessert, the weight of the room easing slightly now that the conversation had shifted.

Arya, ever the host but always the strategist, turned toward Winston, a glint of interest in his eye. “Derek told me you're beginning to lean into global expansion,” he said. “Specifically in Southeast Asia? Mining, wasn’t it?”

Winston placed his wine glass down and nodded. “Yes. We’re exploring rare earth minerals in central Kalimantan. The demand in Europe is surging, especially with the shift to green energy and battery tech. Our firm’s strategy is focused on vertical integration—owning the extraction and refining in-house.”

Arya leaned back slightly, intrigued. “Interesting. We’ve been monitoring similar moves in Sumatra. Nickel and bauxite—especially for the EV market.”

Derek, joining in, added, “Indonesia is sitting on one of the last great reserves of these critical materials. And the government’s push on downstream industries is creating new lanes for partnerships.”

Their conversation picked up momentum, becoming sharper, more animated. Arya and Winston volleyed economic insight and political nuance with an ease that showed both experience and mutual respect. Derek occasionally added depth from his macroeconomic view, while Melissa listened with polite interest, sipping her tea and occasionally glancing at Clarissa with a quiet understanding.

Kirana, still silent, pushed her food around her plate, increasingly aware that she was no longer the center of the evening’s attention.

Clarissa watched the discussion from across the table, her thoughts a quiet whirlpool behind her composed gaze. Winston, seated beside his father, looked at ease—confident, capable, composed. He wasn't just a suitor. He was a man raised in boardrooms and legacy, speaking fluently the language of power her family lived by. It rattled her in a way she didn’t know what to do with yet.

And the clock was ticking, slowly counting down to the end of the dinner.

The final course had been cleared. Dessert plates gleamed with traces of cream and tropical syrup. The candlelight flickered gently, casting golden hues on polished teak walls and centuries-old Balinese carvings that surrounded the long dining table.

The mood, moments ago filled with laughter and sharp business talk, softened into a still, electric quiet.

Clarissa had said she would give her answer after dinner. Now, all eyes were drawn—some with hope, others with hesitation—to the young woman in white lace seated calmly at the end of the table. She shut her eyes, trying to answer this carefully.

The youngest lady in the room sat with her spine straight, her expression unreadable, gaze resting on the empty space in front of her. Her fingers were gently woven together on her lap. Winston, just across from her, kept his face still. His heart thudded heavy in his chest, though he didn’t let it show. He wouldn’t push. He couldn’t. He’d meant everything he said, but this—this moment—was hers.

Melissa, regal as ever, stayed silent, her posture relaxed, her eyes kind. Derek rested one hand near his wine glass, unreadable but respectful. Arya leaned slightly back in his chair, watchful but unpressing. And Kirana, bitter behind her forced smile, toyed with her pearl bracelet, her eyes sharp and shadowed with the sting of repeated failure.

The lass finally lifted her gaze. Her voice, when it came, was soft, but it carried.

“I’ve been grieving,” she said.

No one moved.

“It hasn’t been easy,” she continued, “losing Harvey. It’s a strange kind of emptiness that doesn’t announce itself every day—but sits there, quiet and cold, beneath everything.”

Winston looked down briefly, a silent nod of respect. Her voice didn’t shake. “I don’t know if I can love again. I don’t know if my heart works the same way anymore. And I think… it’s only fair to say that out loud, before anything else.”

A subtle shift around the table—just the breathless anticipation of those waiting for a turn in the road. She looked to Winston directly now, not coldly, not softly—just clearly. “You asked to build something. Not to claim something. That means something to me.”

He nodded gently, eyes locked with hers, offering no pressure—only presence.

“I won’t promise something I can’t give,” she continued, “but I will try this engagement arrangement. With honesty. With boundaries. And with the understanding that I might one day walk away, if it doesn’t feel right. No pressure to a wedding so close in time.”

Another pause. “But I’ll begin. I’ll try.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t silence—it was a collective exhale. Not relief. Not celebration. Something quieter.

Something closer to reverence. Winston let his shoulders fall just slightly, his hands resting on the table now, steady. “Thank you,” he said softly. “That’s all I could ever ask.”

Melissa’s eyes shimmered with approval, while Derek offered the faintest of nods, as if to say, well done, both of you.

Arya glanced toward his daughter—not proud, not surprised, just… grounded. He had known she would say something brave. He always did. Kirana, meanwhile, simply took a sip of her untouched wine and smiled tightly, the bitterness behind her teeth like vinegar.

He sat at the head of the table, unmoving. His fingers tightened slightly around the carved wooden arms of his chair as her words sank in. He hadn’t expected her to say yes. Not truly.

He had prepared himself for her to decline, for her to ask for more time—or to shut the entire conversation down in her gentle, decisive way. It would’ve been her right. Her grief had been hers alone, long and quiet and private. He had watched her carry it with grace.

He had never rushed her. And yet… she had said yes.

Not a fairytale yes. Not a naive one. But a real one. A yes that held her broken pieces together. A yes that came with conditions, with caution, with truth.

That was her way—measured, brave, beautifully unyielding.

Arya’s throat tightened.

He tried to blink the tears away discreetly, but they came anyway, spilling silently down the strong lines of his face, catching in the salt-and-pepper of his beard. He wasn’t a man often seen crying. He had held empires and buried pain with quiet dignity. But this—this was his daughter, choosing to start again.

Arya bowed his head slightly, his chest rising with a deep, quiet breath, steadying himself.

Clarissa noticed. She looked to him, and he looked back—father and daughter. In that look, no words were needed. She knew what her yes meant to him. Not just the engagement. Not even Winston. But her will to live forward. Her permission to herself to begin again.

He cleared his throat gently, and with a softened voice, said, “I never thought I’d hear you say that tonight.” His voice cracked slightly. “You surprise me, Flo. You always do.”

Everyone turned slightly toward him now, his emotion grounding the moment.

“I know how hard it’s been,” Arya continued. “And I know… nothing about this is easy. But seeing you choose to take a step, even uncertainly… it tells me you’re finding your way. That you’re… alive. And you’re still you. That’s more than I could ever ask for.”

He turned his gaze toward Winston—measured, serious. “Take care of her. She’s strong, but she doesn’t need to carry everything alone.”

“I will,” Winston replied, without falter. “Always.”

Arya nodded once, sharp and clear. That was the only blessing he would give. The only one needed. Clarissa gave her father a small smile—gentle, grateful, not overdone. She reached slightly across the table, and with a quiet gesture, rested her hand over his. He held it.

Kirana noticed, her lips pressed thin, but the room no longer had room for her bitterness. In that estate carved from the soil of generations, something had shifted. Not a ceremony. Not a contract. But a beginning.

Clarissa Madhava had said yes—not to a man, not yet to love—but to herself. To life. Again.

Melissa was the first to break the reverent silence that followed Arya’s words, her voice warm but steady, touched with emotion.

“Clarissa,” she began, turning her full attention to the young woman across the table, “thank you… for your honesty, for your strength. You don’t owe any of us anything—least of all tonight. But the fact that you’re willing to try, even after everything you’ve been through... it humbles us.”

Her voice softened as she continued, “From today onward, you’re not alone. You have us. You have a family who will stand behind you, no matter where this path takes you.”

Derek, who had been listening intently beside her, nodded and added, “We don’t take this lightly. We know what it means—for you to say yes under no illusion. And we respect it, Clarissa. That kind of courage… it’s not common. We see it. We feel honored.”

He looked at Arya, then back at her. “You will be treated as our own. Not just as Winston’s fiancée, not as someone to impress—but as our daughter. From this day forward.”

Melissa reached across the table, her hand finding Clarissa’s gently. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to us. All we ask is that you be yourself. That’s enough. More than enough.”

Clarissa looked at them, her composure still intact, but her eyes shimmered now—not from sadness, but from something unfamiliar she hadn’t felt in a long time: safety. She hadn’t expected to feel so seen. So accepted.

Across the table, Arya sat in thoughtful silence. Then he gave the Langfords a slow, respectful nod.

“That means more than you know,” he said simply, his voice weighted with gratitude. “I’ve built many alliances in my life, but this… this is different. This is trust.”

Melissa gave him a soft smile. “And it’s not given lightly on either side.”

Winston hadn’t spoken in a while, but he didn’t need to. The steadiness in his eyes was unwavering. He looked not at the future, but at the present moment—the strength it took Clarissa to speak, and the way both their families had quietly surrounded them like a fortress.

Kirana said nothing, her hands clenched tightly under the tablecloth, her eyes darting between the faces, increasingly invisible in a moment she had tried to undermine. But no one was watching her now.

The room had shifted. Something permanent had been set in motion. Not a celebration. Not yet. But a promise. Made in quiet conviction. Made in grace. Made around a table in the heart of a Balinese estate that had stood for generations—now witnessing the beginning of something new.

