Morning Warmth
Anton's POV
The morning light broke through the sheer curtains, spilling golden streaks across the hotel room. For a moment, I just lay there, listening to the sound of Krystel's quiet breathing. She had fallen asleep beside me the night before after we'd spent hours talking about regrets—hers spoken in fragments, mine poured out in raw truths.
Her hand rested loosely on my arm, as though it had always belonged there. I hadn't realized how natural it would feel to wake up next to someone, even in a situation designed to be temporary.
I forced myself to shift, but she stirred, her lashes fluttering open.
"Good morning," she whispered, her voice rough with sleep.
I nodded. "Morning. Did you... sleep well?"
A smile tugged at her lips, faint but genuine. "For the first time in a long while."
Her words lingered, like a small confession she didn't mean to give away.
Krystel's POV
Anton looked so different in the morning. His sharp, controlled presence had softened; his hair was unruly, his gaze unguarded.
I caught myself staring longer than I should. "You're not a morning person, are you?" I teased.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "I prefer silence. But I'll make an exception."
It was strange—this pact of ours. We had agreed to pretend to be lovers, to create the illusion of years of intimacy in just seven days. But lying here beside him, with our words weaving into something deeper, it felt almost too real.
I sat up, brushing my hair aside. "Coffee?"
"Only if you make it," he replied, a shadow of a grin forming.
And just like that, the morning felt less like a game and more like a beginning.
The First Kiss
Krystel's POV
The café we chose was nothing special—just a small corner place near the park, with mismatched chairs and an old espresso machine that wheezed louder than the customers' conversations. But with Anton sitting across from me, stirring his coffee absentmindedly, it felt like the center of the universe.
His eyes weren't on me at first. He was watching the window, his thoughts distant. I found myself studying the curve of his jaw, the way the morning light traced his features. He looked so composed, but something about his silence carried weight.
"You're thinking too much," I said softly.
He blinked, caught. "I do that often."
"Maybe you should try... not thinking," I teased, leaning closer. "Just feel."
The words slipped out before I realized how intimate they sounded. His gaze shifted to me, steady and intense, and suddenly the air between us thickened.
Anton's POV
Feel. As if it were that easy. I'd spent years burying myself in control, in logic, in building walls so high no one could climb them. Yet here she was—this woman I'd only known for four days—telling me to just feel.
And somehow, I wanted to obey.
Her lips curved in a half-smile, unaware of the storm she was stirring in me. My hand moved almost on its own, reaching across the small table to brush against hers. Her breath caught, and that tiny sound was enough to unravel my restraint.
"Krystel..." I whispered her name, as if testing how fragile it might be in my mouth.
She tilted her head, her eyes wide but unafraid. "Anton?"
It happened then—sudden but inevitable. I leaned in, closing the space, and pressed my lips to hers.
Krystel's POV
The world outside vanished. The clatter of cups, the hum of voices, the hiss of the espresso machine—everything blurred into silence. His kiss wasn't rushed or forceful; it was tentative, almost reverent, as though he feared I might disappear if he held me too tightly.
And for the first time in so long, I didn't feel like running.
I kissed him back, my hand rising to rest against his cheek. His skin was warm, his breath shaky, and when he finally pulled back, his eyes searched mine as though he needed an answer.
I smiled faintly. "See? Not so hard to feel."
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Simeon's Warning
Anton's POV
By evening, the rush of the day had dulled into something quieter. I was walking back from the café, Krystel's laughter still echoing in my mind, when my phone buzzed. The name on the screen made my chest tighten.
Simeon Valeros.
I hesitated before answering. "Sir."
His voice came steady, almost too calm. "You've been distracted."
The words slid straight through me like a blade. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't insult my intelligence." His tone sharpened. "I've seen it in the way you carry yourself these past days. You're slipping, Anton. You're letting someone in."
I clenched my jaw, scanning the darkened street. "It's harmless."
"There's no such thing," Simeon cut in. "Not for men like us. You know what's at stake. All it takes is one emotional entanglement to ruin everything you've worked for—everything I've guided you toward."
I stayed silent, but his words drummed against my chest.
"Feelings," Simeon went on, almost spitting the word, "are luxuries. And luxuries destroy men before they even realize it. Don't let her be the crack that splits you open."
My grip on the phone tightened. I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he was wrong—that Krystel wasn't just anyone, that she was light in a life I had long kept in shadows. But Simeon had built me from the ground up, shaped my discipline, my drive. His voice carried weight I couldn't dismiss.
"Do I make myself clear, Anton?"
I exhaled slowly. "Yes, sir."
"Good." He paused. "Then keep it that way."
The line went dead, but the heaviness lingered.
Anton's Thoughts
For the first time, I felt the pull of two worlds: one carved from ambition, duty, and silence—Simeon's world. The other, fragile but intoxicating, where Krystel existed.
And I wasn't sure which one I was ready to lose.
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Ink on Paper
Krystel's POV
The night felt too full—of words unsaid, of glances that lingered longer than they should. I couldn't sleep. Instead, I sat by the small desk in the hotel room, a lamp throwing soft yellow light across blank pages.
My journal lay open. The leather cover was worn, edges fraying, but it had been my companion for years—my silent witness. I picked up my pen, twirling it between my fingers before the first stroke bled onto paper.
Day Four.
The words looked harmless, but my chest tightened. I paused, thinking of Anton.
