Chapter 51 Chapter Fifty-one
Lena’s POV
I wake slowly—slow enough that I feel each layer of consciousness slide back into place like soft silk.
The first thing I register is warmth.
Not the sun. Not the sheets.
Him.
Sebastian’s body is stretched behind me, one heavy arm hooked under my waist, caging me gently but possessively against him. His breathing is slow, steady, deeper than normal morning breath, as though even asleep he refuses to loosen his hold on me.
Our legs are tangled. My hair is probably a mess on his chest. And every time I shift, his grip tightens the tiniest bit.
We’re supposed to be on a business trip. I’m supposed to be helping him with research and negotiations prep. But no—Sebastian, ruthless CEO, absolute tyrant, confiscated my laptop.
And now I’m here, in his arms, waking up in a way that shouldn’t feel this safe.
I let my eyes remain closed for another moment, pretending I’m still asleep, because if I turn to face him, I know exactly what will happen—my heart will do that stupid fluttering thing I keep trying to deny.
Too late.
He shifts behind me, his breath brushing my hair.
“Are you awake?” His voice is gravelly, sinful, devastating.
I hum, “Barely.”
His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me flush against him. My entire body reacts—heart, breath, everything.
He presses his lips to the back of my shoulder, a slow, lazy kiss that feels anything but innocent.
“I didn’t want to get up,” he murmurs into my skin.
“Then don’t,” I whisper back.
His soft chuckle vibrates through me, low and warm.
“Temptress.”
We remain tangled like that, half-awake, half-asleep, letting the morning stretch out. It’s the laziest we’ve ever been together—and it scares me, how easy this feels.
After what feels like hours, I finally roll over to face him.
Mistake.
He looks… soft. Sleepy. Warm. His hair messy, his jaw shadowed, eyes half-opened but burning with something I don’t know how to name.
And he’s looking at me like I’m the first good thing he’s seen all morning.
He brushes a thumb across my cheek, barely touching.
“Morning,” he says quietly.
I smile. “Hi."
Another moment of silence—comfortably thick, not awkward. Then he sits up abruptly.
“I’m going to make breakfast.”
I blink.
“…You?”
"yes" he nods
“Sure.” I flop back onto the pillows, giggling. “Go ahead, Chef Hayes.”
He shoots me a look—equal parts challenge and mischief—and heads toward the kitchen.
I give it five minutes before something catastrophic happens.
Five minutes later, a loud metallic CLANG echoes from the kitchen.
I snort into the pillow.
Another clatter.
Followed by a sharp, “Oh, for—”
I can’t resist.
When I walk into the kitchen, Sebastian is standing shirtless in boxers, holding a bowl of egg shells and… no actual eggs. The Gas is on, pans heated, and he somehow has flour on his arm though he isn’t even using flour.
“What,” I ask, trying very, very hard not to laugh, “exactly are you doing?”
He scowls down at his bowl. “The eggs betrayed me.”
I cover my mouth. “You… cracked the shells into the bowl?”
“No,” he says defensively. “They just fell in.”
“All three?”
“Lena.” His eyes narrow. “Do not laugh.”
But I burst out laughing anyway, because he looks like a Greek god trying to bake, and failing spectacularly.
“Here,” I say, stepping closer. “Let me show you."
His expression softens—just a little—before he hands me a fresh egg.
I show him how to tap the shell gently, then pull it apart with my thumbs over the pan.
He watches me like I’m performing some kind of magic trick.
“Again,” he orders softly.
I do it again.
He steps closer—way closer—his chest brushing my shoulder, breath warm on my cheek, eyes fixed on my hands.
“You make even mundane things look…” he pauses, searching for a word that stalls my breath, “…beautiful.”
My fingers slip. The yolk splatters awkwardly into the pan.
“Your fault,” I whisper.
His lips lift in the smallest, softest smile.
We continue cooking together—well, I cook, he stands behind me, helping by handing things over dramatically like I’m conducting brain surgery.
At some point he wraps his arms around my waist from behind, chin resting on my shoulder as I stir the eggs.
“This is nice,” he murmurs.
My heart stumbles. “Yeah. It is.”