Winston felt like he could scream from the inside out. Joy surged through every inch of his body, pressing against his chest like thunder ready to break. But he remained composed—barely. His breath trembled.

His hands, once steady, now trembled not with the weight of overwhelming happiness. Clarissa had said yes. Maybe not a yes with fireworks, but a yes that mattered even more—a yes spoken with honesty, grounded in grief, and offered with a courage that undid him.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and slowly placed a small velvet box onto the table before him.

“I—” he started, then swallowed hard and tried again, his voice thick with held-back tears, “I brought something… Not to overwhelm or rush anything. Just something to mark this moment.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to the box.

“There are two rings in here,” he said, looking at Clarissa, his voice gentler now, more certain. “One is from the Langford family. It belonged to my grandmother, who passed it to my mother, and now to me. And the other… is from my mother’s side—the Spencer family. I had it reset recently. I wanted you to have a choice. One for heritage, the other for meaning. Both, if you want.”

He looked over at Arya, a silent question in his eyes.

Arya met his gaze for a long moment, the depth of a father’s love and protectiveness flickering behind his calm demeanor. He said nothing for a second, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and murmured, “Go ahead, son.”

It broke something inside Winston—he lowered his eyes, lips trembling, and took in a shaky breath. “Thank you, sir.”

He turned to Clarissa. His eyes now glassy with tears, he opened the ring box carefully, revealing the two rings: one an antique piece of elegant vintage platinum and sapphire—the Langford legacy; the other a delicate rose-cut diamond set in a modern yet timeless band, unmistakably Spencer in style.

He didn’t kneel. He didn’t need to. Everything in his posture—his slightly hunched shoulders, his hands offering her the rings—carried more reverence than any practiced proposal.

“This is not to bind you,” Winston said softly, “It’s just… a mark of something beginning. Not as colleagues, not as families. But as us.”

Clarissa looked at the rings for a long moment. Her heart was racing, her fingers slightly cold against her lap. She hadn’t expected this much emotion to well up inside her.

Winston was offering her not just a ring—but space, and time. The freedom to grow into this slowly. The courage to admit it might not last, but that it was worth trying anyway.

She nodded once, just barely, and extended her hand toward him. Winston reached out, took her hand, and gently slid the Langford ring onto her finger.

The one she chose.

Arya turned away briefly, blinking fast and wiping at his face. He had never imagined that Clarissa would say yes. Never thought he'd see her open her heart again after Harvey.

But here she was—choosing to live again, to love differently, perhaps, one day. And choosing someone who wanted to carry that weight with her.

Melissa reached for Derek’s hand across the table, squeezing it with a smile that held both pride and peace. They had seen their son try and fail at many things, but this—this was the one thing he did right with his whole heart. And they knew they would protect Clarissa as if she were their own blood.

Kirana sat in silence, her expression unreadable, her bitterness drowning in the room's undeniable warmth and quiet joy. The ring sat on Clarissa’s finger like it had always belonged there—not to bind, but to bless. A beginning. A soft one. But a true one.

As the soft clinking of silverware settled and quiet once again blanketed the table, Winston leaned in slightly toward Clarissa, just enough so only she could hear him. His voice was low, careful, trembling with earnestness that couldn’t be masked.

“You don’t have to forget him,” he whispered, eyes fixed gently on hers. “I’ll never ask you to erase Harvey. You loved him. You probably still do. That doesn’t scare me.” Clarissa’s eyes softened. Her breath caught slightly. She hadn’t expected those words—so freely given, so unguarded. Her fingers touched the edge of the ring now sitting on her hand, unfamiliar yet somehow fitting.

“You can love him and still walk forward,” Winston continued, barely audible, “and I’ll be right there beside you—whether we’re engaged for a year, or five, or if you wake up one day and decide this isn’t what you want. I’m not here to trap you.”

His thumb grazed the back of her hand gently.

“I want you safe. I want you happy. That’s all. You don’t owe me love today. Or even tomorrow. Just… let me be here. That’s all I ask.”

Clarissa blinked hard, feeling tears press behind her eyes. No one had said those things to her. Not even in her loneliest nights. No one had given her the freedom to grieve and love at the same time without guilt. Until now.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The quiet tremor in her breath, the way her fingers held his back, said enough.

Across the table, Arya looked at them both—his daughter, guarded but softening; Winston, steady in his devotion—and exhaled a long, quiet breath. The impossible was slowly becoming possible. And maybe, just maybe, his little girl was finally beginning to live again.

The night carried on with the gentle cadence of soft laughter and clinking glasses, but the energy had shifted—mellow, warmer, and fuller somehow. The ocean breeze outside whispered against the open balcony doors of the grand Bali estate, carrying the scent of frangipani and sea salt through the marble halls.

As dessert plates were cleared and tea was poured, the conversation flowed more naturally. Not forced, not stiff. Just... human. Arya leaned back in his chair with a rare ease, the creases around his eyes deeper than usual—this time from emotion, not age. Every so often, his gaze would drift toward Clarissa, lingering, protective, but no longer weighed down by fear. Tonight, for the first time in years, she looked like someone reaching for the light again.

Kirana, quiet and withdrawn now, excused herself under the pretense of fatigue. No one pressed her. No one noticed much. She disappeared up the staircase, leaving behind only the faint trace of her perfume and bitterness.

Derek stood and clinked his glass gently, a smile playing on his face.

“We won’t take much more of your evening,” he said, looking to Arya and then Clarissa. “This has already been far more than we’d hoped for. Thank you—for welcoming us into your home, into your life. We’ll honor this beginning, whatever it may become.”

Melissa nodded beside him, her voice steady and warm. “You’re family now. Whatever Clarissa needs, we’re here. As protectors. As parents. No less.”

Arya gave them both a long look, his heart full. “Then she’s in good hands,” he said softly. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

As the Langfords rose to leave, Winston lingered behind, just for a second longer. He turned to Clarissa—still seated, still quiet, still holding his ring. His voice was low but sure.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, not a question, but a promise. Clarissa met his eyes. No smile, not yet. But there was something there.

A gentleness. A beginning.

She had no idea why she would say yes tonight, but somehow there’s something inside her heart that told her to. Something that told her that this wouldn’t hurt her. Something that told her everything’s going to be okay.

“Soon,” she replied.

Outside, the estate’s lanterns glowed golden against the darkening sky. The Langfords stepped into the night, the sound of waves in the distance echoing the calm that now settled within the old stone walls.

And behind them, deep in the heart of the Madhava home, the memory of the evening would linger—bittersweet, quiet, and full of the weight of something new: not just an engagement, but the cautious rebirth of love.

END.

[siltrace]

Arrangements

The rain had been steady all evening, brushing softly against the long windows of the Langford drawing room. Low jazz played from the antique turntable tucked near the bookshelf— Ella Fitzgerald’s voice wrapping around the corners of the room like velvet.

The fire had been lit over an hour ago and was now burning low, embers glowing like dying stars. Melissa Langford sat with her knees curled on the emerald settee, her sketchpad forgotten in her lap, hands stained with charcoal. She hadn’t drawn anything in twenty minutes.

She was watching her son. Winston stood by the window, one hand braced against the pane, the other wrapped around a heavy crystal tumbler filled with untouched bourbon. The city beyond the hedges was hushed by the rain, cloaking everything in a sense of pause. He looked like he had been standing there for a long time— not waiting, exactly, but deciding.

Derek Langford, meticulous as ever in a pressed navy robe and slippers, had set aside his ministerial briefing. His fingers steepled beneath his chin as he leaned back into his leather armchair, watching his son with the gaze of a man who knew something was coming and was letting it arrive on its own terms. Finally, Winston spoke.

“I keep thinking this would be easier if I wasn’t so sure.”

Melissa looked up from the pages. “About Clarissa?”

He nodded once. “It would make more sense to doubt. I’d know what to do with doubt. But this…” He exhaled, quietly. “This is conviction. And I think that’s what scares me.”

He turned slowly and sat down on the ottoman across from them. The firelight cast soft gold into the hollows of his face, and for a long moment, he just stared at the rug, fingers slowly tightening around the glass.

“I’ve never felt something so settled and so terrifying at the same time,” he said. “It’s not infatuation. It’s not excitement. It’s a kind of knowing that doesn’t leave. Even when I try to challenge it. Even when I sit down and logically list all the ways this could end in disaster— I still come back to the same feeling: It’s her. It’s always been her.”

Melissa set down the sketchpad and leaned forward.

“Tell us.” Winston’s voice softened, barely above the crackle of the fire. “It started slowly when I bumped into her, not knowing who she was. Then, I met her again, alone, somewhere in the corner of the campus. As if she’s empty.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Since then, I haven’t been able to stop wondering. Who is she when no one’s watching? Who carries her silence? Who helps her rest? And does she even know she’s allowed to?”

Derek studied him for a long moment. “You’re in love with her.”

Winston didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“And yet,” Melissa said gently, “you’re afraid.”

