LEVI'S POV
"We can't possibly go to the bedroom," I said with a smile, glancing towards the hallway. "The water would soon boil," I added, trying to diffuse the moment with a touch of humor.
The kettle gurgled loudly, filling the kitchen with its energetic protest against the silence that had settled between us.
Isabella seemed a bit flustered, her earlier suggestion hanging awkwardly in the air. "I like making coffee the traditional way, like my mother. There's nothing quite like it, especially if I want to impress," she said, attempting to restart the conversation. "What about you? Do you enjoy making coffee? How does your mom make hers?"
The mention of my mom tugged at my heart, and a pang of sadness quickly stifled. "I never met my mother," I replied evenly, masking the ache. "My parents divorced when I was a kid, and she left with another man."
"I'm so sorry," Isabella murmured, genuine concern in her eyes, tinged with guilt for bringing up a sore topic.
"It's fine. I've come to terms with it," I assured her, hoping to ease her discomfort. "And as for coffee, I never make it. Too busy for that."
Understanding my attempt to change the subject, she nodded with a gentle smile. "I get it," she said softly, clearly searching for another topic to bridge the silence. "I'm hoping our team ranks in the top two this season," she finally said.
Her eyes met mine nervously, their beauty momentarily distracting. Also, I was unsure how to respond, as I have decided to focus on practicalities rather than hopes. "Would your internship end in the middle of the season?" I asked, my mind shifting to more pressing matters. Her.
"Seems like it," Isabella shrugged, her demeanor shifting slightly. "Sorry if I'm not giving a very professional answer after the night I've had."
"It's alright. We're at your place, no need to be formal," I reassured her, grateful for her attempt to steer the conversation back to safer ground.
"Do you enjoy your job?" I asked, breaking the silence that followed our previous conversation.
Isabella nodded slowly, a genuine smile spreading across her face, but her eyes betrayed a deeper emotion, a flicker of vulnerability that intrigued me.
"I remember," she began, her voice wavering slightly as she recalled memories that seemed to weigh heavily on her. "I remember how I walked out of my family's home, step by step. It was one of the hardest decisions I've ever made."
As she spoke, I could see the past flooding her mind, her eyes squeezing shut briefly as if to hold back the memories.
"I arrived in Italy alone, with very little money. I could only afford a small house and enough food to get by. I worked part-time in a store until midnight just to make ends meet," she continued, her voice thick with emotion. "It was exhausting, but I had to do it."
Tears welled up in her eyes, tracing silent paths down her cheeks, and her shoulders trembled with the weight of her emotions.
"It was so hard," she whispered, her voice breaking as tears continued to flow. "But everything became financially better with my role as a paid intern in Ferrari. In just a few months, I was able to move into this place. I found purpose again, and it all seemed worth it."
I stood there, silent and unmoving, unsure of how to comfort her. It had been a long time since I had connected with someone on such an emotional level, especially someone I found myself drawn to.
"Why are you crying?" I finally managed to ask, my voice soft with concern.
Isabella blinked back her tears and looked up at me. "It's just that I like my current job too much. I've worked so hard for it and I deserved it. I have so much to prove..." Her voice breaks again and this time a drop of tears falls on her lips.
I looked at her lips and felt my mouth was too dry. I didn't know what to do.
"The coffee." I blurted out like a child. Fuck! I feel so stupid.
Isabella wiped her tears away with both hands. "Sorry, boss," she murmured softly.
The water in the kettle hissed as it boiled, filling the air with steam. Isabella lost in thought, reached for it absentmindedly. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the heavy kettle, its handle warm against her palm. With a glance at the coffee grounds waiting patiently in the filter, she moved to pour the water into the funnel. But in a critical moment, her grip faltered. The scalding water surged out uncontrollably, overflowing the funnel and splashing onto the kitchen counter. Coffee grounds scattered across the tiled floor like spilled ink.
The hot liquid didn't discriminate. It splashed onto Isabella's left hand, causing instant, intense pain. She cried out sharply, reacting to the searing agony.
Reacting quickly, I grabbed the kettle from her trembling hands as she almost dropped it.
“Sorry. Shit! I told you you were too drunk for this. Why do women never listen?” I scolded her as I lifted her. I crossed over the hot liquid on the floor and turned off the stove, then I took her to the living room.
She was weeping intensely when I set her down.
“Let me see," I murmured urgently, concern furrowing my brow.
Without a moment's hesitation, I gently took her injured hand in mine, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. Instinctively, I brought her fingers to my lips, trying to ease the pain. Instead, she moaned.
"Come on," I murmured softly, guiding her towards the bathroom. In the bathroom, I turned on the faucet, adjusting it until the water flowed cool and strong.
I positioned myself behind her, carefully supporting her injured hand under the stream, cradling her in a protective embrace.
Isabella winced as the cool water made contact with her burn, but I held her steady, murmuring soothing words to reassure her. “It's fine. You're fine.”
My heart ached at the sight of her discomfort, wishing I could take away her pain.
"Just breathe," I whispered, my voice low and calming. Her body leaned heavily against my chest, the rush of water still pouring over her scalded hand. I quickly wrapped my arm around her waist, steadying her before she could slide down. In the mirror, her reflection showed a woman under my protection, her posture submissive and trusting.
The cold water brought some relief to her burns, but I could see the pain etched on her face, even with her eyes closed.
I stood behind her, mesmerized by our reflection in the mirror. The perfect master and the perfect submissive.
I knew I should have turned off the faucet by now, but I couldn't tear my gaze away from her. I need her right now.
"Please don't leave," Isabella whispered softly, her plea barely audible. Her grip tightened on my arm. “Please stay, master.”