Chapter 8 Unexpected Kiss From Mr. Tattoo!
KARA’S POV
Silence lingers between the two of us. Only the soft crash of the waves and the cold wind fill the space that suddenly feels too tight. I do not know how many seconds or minutes pass, but he is the first to speak again.
“Everything changed after my dad died,” he says quietly, still not looking at me.
Something tugs painfully at my chest.
I listen in silence as he slowly tells me the things he has clearly been keeping inside for a long time. About their company, how he forces himself to take it on even when he is not ready, how he has to be strong every single day, even though he feels like he is slowly running out. He tells me how everything turns into business, how his life becomes nothing but numbers, contracts, and responsibilities after losing the person who matters most to him.
“My mom,” he adds, shaking his head slightly. “She married him… not even three months after my dad died.”
That is when I feel the weight of every word coming from his mouth.
“I tried to understand,” he continues, bitterness lacing his voice. “I really did. I told myself she was lonely. That she needed someone. But seeing them tonight…” He pauses, then exhales softly. “It felt like my dad was erased. Like he never mattered.”
I do not realize that my hands have already clenched into fists.
I do not know why he is telling me all of this. I do not know why he chooses me to open wounds that are clearly not healed yet. We are not even that close. He is my boss. And it should not go beyond that. Yet here we are, two people on a dark beach sharing things that are not easily entrusted.
I step a little closer, just enough for him to feel that he is not alone.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, almost a whisper. “That must have been really hard for you.”
He smiles faintly, but I can tell it is forced.
“Funny,” he says. “I don’t usually talk about this. To anyone.”
I think of the alcohol he drank earlier. Maybe that is what frees the words he has kept locked away for so long. Maybe that is why he feels more real now. It is more exposed and more human.
“And yet,” he adds as he finally looks at me, “here I am… telling you everything.”
Our eyes meet.
And in that moment, something strange forms between us—not as boss and employee, not as a tattooed man and a well-dressed woman, but as two people carrying wounds no one can see. I do not speak, because sometimes, listening is the only form of understanding a broken person needs. I do not realize how long we have been standing there when he suddenly pulls me.
“Wait—” is all I manage to say before I am lifted from the sand. I almost lose my balance if he does not tighten his grip on my hand.
I stare at him, at eyes that are full of sadness just moments ago but now carry a strange glimmer, yet are dangerous.
“Let’s go somewhere else?” he asks gently, his tone almost pleading.
I do not know why, but at that moment, an unfamiliar unease settles in my chest. It is not fear. Not quite excitement either. It is a feeling that tells me that if I follow him, something will change.
“Somewhere else?” I repeat, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Where exactly?”
He smiles, a smile I cannot read. “You’ll see.”
And before I can protest, he pulls me toward the car again. It is too late when I realize that I am letting myself be carried away once more. The moment I get inside, he starts the engine.
No questions…
No hesitation…
Within minutes, the silence is replaced by music from the radio. A livelier and more alive. Then I hear laughter, lights… so many lights.
“Wait… is this—” I do not finish my sentence when we stop in a place packed with people.
It’s a beach party!
People dance on the sand, bottles in their hands, lights hanging everywhere, and the music is loud, vibrant, alive.
“Sir, I don’t think—” but once again, he pulls me out of the car.
“Relax,” he says, smiling like he is a completely different person. “Just for tonight.”
He drags me into the crowd. Many are clearly drunk. Some shouting, some dancing like there is no tomorrow. And despite all the noise, I notice that I am smiling. Not forced, but it's real especially when I catch him staring at me, something like joy shining in his eyes.
“Why are you smiling like that?” I ask, pretending to be annoyed.
“Because you look like you’re finally breathing,” he replies.
Before I can respond, a waiter passes by and hands each of us a shot glass.
“For you,” the waiter says before leaving.
I look at the glass in my hand, then at him. “Seriously?”
He smirks. “Just one.”
I shake my head, but we drink together anyway, and in an instant, everything feels lighter.
Time passes without me noticing. Laughter here, dancing there. I forget who he is in my life. I forget who I am supposed to be. Until the music slowly changes. It becomes softer, slower, more intimate. He steps closer, just enough for me to feel the warmth of his body.
“Dance with me,” he whispers.
I want to refuse, but I cannot.
He places his hands on my waist, gentle but certain. As if his touch is telling me I am safe, even when I know what I am feeling is dangerous.
“Sir—” I murmur, but I do not get to finish.
Because in that moment, his warm and soft lips press against mine.
A kiss that does not rush…
A kiss that feels like a question…
And with my heart pounding wildly, I know I am already answering something I am not yet brave enough to say out loud.