“Yes,” Winston admitted. “Because I know love doesn’t guarantee anything. And because she’s someone who’s learned —painfully— not to trust easily. If I approach this too quickly, I could trigger every defense she’s ever built. If I wait too long, she might decide I’m not serious.”

He finally met their eyes. “I’m not afraid of commitment. I’m afraid of becoming another name she learns to bury.”

The room was quiet. Melissa stood and walked to him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You were always the boy who noticed things no one else saw. And sometimes, you carry other people’s pain before you even understand your own.”

She sat beside him. “What do you want from her, Winston? Truly?”

“I want a life,” he said without hesitation. “Not a prize. Not a partnership for optics. I want to know how she thinks when she’s half-asleep. What she reads when she can’t sleep. What her real laugh sounds like— not the political one, not the guarded one. The real one. I want to walk beside her. Even if she’s slow to trust. Even if she fights me at first. I just want the chance to walk with her.”

Derek rose and moved to the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a scotch. “I spoke with Arya,” he said quietly.

Winston looked up, startled. “What?”

“At the event. Less than a week ago. I approached him, casually, but deliberately. He just knew.”

Winston’s heart kicked. “What did he say?”

“He didn’t give a blessing yet,” Derek replied, handing his son a refilled glass. “But he didn’t reject the idea either. He listened. He asked questions. I could see it— the calculation, the worry. Not because you’re unworthy, Winston. But because he’s spent years watching his daughter walk through fire, only to find more fire on the other side.”

He sat back down. “But then, at the end, he said something, almost offhandedly, like a test. He said something around talking about it as families.”

Winston’s grip tightened around the glass. “He’s willing to meet?”

Melissa smiled. “He’s giving you space. And that’s more than most would expect from Arya.”

Derek added, “We could arrange a dinner. Private. Quiet. Just us. A start.”

Winston looked between them. The room, for all its grandeur, suddenly felt sacred. Like a moment that would live in his memory for years. “I don’t want to rush her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You won’t,” Melissa replied. “She’ll know. If you’re patient, if you’re honest, she’ll feel the difference.”

“Do you think she’ll come?” he asked, eyes fixed on the fire. Derek didn’t answer right away. He looked at his son— not as a boy, but as a man at the edge of something monumental. “I think if she senses even one ounce of pretense, she’ll run,” Derek said plainly. “But if she sees your stillness, your truth— not the heir, not the polished version of yourself— you… then yes. She’ll come.”

Melissa leaned her head against Winston’s shoulder. “Don’t try to win her, darling. Just show up. Let her see you.”

Winston nodded slowly.

The fire had long since burned down to glowing embers. Melissa had gone upstairs, sensing that something still needed to pass between father and son.

Outside, the rain had softened into mist, the world hushed in the sacred silence only midnight could hold. Winston remained in the study, standing by the fireplace, now nursing the drink Derek had poured him. The clock ticked in the background— stately, deliberate, like a heartbeat you could walk beside. Derek stood at the window, arms crossed behind his back. He’d been silent for minutes, watching the quiet darkness, lost in the long thoughts of a man who had lived through public wars and private failures.

“I was twenty-seven when I met your mother,” he said, finally. Winston glanced up. “I know.”

“No, you don’t,” Derek said, his voice even. “You know the facts. You’ve seen the photos. But you don’t know what I mean.”

He turned and looked at Winston directly. “I was twenty-seven, with a career spiraling upward, and a heart that hadn’t been properly broken yet. She was bold, defiant, and an artist— which made absolutely no sense for a man like me. But I knew. Within two conversations. I knew she would ruin me or make me real.”

Winston said nothing, watching his father with a quiet kind of reverence. Derek walked to the chair across from him and sat down.

“But I didn’t want to rush her,” he continued. “I didn’t want to flirt. I wanted her to walk beside me, not as a trial, not as an audition. If I was to propose an engagement, not because I needed a wedding, but because I needed her to know I was serious. That she could take her time.”

He paused. “And she did. Professionally."

Winston looked into the fire again, mind slowly catching up with the idea. “You’re saying I should ask Clarissa… to be engaged?”

“I’m saying,” Derek replied carefully, “that this isn’t about ceremony. This isn’t even about politics. This is about creating space where trust can take root. You don’t know her completely, and she doesn’t know you. But what she needs to know is that your intention is grounded. That you aren’t asking her to gamble. You’re asking her to choose to begin something that unfolds in time.” Winston’s brows drew in slightly.

“Wouldn’t that be… a lot? Premature?”

“To most people, yes,” Derek said. “But Clarissa isn’t most people. She is a woman with a mind like a fortress and a history that’s taught her to dismantle hope before it grows. She doesn’t want to be courted. She wants to be seen. And she wants to know she won’t have to armor herself forever just to be loved.”

He leaned forward. “A courtship, Winston —a typical one— would trap her. It would force her to perform. An engagement gives her clarity. Freedom. Time. She can walk into it knowing no one is rushing her to a wedding, but someone is asking her to believe in something beyond the next season.”

Winston’s hand rested against his mouth, thinking. The weight of the idea settled like a coat on his shoulders. Not burdensome, but real. Tangible.

“She might think it’s a strategy,” he murmured.

“She’ll test you,” Derek said simply. “That’s her right. But if your heart is true, if you make this not about ownership or appearance but invitation, she will understand.”

Winston slowly nodded. “It’s… bold.”

“You’re not a boy anymore, Winston,” his father said. “You don’t need to ask for permission to feel something this deep. And you don’t need a dozen dinners to justify the pull you already recognize.”

He paused, then added more softly. “Give her something she’s never been given: certainty without pressure. That’s what an engagement like this would be.”

Winston looked at his father for a long time, the silence between them now less about distance and more about reverence. Then he stood, the decision forming like slow steel in his spine. “I’ll ask her,” he said quietly. “Not to marry me. Not yet. But to stand with me. To see if something real can grow.”

Derek gave the smallest nod— an acknowledgment, a blessing, and perhaps even a little pride.

“Then let’s make the dinner happen,” he said. “And let her see what you’ve decided. With no expectations. No demands.”

Winston turned toward the window again, watching the city beyond the hedges. For the first time in weeks, he felt clear.

END.

[siltrace]

Between Two Fathers

The chandeliers above the garden hall glinted with refracted sunlight, casting golden shadows over the room. Servants moved with elegant precision, pouring vintage French wines and placing delicate plates of smoked fish and lemongrass risotto in front of guests seated at long, ivory-clothed tables.

Here, in this hidden circle of Asia’s elite —academics, industrialists, and legacy heirs— conversation flowed in low, educated tones. No one raised their voice. No one checked their phones.

Derek Langford stood by the terrace, the sleeves of his cream linen blazer rolled halfway, a pair of thin-framed reading glasses tucked into the front pocket of his blue shirt. At sixty-one, he carried the quiet confidence of a man whose family name echoed in vineyard halls across Europe and whose published works in neuroscience still made the rounds at Cambridge and Berkeley.

He sipped from a glass of Barossa shiraz as his eyes swept the room— until they paused, recognizing a man he had only seen from across rooms before.

𝗔𝗿𝘆𝗮 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗮.

He moved with unhurried calm, his batik shirt a deep indigo over tailored trousers, silver cufflinks glinting in the sun. His hair was fully silver now, neatly combed back, and his expression bore the precision of a CEO who had long stopped needing to prove his presence in any room. Derek extended his hand.

“Madhava. I was hoping we’d have a moment.” Arya’s face relaxed with the polite smile of a man accustomed to countless introductions. “Langford. The pleasure is mine. My son’s been meaning to invite you over one of these events.”

“I imagine he’s still drafting the perfect letter,” Derek said with a soft chuckle. “He believes first impressions should be typeset.”

That earned a faint smile from Arya— the kind that said this one might be different. They found a quiet corner of the terrace, away from the flow of guests. Between them, the city stretched hazy and warm under Jakarta’s humid sky.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Arya said, lifting his glass slightly. “Neuroscience, if I recall.”

“Yes. Still teaching, though less frequently now,” Derek replied. “I’m mostly overseeing the neuroscience and AI labs at King’s College, and serving on a few policy boards. I leave the heavy lifting to the young.”

“You’re also at Langford Winery, aren’t you?” Arya asked, eyeing him curiously. “Napa Valley and York?”

“My younger brother manages the vineyards,” Derek replied. “I taste. Occasionally speak at trade events when forced. But I’ve always preferred tannins.”

Arya’s brow lifted slightly— rare honesty was valuable currency in rooms like these. Derek continued, “My wife, Melissa — she teaches as well. Fine arts. University of London. Spencer by birth.”

Arya blinked once, catching the name. “The Spencers? Mining and Jewelry?”

“That’s the one,” Derek said with a faint smile. “She walked away from the boardroom at twenty-nine. Wanted oil paints, not opals.”

Arya chuckled softly. “You and I have strong-willed women. That is a blessing and a responsibility.”