When breakfast is done—badly scrambled eggs, burnt toast, and fruit he sliced unevenly—we sit on the balcony, sharing one plate between us.
Sebastian feeds me a piece of pear.
“Is this my life now?” I tease. “Being hand-fed fruit like some ancient queen?”
“If you want it to be,” he says seriously.
My laughing smile freezes.
Because for a single, terrifying moment, I think he means it.
His eyes soften. He touches my knee, not possessive, not controlling—just there, steady, grounding.
We sit in silence, eating, watching the city below wake up. It’s peaceful in a way that makes my heart ache.
After a long moment, he says quietly, “My mother used to cook every morning.”
I look at him gently. “Yeah?”
He nods, staring down at the plate, as if seeing something much farther away.
“She wasn’t good at it,” he admits. “Burned everything. But she tried.”
A slow inhale.
“My father never bothered to help.”
I rest my hand over his.
He swallows, jaw tightening. “I hated it. Hated seeing her struggle. I told myself I’d never be like him.”
I squeeze his fingers. He lets me.
“Sebastian…” I whisper.
He finally looks at me, eyes strangely open. Vulnerable.
“I don’t tell people things like this.”
“I know.”
Another beat.
“You make it too easy,” he says, voice low and rough.
My stomach flips so hard it almost hurts. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the words lodge in my throat.
Instead, he lifts his hand and brushes a stray curl behind my ear. Slow. Gentle. Almost reverent.
We both freeze.
His eyes flicker down to my mouth.
I feel my pulse in places that have nothing to do with my heart.
For a single second, I think he’s going to say it—I’m falling for you.
And for an even scarier moment… I realize I might say it back.
But then he pulls back.
Too quickly.
And I look away.
We sit there, breathing slowly, pretending neither of us was about to set our entire lives on fire.
The day passes in a haze of pretending to be normal.
He tries to work. I try not to hover. He won’t let me touch any of the business documents.
“You’re on vacation,” he insists.
“This is a business trip,” I counter.
“Not for you."
“You need help—”
“You’re not working.”
Every time he says it, my stomach flips.
Because he isn’t trying to control me.
He’s trying to protect me.
Protect us, maybe.
But I give him space and curl up with a book on the couch. He glances at me every ten minutes like he’s checking that I’m still here, still real.
We end up side by side, legs brushing, fingers brushing, not talking about the tension simmering between us.
Eventually he closes his laptop.
“Get dressed,” he says. “We’re going out.”
“Where?”
He gives me a small, secret smile. “Boat tour.”
My heart leaps.
The boat is small, elegant, with soft lights and wide open views of the water. The sun is dipping low, spreading gold across the waves. The air is warm, breezy, perfect.
We sit close—not touching, but close enough that every shift, every breath, every accidental brush of skin feels deliberate.
Sebastian looks out at the water, silent, thoughtful. The fading sunlight traces his jaw, softening him in a way I’ve never seen.
“You’re quiet,” I say softly.
“So are you.”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
I glance at his profile. He’s beautiful in a sharp, dangerous way—like marble carved too precisely. But right now he looks… human.
“About how different you are here,” I admit.
He turns to me. “Different?”
“Softer,” I whisper. “Warmer. Less guarded.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Do you prefer me like this?”
I hesitate. “I prefer the real you.”
His breath catches—subtle but unmistakable.
And then he says, barely audible, “You’re the only person I’ve ever let see this side.”
My chest tightens painfully.
The boat slows as it drifts around a bend. The city lights start to flicker on around us, reflecting across the water like a blanket of stars.
Sebastian shifts closer. Our knees touch.
His fingers brush mine.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he threads his hand through mine.
I stare at our intertwined fingers, breath caught somewhere between my ribs and throat.
He leans in, voice low. “If I kiss you again, Lena… I won’t stop.”
My heart jumps. “Then don’t stop.”
His jaw flexes. “We’re in public.
“Barely.”
His eyes fall to my mouth. “Don’t tempt me.”
I smile softly. “That’s becoming a theme today.”
He laughs under his breath—quiet, real, perfect.
We sit like that the rest of the boat ride—hand in hand, bodies leaning together, silence wrapping around us like something fragile and intimate.