Derek tilted his head, humored. “Mostly the latter when they’re right.”

Their glasses clinked gently, and for a moment the air between them was comfortable— two men who had weathered decades of empire, quietly watching the world evolve. Then Derek leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing in thought.

“I believe our families have… crossed professionally, in a sense,” he said. Arya looked up. “My son, Winston, is lecturing part-time at the University of Madhava. Just a few sessions a week while he manages our Kalimantan mining interests.”

“Ah,” Arya said slowly, connecting the dots. “Yes, I’ve seen the name on the list.”

“He’s mentioned your daughter. Clarissa.” Arya looked up, polite but guarded. Derek paused deliberately. “They seem to be spending a fair amount of time together.”

The words hung between them like a shift in air pressure. Arya’s expression didn’t change, but Derek noticed the stillness in his shoulders. “I assumed you knew,” Derek added gently.

Arya blinked once— the only outward crack in composure. “Clarissa hasn’t mentioned… anything of that nature.” Derek smiled faintly. “She’s a woman of privacy. Melissa met her recently— at a panel in Singapore. Came home visibly taken. Which is rare for Melissa. She usually only respects people who’ve suffered.”

Arya said nothing. His fingers tapped once on the edge of his glass.

“Clarissa,” Derek said, voice dipping into genuine admiration, “is… formidable. In every way a father hopes his daughter becomes. Measured, intelligent, anchored. The kind of person who leads not because she wants to be seen, but because no one else can carry what she does.”

Arya’s lips pressed together faintly, a storm flickering behind his eyes.

Derek watched him a moment longer. Then said, more quietly, “She’s not just your daughter, Arya. She’s her own force. I thought perhaps someone ought to tell you— not as a business courtesy, but as a father.”

There was a long silence. A deeper one.

Arya finally set down his glass, folding his hands. “She’s… been through a great deal,” he said, measured. “She doesn’t speak of personal matters easily.”

“I know,” Derek said. “That’s how you know she carries them.”

He gave Arya a long look. “I don’t presume to speak for Winston,” he continued. “But he’s not reckless with things he values. If your daughter is one of them, I trust he sees all of her— not just the fragments most people praise.”

Derek’s lips curved gently. “He’s always seen beauty that way. Not loud. Just certain.”

Arya inhaled deeply and gave a slow nod. “Thank you for speaking to me directly.” Derek’s eyes softened. “If it’s any comfort… Clarissa seems far more prepared to belong to a family like ours than we were ready to receive someone like her.”

Arya let out a quiet breath. “She always did run ahead of us.”

The late afternoon breeze had cooled, but neither man noticed. Below, soft music from the gala hall murmured like an afterthought, too far and too polite to interrupt what now sat between them: grief, raw and shared.

Derek tilted his glass, letting the drink settle without sipping. His gaze was steady, gentle. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Arya… How is Clarissa holding up these days?”

Arya looked down at his hands. “After the crash… she was unscathed. Harvey died instantly. Heart attack during driving. They were coming back from dinner with a friend— he insisted on driving, even though she offered.”

He swallowed hard.

“They were supposed to be married in weeks.” Derek remained sileny— reverent, listening. “She wouldn’t leave his side at the funeral,” Arya continued, voice now edged with heartbreak. “She knelt by the casket the entire time. Wouldn’t let them close it. Said she needed to see him. That she’d wake him up.”

A beat passed. Arya’s eyes were glassy now, though his voice remained even— too even. “She collapsed three times. Once when they tried to move her from the chapel. Twice again at the burial site. I had to carry her back into the car myself.”

Derek closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight. “She didn’t sleep for days after. Just wept. Walked the halls at night. We found her curled on the rug of his old apartment. Wearing his shirt. Holding his photo. Whispering his name.”

Arya’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it through his hair. “She begged me not to let anyone take his things away. Asked me to keep his scent on the pillows. When I touched the frames, she screamed. Like I was erasing him.”

Derek finally whispered, “My God…”

“And after that—” Arya’s voice faltered just slightly, then steadied again, “—she stopped eating. Stopped speaking. Can’t speak. Can’t walk. I thought grief had finished her, until the night she locked herself in her own house.”

Derek’s eyes widened. Arya nodded grimly. “Sleeping pills. I broke the door down just in time.”

There was nothing in the world more devastating than a father recounting how close he came to losing his child. After a long silence, Arya murmured, “Now she hides in work. Took control of the hotel arm again. Took back her university seat. Fills her calendar to the brim. Speaks at panels, flies across Asia, runs board meetings.”

Derek asked softly, “And still cries?”

Arya’s jaw clenched. “Yes. Quietly. Alone. Every night.”

Derek looked out into the horizon, struggling to speak. “My wife… she nearly disappeared into her own grief once. She lost her sister when they were teenagers. She still talks about how it made her feel unreal for years. Winston grew up knowing what sadness doesn’t say out loud. He… doesn’t fix. He just stays.”

Arya finally looked at him, something fragile in his eyes. Derek added, “If your daughter needs someone who won’t be scared by what she’s carrying, I think Winston’s already made that decision.”

The silence that followed was long, not heavy, but full of understanding. Of pain shared between two men who loved deeply, watched the ones they loved suffer, and could only hope they’d find their way back. And for the first time that evening, Arya’s shoulders loosened— not from relief, but from knowing he wasn’t alone.

The sky had dipped into a velvety blue now, and the warm gold light of the terrace lanterns threw gentle shadows between the two men. The sound of distant jazz music wafted in from the reception hall, but the world on the balcony felt still, private, unspoken grief and paternal love binding them in a quiet communion.

Arya had gone silent for a while after recounting the weight of Clarissa’s devastation. His hands rested on the balustrade, fingers curling slightly, as if anchoring himself in place. Then, without looking at Derek, he spoke again— voice low and deliberate.

“I’ve made mistakes with her,” he said, as if the words had been waiting in his chest for years. “Too many. Some I tried to correct. Some… I only realized when it was far too late.”

Derek turned to him, giving the moment his full attention.

“I let her carry too much,” Arya continued. “The company. The family. The loneliness. I thought by keeping her busy, by expecting excellence, I was helping her rise above what hurt. But I was only carving her into a version of herself I wanted— not one she needed to be.”

There was a painful pause. “

And I let Kirana—” Arya exhaled hard. “I let my second wife outcast her. Belittle her. Whisper poison in the house where Clarissa should have felt safe.”

Derek’s expression tightened with quiet understanding. “I didn’t stop it in time. I was cowardly. Blind. Maybe both. And by the time I realized what it was doing to her, Clarissa had already learned to wear silence like armor.”

Arya finally turned to face him. “She grew up carrying the disappointment of others and hiding her own pain just to be allowed in the room.”

Derek said softly, “But she became extraordinary despite it.”

Arya nodded once. “Yes. And also because of it. But it broke parts of her. The wrong parts.” There was a brief silence, heavy with regret. Then Arya continued, voice steadier now.

“If Winston is anything like you, Derek… If he carries the same gentleness— not the kind that’s soft, but the kind that stays through storms, then maybe… just maybe…” He stopped, letting the thought hang. “She might still have a chance.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. Arya leaned against the balcony, eyes distant. “I don’t want to force her into anything again. Not even happiness. I’ve done enough forcing for a lifetime. This time, it has to be her choice— wholly hers.”

“And yet,” he added, glancing back at Derek with a quiet smile, “if what I’ve heard in your words all evening wasn’t accidental— if you’ve been gently asking what I think you’ve been asking— then I won’t resist it.”

Derek’s mouth curved in the faintest smile, but he didn’t interrupt. “I won’t stop something good from entering her life. Especially if it’s the kind of good that doesn’t come with a burden,” Arya said. “What I can do… is set up a meeting. A setting where they cross paths without expectation. Winston has already seen who she is. If she chooses to let him see more— then it’s hers to give.”

“And if not?” Derek asked gently. Arya exhaled, a soft ache in his voice. “Then at least I did not decide for her.”

Derek was quiet for a long moment before he said, “Then let’s give her that space. And if she says yes, know that Melissa and I would welcome her not just as our son’s partner— but as our own. Clarissa isn’t a risk to our family. She’s a light.”

Arya’s jaw tightened faintly— an effort to hold back the emotion swelling behind his calm. “Then let’s let the children decide,” he murmured. “But this time, let them do it with freedom.”

And under the evening sky of a city built on power, pride, and inherited weight, two fathers —flawed and weathered, yet fiercely devoted— sealed a silent pact: 𝙏𝙤 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙣, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙.

The night had settled fully now. The low hum of conversation and clinking glasses from the gala inside became nothing more than background noise, lost to the gravity of what passed between the two men standing on the terrace.

Arya leaned forward, arms resting against the marble banister. His voice had softened, no longer weighed by anger or regret— just a tired honesty that came only with age and loss.

You know,” he murmured, “when Clarissa was little, she was... different. Not just smart. She saw things. Noticed what others didn’t. Quiet child, but deeply alert. I used to think that was a blessing. I only realized much later that it was a kind of burden too.”

Derek listened intently, hands wrapped around his half-finished glass of wine.

“She learned to read rooms before she could fully read books,” Arya went on. “She knew when to speak and when to disappear. Especially after her mother passed.”

A pause.

“And I wasn’t there as much as I should have been. I thought I was building a legacy for her. But I missed how lonely she was growing up in a house that kept expecting her to be more— and punished her for already being enough.”

Derek's brow furrowed, not in judgment, but in sympathy. “It’s a hard thing. Wanting to give your children the world while not realizing the world they really needed was… you.” Arya nodded slowly. “Exactly.”

There was a long silence between them, not uncomfortable, but full of quiet understanding. Fathers who had loved deeply, failed sometimes, and still showed up.

“I’ll tell you something I’ve never said out loud,” Derek offered after a beat. “Winston... he was the best thing to ever happen to Melissa and me. And I say that knowing he’s not our blood. We adopted him when he was five. I remember the day vividly. He had these big eyes and didn’t say a word the entire car ride home. Just clutched that tiny backpack like it was all he had left in the world.”

Arya turned toward him with a new kind of softness.

“We never hid it from him, where he came from. What he lost. But we made a promise that whatever he chose to become, we’d stand behind it. No conditions. No expectations. I think that’s why he became the man he is.”

“You gave him space,” Arya said thoughtfully.

“We gave him 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯,” Derek corrected gently. “To be messy. To get it wrong. To try again. Melissa and I— we didn’t want a perfect son. We wanted him.”

Arya let out a slow breath, the words landing with more weight than Derek probably realized.

“I sometimes wonder if Clarissa would’ve smiled more,” Arya said, “if I’d given her that same freedom.”

“You still can,” Derek said quietly. “Maybe not as a child. But now, as a woman. You don’t need to protect her from the world anymore. You just need to make sure the world she chooses doesn’t hurt her again.”

Arya didn’t reply right away. He just looked out into the sky— Jakarta’s distant city lights blinking like scattered promises in the dark. “I’m afraid of one more heartbreak finishing her.”

“And I’m afraid,” Derek answered, “that shielding her from love might finish her first.”

The words sat between them like truth neither of them could refute.

“You trust your son?” Arya finally asked.

“With everything,” Derek said simply. “But more importantly, he’s the kind of man who will ask Clarissa what she wants. And he’ll mean it.”

Arya closed his eyes briefly. That was all he had ever hoped for her, someone who would ask, and listen.

“I can arrange a quiet meeting,” he said. “A shared dinner. No pressure. Just... proximity. If there’s still something between them, let it breathe.” Derek smiled faintly. “And if there isn’t?”

“Then I’ll still thank you for tonight,” Arya said. “For seeing her.”

Derek nodded, setting his glass down gently on the marble edge. “And thank you for trusting me with the truth of her. Not the headlines. Not the name. The girl behind the legacy.”

They stood in the silence of men who had carried children on their shoulders, then had to learn to let them walk forward alone. And though no decisions had been made, no promises spoken aloud, the quiet pact between two fathers was complete: Let the children choose— but clear the path so they could do so without fear.

END.

[siltrace]

Her Thoughts

ㅤ ㅤ | 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝘂𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗼𝗻 𝗕𝗮𝘆 𝗛𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗹, 𝗦𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗿𝗲 ㅤ ㅤ 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘚𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦

The room was quiet except for the gentle ticking of a Cartier wall clock and the distant thrum of traffic over Marina Bay. Through the expansive glass windows, the city shimmered in reflection, casting fractured lights across the lacquered floors and soft carpet. The suite, perfectly arranged, bore no sign of its guests’ thoughts— but Melissa Langford’s still form gave her away.

She sat on the chaise longue near the corner window, shoulders tucked into a shawl the color of smoke. Her hair, usually set in sleek coils, was slightly undone— soft wisps loose around her temples. Her bare feet rested against the edge of the chaise.

In her hands, an untouched glass of Dom Ruinart. When Derek entered from the adjoining room, he paused at the threshold. His gaze softened. His wife was not often still. Not like this. Stillness meant she was thinking. And when Melissa Langford thought in silence, she was usually revisiting ghosts.

“Long day?” he asked, his voice deep, measured. Melissa didn’t look up. “I saw her.”

A beat. Derek poured himself a glass of Yamazaki and sat in the armchair across from her.

“Clarissa.”

She nodded. “She was one of the speakers. I didn’t even realize it until the moderator thanked her. I walked in halfway.”

“She notice you?”

“No,” Melissa said softly. “She didn’t know who I was.”

Her fingers circled the rim of the champagne flute. “She just smiled. Said thank you. Moved on. Like I was any other academic in the audience.”

“And how did that feel?” Derek asked, his voice gentle. Melissa was quiet for a long moment. Then she whispered, “It felt like looking at a version of myself I thought I’d buried.”

Derek leaned back slowly.

“She’s so composed,” Melissa murmured. “Elegant without effort. Speaks like someone who weighs every word because she knows how little it takes to be misunderstood. She’s brilliant but she hides it just enough to avoid looking threatening.”

She looked up finally. “You know what kind of woman learns to do that?”

Derek answered, “The kind raised in rooms where men talk louder the smarter she gets.”

Melissa gave a thin smile. “Exactly.”

She exhaled, setting the untouched drink aside.

“She didn’t mention Winston once,” Melissa said suddenly. “Not even in passing. It was as if he didn’t exist.”

Derek raised his brow. “That’s unusual.”

“She’s protecting herself,” Melissa said. “She’s not the kind of woman who wears vulnerability. She’s learned that softness is used against you.”

“You recognize that.”

“I lived it,” Melissa said. Her voice cracked on the edges of the words. “And I still live with what it did to me.”

She looked out the window again, the city reflected faintly in her eyes. “She reminds me of who I was before I learned how to hide my pain behind polished lectures and fine silk,” she whispered. “Before I learned how to walk into a boardroom smiling while bleeding from the inside.”

Derek leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“You’re afraid for her.”

“I’m afraid of what we might do to her,” Melissa said. “Of what the Langford and Spencer names might demand of her. Of what loving our son might cost.”

Derek’s voice was soft. “Winston isn’t the Langford-Spencer name. He’s more than that.”

“But the world doesn’t care,” Melissa shot back. “The money, the legacy... it swallows people whole. You think I didn’t have dreams? Before I became the perfect Langford wife? You think I didn’t wonder what kind of mother I’d be— if I ever had the chance?”

Derek’s throat moved. He said nothing.

“I see her, and I see everything I could have been, if I had someone see me sooner.” Melissa’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “If I’d been loved, not preserved.”

Derek’s hand reached across the space and folded around hers. “You were loved.”

She met his eyes. “Eventually. After I stopped asking for it.”

Derek’s eyes darkened. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m doing it to her. In my head. Over and over. I’m imagining Clarissa becoming a ghost in her own house. Smiling through holiday photos. Silencing herself at dinner. Folding in her edges until there’s nothing left of the woman Winston loved.”

Derek was quiet. Melissa leaned forward, finally picking up the champagne. “But she’s not me,” she said quietly. “She’s stronger than I was. Smarter, maybe.”

“She’s alone,” Derek said. “That’s not strength. That’s survival.”

Melissa turned her face slightly toward him. “She doesn’t need a mirror, Derek. She needs a door.”

Derek’s hand brushed hers again, his thumb grazing the skin gently. “Then let her in.”

Melissa took a sip. “What if she doesn’t want in?”

Derek met her gaze with the calm that only came from decades together. “Then love her anyway. From wherever she stands.”

Melissa smiled, tired but soft. “I married a poet and didn’t know it.”

“You married a man who saw you when no one else dared,” he corrected. “Now be that woman for her.”

Melissa looked down at their hands —his larger, weathered one gently cradling hers— and gave a small, final nod. “She won’t break under this house,” she whispered. “Not if I can help it.”

And Derek, holding her gaze with quiet faith, replied, “You’ll help her build a new one.”

END.

[siltrace]

Across Each Other

ㅤ ㅤ | 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘉𝘢𝘺 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘊𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘦, 𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘦

The high ceilings of the Marina Bay convention center echoed with the murmur of intellectuals and creatives. Coffee stations, touchscreens, and polished shoes lined the arpeted halls. Melissa Langford entered with the confidence of a woman used to being the one watched— but today, she came incognito.

Her name badge read simply: M. Spencer – University of London, Faculty of Fine Arts. No honorifics, no fuss.

She had declined the invitation to speak, choosing instead to absorb, observe— and perhaps quietly assess where the field was heading. Her plan was to enter a panel titled: “Cross-Disciplinary Narratives in Southeast Asian Visual Design.”

She checked her watch: 10:42 AM. Running late. The door was already half-closed. Melissa slipped into the dim auditorium, heels muted against the carpet. She scanned the space quickly — about 80 people, all eyes forward. She settled in near the back row, smoothing her cream blouse and crossing her legs, prepared to tune in just as the current speaker’s voice flowed over the room.

“…the work of a visual communicator in this region isn't just to respond, but to reframe,” came a crisp voice from the stage. “Too much of our inherited aesthetic relies on colonial idealism masked as minimalism. Our job is not to beautify trauma, but to distill it without apology.”

Melissa blinked, then leaned slightly forward. That voice.

Measured. Elegant. A slight accent— Korean-tinged English with the cadence of someone who thought before every word. She reached for the small program in her bag and scanned the panel list again.

𝗖. 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗮 – 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿, 𝗩𝗶𝘀𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗻, 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗮. 𝗦𝗲𝗼𝘂𝗹 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆.

Melissa’s eyes slowly rose back to the stage. There stood a woman in her late 30s, hair pulled into a smooth twist, dressed in a sharp gray blazer and a crisp ivory top. No notes in hand, just a quiet command over the space. Behind her, a projection of textile layering techniques used in Balinese architectural visual branding.

It took Melissa a few seconds to connect the dots.

Clarissa. 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗮 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗮.

The same name from the dossier Halvorsen had brought her in London. The woman her son Winston had been… seeing. Working with. Visiting. Defending.

Melissa straightened, lips tightening. This woman—this speaker—was 𝘩𝘦𝘳?

Onstage, Clarissa clicked calmly to the next slide. “We’re not just telling stories through design. We’re revealing what our regions have been too polite to say aloud. That’s where visual communication becomes cultural disruption.”

A soft rustle of nods moved through the crowd. Melissa remained stone still. But her eyes never left Clarissa. And yet… Clarissa didn’t so much as glance her way.

Of course not.

Melissa hadn’t used her full name. Her badge bore no titles. She was just another attendee— anonymous in a room full of thinkers.

Clarissa spoke with conviction, not charisma. There was no theatricality in her presence, but it was striking all the same. Her poise was precise. Her analysis— sharp. Melissa found herself, despite everything, listening. Not just as a mother, not just as a skeptic— but as a peer.

The lady in grey moved to her final slide. A quiet, powerful image: a reconstructed Batik pattern layered with digital type, reimagining local craft as contemporary protest.

“In the end,” Clarissa said softly, “design is how we reclaim voice. Sometimes even before language returns.”

Polite, reflective applause followed. Melissa didn’t join in. Not yet.

She just watched as Clarissa stepped down from the podium and took her seat with the other panelists, composed as ever. The moderator opened the floor to questions. A hand went up in the front row. Another from the center. Clarissa leaned forward, answering with quiet depth.

Melissa sat in the back, silent. She didn’t raise her hand. She didn’t need to. Clarissa hadn’t recognized her. And that, Melissa realized, was a rare and dangerous thing: to be unknown in a room by the very person you came to judge.

She didn’t yet know what she thought of Clarissa Madhava. But the field had changed. And so had the game. The panel dispersed slowly— murmurs of admiration, brief applause, a few attendees lining up to speak with the other panelists.

Clarissa remained gracious but distant, answering questions with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. Professional warmth. Nothing more.

Melissa stayed seated at the back, her hands folded neatly over her program booklet. She hadn’t clapped. She hadn’t needed to. Her eyes remained fixed on Clarissa as the crowd thinned. That’s her, Melissa thought, not with surprise anymore— but with recalibration. She studied the way Clarissa gently avoided extended conversation, slipping away with subtle skill.

The woman was clearly practiced at navigating professional spaces and at keeping a part of herself tucked out of reach. Melissa didn’t move even after Clarissa exited the room through the side corridor, her figure disappearing into the hallway light.

Instead, she waited.

The next session on her agenda didn’t start for another hour. She had every reason to leave— but she didn’t. Instead, she stepped out of the auditorium, heels clicking softly, and made her way through the concourse until she reached the symposium lounge. Neutral ground for speakers and senior faculty, press, and patrons. She had access by title and standing alone, but today she entered simply as an observer.

A waiter greeted her with a bow.

“Ma’am.” “Just water,” she said softly.

The lounge was half-empty. Perfect. She took a seat in the corner facing the entrance. Removed her badge. Set her tablet aside. And waited. Not out of calculation. Out of instinct. Whatever doubts Melissa had carried about Clarissa Madhava —whether she was good enough, young enough, fertile enough— had been momentarily overshadowed by something else: curiosity.

The kind that couldn’t be answered by a dossier. She crossed her legs slowly, sipped her water, and watched the hours pass in a wash of warm light, shifting conversations, and quiet judgment. Until, at last, a familiar figure stepped through the glass door.

Clarissa. And this time, they were only one table apart.

Clarissa returned to her designated seat with her coffee. The man who had waved her over earlier had only needed her signature on a group note from the Seoul delegation. A small ask, quickly handled.

She glanced toward the woman at the next table— still seated, still watching. Something about her presence carried the poise of someone who'd spent decades owning boardrooms and classrooms alike. A quiet elegance. A type Clarissa was more than familiar with.

She offered another polite smile, about to return to her emails, when the woman spoke. “Do you often speak at conferences like this?” the woman asked, her tone cool but not unfriendly. Clarissa looked up. “Not often. Not because I don’t enjoy them— I do. But time is a luxury these days. Administrative duties keep expanding.”

Melissa tilted her head slightly. “University leadership?”

Clarissa gave a small nod. “Rector at the University of Madhava. Lecturer of Visual Communication division.”

Melissa gave no outward reaction. But internally, she absorbed the weight of the title. She already knew this, of course, it had been in the file. But hearing it firsthand —spoken without vanity— carried a different edge.

“You wear it lightly,” Melissa remarked.

Clarissa’s smile was faint but present. “Titles are heavy when you grip them too tightly.”

Melissa let out a soft sound— something between a chuckle and a hum. “Wise.”

She sipped her water. Then, with casual precision, added, “And the other hat? I heard mention of business as well.” Clarissa paused for the briefest second. “Yes. My family manages some businesses. I stepped in this year when some restructuring was needed. I still serve as executive director in one, though most of the daily operations are with the Bali team.”

Melissa’s lips parted just slightly— interested, but unreadable. “Impressive.”

Clarissa let the compliment hang. “There are a lot of impressive women here today.”

“But not many who do both.”

This time, Clarissa didn’t answer right away.

Melissa leaned back in her seat. She wasn’t smiling, but something in her gaze had sharpened. “And you?” Clarissa asked lightly. “You’ve clearly seen a few panels like this.”

“Too many,” Melissa replied, almost amused. “Professor of Fine Arts. Emeritus. Based in London. Sometimes US. I’m mostly here to observe.” Clarissa tilted her head. “Spencer, you said?”

“Yes.”

Still no flicker of recognition from Clarissa. Melissa noted it again. Clarissa continued, “I know a Fiona Spencer. She used to curate for the Venice Triennale.”

“Distant cousin,” Melissa replied, then smiled politely. “We multiply.”

Clarissa returned the smile, then checked the time subtly on her phone. “I should get going. I have a follow-up with some of the students presenting tomorrow.”

Melissa nodded, her voice softer this time. “You’re quite… centered.”

Clarissa glanced up again. Melissa continued, “You carry silence well. Most people fill it with apologies or explanations.”

The younger lady took a moment before responding. “I’ve learned that silence reveals more than noise ever could.”

Melissa looked at her for a long moment. “I hope we meet again, Professor Madhava.”

Clarissa rose with quiet grace. “Likewise, Professor Spencer.”

Then she turned, walked away— calm, unreadable, and still unaware of who she had just spoken to. Melissa sat in the quiet that followed, lifting her water again. The aftertaste wasn’t from the drink. It was from the realization that she liked Clarissa more than she’d expected. And that made everything infinitely more complicated.

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳.

[siltrace]

The Morning Silence

The Langford solarium was awash in pale morning light. Sunlight pooled across the white-marble-tiled floor, glinting off the crystal decanter Melissa had filled with elderflower water hours ago. The air held the faint scent of lavender polish and hydrangeas.

Not a pillow out of place. Not a speck of dust. Immaculate— much like the woman who sat at the head of the breakfast table, unmoving. Melissa Langford, queen of silent judgments.

Winston entered quietly. Still slightly flushed from his morning run— though any trained observer would’ve noted the sweat wasn’t fresh, and the towel slung over his shoulder was more for show than need. The faint scent of women’s perfume lingered on him— not strong, but unmistakably not from the Langford household.

Something floral, layered with amber. Sophisticated. Melissa didn’t need to guess. She glanced at him briefly, then gestured toward the seat opposite her.

“Sit.”

Her tone wasn’t harsh— but Winston had grown up learning that Melissa’s real power came from what she didn’t say. He sat, exhaling through his nose, dragging the antique chair back with a quiet scrape. He rested his forearms lightly on the edge of the table, preparing himself— but not defending.

Melissa folded her hands, rested her wrists on the porcelain saucer in front of her, and said coolly, “I know who she is.”

He didn’t flinch. “Who?”

“Clarissa Madhava,” she confirmed, as if speaking the full name was necessary for the weight of it. “Daughter of Arya Madhava, heir to one of the most discreetly powerful old-money families in Southeast Asia. Born in Bali. Educated in Seoul. Head of the university by thirty-eight. Now CEO of the family’s hotel. I imagine you already know all of this.”

“I do,” Winston said quietly. Melissa continued.

“𝘞𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 once. Engaged once before that. One lost to cowardice who then died in a car crash. No confirmed relationships since. And before you get clever and tell me I’ve invaded her privacy— don’t bother. You made her our business the moment you started spending your day at her home.”

Still, Winston said nothing. Though it's not true, the latter part.

“She’s elegant,” Melissa went on, voice clipped. “Speaks four languages. Commands a room with a glance. Doesn’t chase— which of course is why you’re chasing her.”

A flicker of amusement passed over Winston’s face. “That’s not why.”

“She’s thirty-nine,” Melissa snapped, the restraint starting to crack beneath her careful composure. Winston’s brows lifted slightly, unimpressed. “And?”

Melissa leaned forward just slightly, her voice dropping to that precise tone she reserved for things that were not to be misunderstood. “You’re forty-two, Winston. You’ve spoken —more than once— about wanting children. You’ve always said you wanted the kind of life that leaves something behind. And Clarissa Madhava, as accomplished as she is, may no longer be able to give you that.”

A pause fell between them— taut and quiet. Winston stared at her for a moment, expression unreadable. “You realize what you’re saying, don’t you?”

“I’m saying what no one else will,” she said, not missing a beat. “The facts don’t care that you’re in love. Biology doesn’t adjust for emotional history. Fertility declines rapidly after thirty-five. And you’re talking about building a future with someone who—”

“—is more fertile with purpose than anyone I’ve ever met,” Winston interrupted, voice quiet but cutting.

“Who’s lived ten lives’ worth of responsibility and still carries herself with grace. Who’s earned everything she has without asking for permission.” Melissa narrowed her eyes. “That isn’t what this is about.”

“Then tell me what it’s 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 about,” Winston said, sharper now. “Because I was under the impression we didn’t build families in this house based on wombs.”

Silence. Melissa’s jaw locked. The words struck deeper than she expected— not because they were wrong, but because they hit a buried truth. “You were adopted,” she said finally, softly but stiffly. “Yes. But don’t pretend that wasn’t a calculated act of love.”

“I’m not,” Winston said. “But you’re pretending we got here through tradition. You think bloodlines matter now? Where was that urgency when you took in a boy with no name and raised him in a house that reminded him every day he didn’t come from it?”

Melissa’s mouth opened— then closed.

“I love you,” Winston said, quieter now. “I do. But I’m not going to punish the woman I love because she might not be able to give me something you never could either.” Melissa looked away for the first time.

“Clarissa didn’t ask for this,” Winston added. “She’s not trying to become a Langford. She’s not asking for our name. She’s just... existing. Surviving.”

Melissa was still silent. And Winston finished, “Maybe you’re afraid she’s everything you were trying to be— but never had the space to become.”

That line hit its mark. For a second, her expression cracked. Something flashed behind her eyes— grief, maybe. Resentment. Regret. But she recovered, as always.

“She’s built a fortress,” Melissa said finally. “Not a home.”

“Then maybe I’m tired of homes that collapse,” Winston replied.

And he rose. Calm. Composed. As if the verdict had been passed. He paused at the archway. Turned slightly. “You taught me to think. Not to obey. This is me thinking. And choosing.”

He left.

Melissa sat alone, staring into her cold tea. The room felt somehow more sterile now, emptier. The woman she had raised had spoken back— not out of rebellion, but clarity. And that clarity had left her shaken.

Later that evening, the sun had dipped behind the tree line, casting the Langford estate in a mellow orange hue. Shadows stretched across the west veranda where Derek Langford sat alone, legs crossed, a lowball glass of bourbon cupped lazily in his hand. He didn’t look up when he heard the door creak open. Melissa stepped out quietly, her silk robe trailing behind her like fog. She didn’t speak. She rarely did when her thoughts had unsettled her. She stood for a long while at the edge of the balustrade, watching the magnolias sway.

“You were hard on him,” Derek said, not looking at her. Melissa's shoulders stiffened. “I was direct.”

“That’s one word for it,” he murmured. She crossed to the rattan chair beside him, lowering herself slowly, every motion carefully composed— though her fingers were tight around the armrest.

“I had Halvorsen run another full background. Everything.”

“I figured,” Derek said, sipping. “You always go to war fully armed.”

She looked at him sharply, but he wasn’t mocking her. Just observing— like he always did. “She’s old,” Melissa said after a moment. Derek gave a quiet chuckle. “Melissa. He’s in his forties.”

“She’s been through... tragedy,” she added quickly, almost defensively.

“Engaged. 𝘞𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥. She’s—” Melissa paused, lips twitching, unsure how to define a woman she couldn’t easily label. “She’s so... composed.”

“And that bothers you?” he asked, finally turning to her. “Or does it just remind you of yourself?”

Melissa didn’t answer.

Derek studied her more closely now — the slight tightness at the corners of her eyes, the way she hadn’t touched the tea she brought out with her. She looked regal. As always. But tense in a way only he would recognize.

“She might not be able to give him children,” Melissa said quietly. “And we did?” Derek asked, tilting his glass. “You and I?”

Melissa flinched. “That wasn’t fair,” she said after a beat, voice thin.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Derek replied, more gently this time “But it was true.”

She looked away. “I just want him to have a future,” she said, barely above a whisper. “A real one. Something... lasting."

Derek smiled faintly, watching the golden light slip across her cheekbones. “You mean a legacy.”

She didn’t deny it.

“He is our legacy,” Derek said simply. “Blood or not.”

Melissa closed her eyes for a moment, her mask slipping. “I didn’t expect it to hurt like this,” she confessed. “Watching him choose someone. And not needing my permission.”

Derek leaned back with a soft exhale. “That’s not the pain of a matriarch being disobeyed, Mel. That’s the pain of a mother whose boy grew up.”

Silence fell between them again, this time less sharp— more solemn.

“You know it,” Derek added, almost thoughtfully, “That I've met Arya once. At a meeting in Jakarta. Smart man. Measured. Quiet, but dangerous when cornered. Reminded me of you, actually.”

Melissa blinked at him.

“He had the kind of presence that didn’t need explanation,” Derek said. “Which tells me Clarissa’s not far from the tree.”

Melissa’s voice was quiet. “That’s what scares me.”

Derek turned his head, surprised. “That she’s like him?”

“No,” she said slowly. “That she’s like me.”

She rose before he could respond, leaving her tea untouched. “Don’t wait up,” she said softly. “I need to think.”

And she disappeared back into the house, a ghost of her younger self trailing in her wake— proud, calculating, wounded. Derek swirled the bourbon in his glass, watching the light fracture across its surface.

“She’ll be the one,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “Whether you like it or not.”

And he drank to that.

END.

[siltrace]

The Langford Report

The sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Langfords’ private study, casting a mellow glow across the polished surfaces and old-money opulence. Dust motes floated like whispers in the golden light, dancing above the mahogany desk and the gilded edges of a hundred curated volumes. The air smelled faintly of rosewood, aged leather, and quiet power.

Melissa Langford sat upright at the desk— not lounging as she did in the drawing room, but poised, spine straight, fingers steepled beneath her chin. Her expression was fixed in the kind of stillness that unnerved even the most seasoned staff.

In front of her lay a thick, black dossier. Pristine. Weighted.

Mr. Halvorsen, the senior of the two detectives she had hired, stood on the opposite side of the desk.

He didn’t sit. No one did, when she was in that particular mood — thoughtful, but simmering. She flipped open the folder with practiced fingers, letting the pages speak before he did.

A color photo of Clarissa at a university conference: composed, gesturing mid-speech behind a modern podium, eyes sharp. Another of her in a navy blazer, cutting a ribbon with government officials at what appeared to be a new campus wing. A third —perhaps the most revealing— a candid shot of Clarissa stepping out of a sleek black car, designer handbag slung at her side, surrounded by aides. She wasn’t looking at the camera. She didn’t need to. She radiated control.

Melissa narrowed her eyes.

Halvorsen cleared his throat carefully. “We dug deeper, as requested.”

She looked up slowly. “Tell me everything.”

He began without flourish. “Clarissa Madhava. Born in Bali, Indonesia. Only daughter of Arya Madhava and his late wife, Tatya. Her mother passed when she was around two or three— cancer. Arya later remarried Kirana, now the head of the family’s high jewelry business. From what we found, the relationship between Clarissa and her stepmother is… strained. Estranged, possibly permanently.”

Melissa said nothing — just tilted her head slightly.

Halvorsen continued, sensing the gravity of what he was about to deliver. “The Madhava family is one of Indonesia’s old-line conglomerate houses. Legacy wealth, diversified investments. The father, Arya, is CEO of Madhava Herbalife— an empire built on traditional medicine and modern pharmacology. Highly respected. Quiet operator. Not flashy. Global reach.”

He turned a page. “Clarissa inherited significant ones. And this year, she took over the board chair of The Griya Madhava, the hospitality wing. It’s a high-luxury brand— tropical properties, eco-centric designs, discreet celebrity clientele. This year, as her family’s university rector. The one Mr. Langford works part-time,” Melissa’s brows lifted, a flicker of surprise betraying her usually composed features.

“There’s more,” Halvorsen said. “She’s also an academic. Seoul National University— top of her class, then stayed on for a PhD in visual communication design. She returned to Indonesia a year ago, was brought on by her first alma mater, and now —as of six months go— she’s its youngest-ever rector. In her late thirties”

Melissa’s lips parted slightly. Not just beautiful. Not just accomplished. But prodigious. “And no scandals?” she asked, skeptical.

Halvorsen shook his head. “None that we could verify. There is... emotional history. She was once engaged— to Harvey Tanuwidjaya, heir to the Tan Group. Chairman of Indonesia’s trading committee. She was her student. He lectured her during her bachelor studies, engaged, then broke up. It was a significant media story when they got back together after a long breakup. But weeks before the wedding, they were in a car crash. He didn’t survive. Last April.”

“She did,” Melissa murmured.

“She did,” Halvorsen confirmed. “Slight injuries. Now still in recovery. But after that... silence. She never spoke publicly about it. Declined interviews. Before Harvey, she dated Christian Limanjaya, another heir to a big company.”

Melissa closed the folder slowly. Her jaw was tight.

The image she had built in her mind —some wide-eyed academic flirt clinging to Winston’s coattails— crumbled. This woman, this Clarissa Madhava, was more than a distraction. She was an institution. With war scars, financial autonomy, and a name powerful enough to matter across borders.

“And Winston?” Melissa asked after a long pause. “Does he know?”

Halvorsen hesitated. “We believe so. He’s been discreet, but consistent. He visits her office often. Attended one of her closed panels last month. And today... he was seen at her home. Alone. For nearly three hours.”

Melissa stared at the dossier. It felt heavier now. She closed the folder slowly. Her jaw had tightened, but her eyes had taken on a new gleam— not hostility, not quite. Something sharper. Evaluative.

“She’s not in your league, ma’am,” Halvorsen had said. “She’s in her own.”

Melissa tapped one manicured nail against the edge of the dossier. “Winston?” she asked, her voice cool but expectant.

Halvorsen glanced at his notes. “He’s been the one pursuing her. Consistently. Subtly, but with clear intention. Campus visits. Invitations to research panels. Coffee meetings disguised as academic collaborations. They’re professional in public— overly so. But there’s familiarity.”

Melissa's gaze flicked back to the photograph of Clarissa in the navy blazer, flanked by officials, smiling tightly. “She lets him?” she asked.

“To a point,” Halvorsen replied. “But it’s... complicated. She keeps boundaries. Refuses any public outings that aren’t work-related. She’s polite, never cold, but never quite lets him in. It's likely because of the trauma— her fiancé’s death is still recent. Less than three months.”

Melissa hummed. Not with sympathy— but recognition. Emotional debris had a way of lingering, no matter how accomplished a woman was.

“She’s not the kind to be swept off her feet,” she murmured. “She’s too scared. Too... engineered.”

“She’s guarded, yes. But not brittle,” Halvorsen said carefully. “More like she’s put her heart in quarantine. For now.”

Just then, the door creaked open. Derek Langford stepped in, unhurried, a glass of sparkling water in hand, having traded his morning jacket for a softer linen one. He took one look at Melissa, then at the open file on the desk, and gave a knowing little smirk.

“Still tracking the woman our son’s been hovering around like a lovesick assistant professor?” Melissa didn’t bother replying.

Derek wandered closer, glancing down at the photograph on top — Clarissa stepping out of the black car, sunlight catching the side of her face, the confident curve of her stride unmistakable.

“This is her?”

“Clarissa Madhava,” Melissa said crisply. “Daughter of Arya Madhava. Granddaughter of the Indonesia’s Madhava lineages. Academic. The rector, not assistant. CEO. Not what I expected.” Derek gave a small nod.

“She’s... striking. Has presence.”

“She has power,” Melissa corrected. “She’s not chasing Winston. If anything, she’s putting him at arm’s length.”

Derek chuckled. “So he’s the one doing the chasing for once. Good. Builds character.”

Melissa gave him a sharp glance. “You think he can handle her?”

“I think he wants to,” Derek replied, then sipped his drink. “The question is— what is she into? Someone like that doesn’t just want flowers and dinners. She wants vision. Alignment.”

Halvorsen cleared his throat. “If I may— she’s spent the last months rebuilding. After the loss. After the press. She’s surrounded herself with work, governance, legacy projects. She’s creating fortresses.”

“So she’s not ready,” Derek said simply. “No,” Melissa corrected again, softly. “She’s not willing. That’s different.”

She stood, arms folding as she turned toward the window. The glass reflected her expression back at her: thoughtful, but faintly intrigued.

“She’s holding the door closed,” Melissa continued. “But she hasn’t thrown away the key.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “And him?”

Melissa gave a small shrug. “Too smitten to notice the lock. Too arrogant to stop knocking.”

There was a pause. Then Melissa turned back to Halvorsen. “Continue surveillance. Quietly. I want transcripts, not just photos. What she says. What she doesn’t. I want to know if this is a distraction for her— or a decision.”

Halvorsen nodded. “Understood.”

As he left, Derek moved beside Melissa and glanced at the closed folder one last time. “Well,” he said lightly, “If she ever does decide… I hope he’s smart enough to hold on.”

Melissa sipped her tea —still cold— and stared out the window at the long, gleaming rows of roses she’d planted herself.

“She’ll make him bleed first,” she said. “But if he survives that, she might make him a king.”

Melissa’s fingers tapped once more against the edge of the dossier, brows knit in silent thought. She didn’t look up when Derek spoke again, his voice light but lined with something steadier.

“Melissa… chill down,” he said, with the kind of casualness that only a man married for decades could safely wield. “This one— she might actually be the one.”

Melissa’s eyes cut toward him. “You’re that quick to endorse her?”

Derek smiled faintly and took another sip of his sparkling water before setting the glass down with a quiet clink on the edge of her desk. “I’ve met Arya Madhava,” he said. Melissa blinked.

“What?”

“Years ago,” he continued, unbothered by her surprise. “During a regional trade conference in Jakarta. He was on a wellness innovation panel. I was representing our pharma partners out of Singapore. We sat at the same table for two days of negotiations.”

Melissa narrowed her eyes. “You never told me that.”

Derek shrugged. “Didn’t think it mattered. Until now.”

“What was he like?” she asked, still guarded. “Controlled. Polite. Doesn’t speak unless he has to— but when he does, you listen. The room shifted when he spoke. Even the Chinese and Korean delegations deferred to him. He was... impressive.”

Melissa glanced back at the closed folder. Arya’s name had been in there, but she hadn’t thought much of him beyond the summary: CEO, herbal tycoon.

Now, Derek’s words made her reconsider. “He was also,” Derek added, “very protective when someone mentioned his daughter. Wouldn’t even confirm she was in Korea at the time. Just smiled and said, ‘My daughter walks her own path. I don’t steer. I observe.’”

Melissa’s brow lifted.

“I remember that line,” Derek added, more to himself than her. “You don’t forget a father who speaks like that.”

There was a long silence. Melissa slowly lowered herself into her chair again, her mind racing in quieter circles now.

“She walks her own path,” Melissa repeated, softer this time. “Winston may not be the one guiding it,” Derek said, voice calm, “but he’s walking beside her. That counts for something.”

Melissa studied him— her husband of thirty-five years, who rarely intervened when she ran surveillance on their children's lovers, who never objected when she vetted, tested, and occasionally exiled. But now... he wasn’t opposing her. He was simply asking her to see the full picture.

“She’s not perfect,” Melissa murmured. “She’s too disciplined. Too quiet. Women like that bury things.”

“And men like our son fall in love with that quiet,” Derek replied. “Because it makes them feel safe. Or because it makes them curious. Either way… let the boy breathe.”

Melissa exhaled— the first full breath she’d taken since Halvorsen left the room. She reached for the folder again but didn’t open it. This time, she simply rested her palm on top, thoughtful.

“Just don’t let her think I’m already welcoming her,” she said, voice calm.

Derek chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “But maybe,” he added with a teasing smile, “we should invite Arya for dinner sometime.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “Let’s not get carried away.”

END.