He's different. Not in the obvious ways, not in the things people notice at first glance. His difference hides beneath the silence, in the way he measures his words, in how his eyes search for meaning without ever asking out loud.
I bit my lip, writing faster.
Today, he laughed. I don't think he realized it, but I did. A real laugh, not the polite one he wears like a shield. It startled me, warmed me. Made me want to hear it again.
The ink smudged where my hand trembled.
I shouldn't be thinking like this. Seven days, that's the deal. Seven days and we return to strangers. But something tells me Anton doesn't live by chance—he lives by control. If I'm not careful, I'll want to know what lies beneath it. And if he lets me in...
I stopped. The pen hovered, almost unwilling to write the next words. Finally, they fell, sharp and soft at once:
It could ruin us both.
I closed the journal with a snap, pressing my palm against the cover as if it could hold back the rush of feelings threatening to escape.
And for the first time, I wondered—not about how this would end, but if I was ready to face what ending would even mean.
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The Weight of Silence
Anton's POV
The walls of the room were too thin. I could hear the faint scratch of her pen against paper, rhythmic and steady, like the sound of a secret being sealed away.
I should have been asleep. God knows I needed the rest. But my mind was caught in the aftershocks of earlier—her lips against mine, the way she didn't pull away at first, the small sharp intake of breath that betrayed surprise, and maybe... something else.
I turned onto my side, facing the faint glow spilling from her desk lamp. Krystel was hunched over her journal, shoulders curved inward as if she were protecting whatever words she was putting down.
It struck me how beautiful she looked in that quiet—hair falling loosely around her face, lashes casting shadows against her cheeks. Not the kind of beauty you see in photographs or fleeting glances, but the kind you witness when someone forgets they're being watched.
I wanted to ask her what she was writing. Wanted to cross the small distance between us and see for myself. But something stopped me. Maybe respect, maybe fear. Maybe because some truths aren't meant to be forced into the light.
Instead, I whispered into the quiet, testing her name like a fragile thread.
"Krystel."
Her pen stilled, but she didn't turn. "Mm?"
I hesitated, then shook my head, forcing a faint smile she couldn't see. "Nothing. Just... good night."
"Good night, Anton," she replied softly. There was a tremor there, almost imperceptible.
She closed her journal, sliding it into her bag. The sound of the zipper was final, like a door shutting between us.
I lay back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. The silence that followed wasn't heavy, but it wasn't empty either. It was the kind that carried weight, like a secret balanced carefully on the edge of revelation.
And for the first time, I wondered if seven days would be enough.
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Almost Side by Side
Anton's POV
The quiet stretched, broken only by the soft hum of the ceiling fan. I shifted beneath the blanket, convincing myself to shut my eyes, but I couldn't. The memory of her voice, the faint tremor in it, wouldn't let me go.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Then I felt the mattress dip, just slightly, as Krystel lay down.
She didn't curl into the farthest edge like I expected. Instead, the space between us was narrow, a fragile strip of cool air that seemed to burn hotter than fire.
I tried to steady my breathing, counting the seconds. One, two, three...
But then I felt it—her shoulder brushing mine, the barest graze, like a whisper across skin. I froze. So did she. Neither of us moved away.
My pulse hammered, betraying me. I could smell her shampoo, faintly citrus with something floral underneath. The kind of scent you notice once and then carry with you, unable to forget.
She let out a tiny sigh, softer than a secret, and shifted just enough that her hand nearly rested against mine. Not touching—almost.
Almost.
It was torture and comfort at once.
I could have moved. I should have. But instead, I let my fingers relax, inches from hers, as if the nearness itself was enough.
Her breathing deepened gradually, evening out into sleep. I lay awake longer, memorizing the rhythm of her chest rising and falling.
By the time exhaustion finally claimed me, I wasn't sure if we had drifted closer in our dreams, or if the space between us had simply disappeared on its own.
But when the first pale light of dawn crept through the curtains, I woke to find us nearly entwined—her head against my shoulder, my hand almost cradling hers.
And for the first time in years, I didn't feel alone.
The Fragile Morning
Krystel's POV
A faint warmth anchored me before I even opened my eyes. For one blissful second, I thought it was a dream—the kind you reach for even as it fades.
But then I felt it. The steady rise and fall beneath my cheek. A shoulder that wasn't mine. The quiet, slow breath of someone asleep beside me.
Anton.
My lashes fluttered open, and there he was. His face, so close, softened by sleep. Without the usual restraint, he looked younger, less guarded. Like the walls he always carried had quietly crumbled in the night.
I should have moved. Should have sat up, laughed it off before he woke. But I didn't.
Instead, I watched.
The way a strand of his hair fell across his forehead. The faint lines near his eyes, as if he'd lived more lives than his age should allow. The unspoken loneliness he wore like a shadow, now momentarily lifted.
And then, the realization hit me—my hand was resting dangerously close to his. A mere twitch and our fingers would lock.
The thought alone made my pulse stumble.
I shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, but his shoulder moved under my cheek. His breath caught.
He was awake.
Our eyes met—startled at first, then lingering. The silence was sharp, but not uncomfortable. Just... fragile.
"Good morning," he murmured, his voice low, still husky with sleep.
I swallowed, suddenly shy. "Morning."
Neither of us moved away. The nearness was reckless, tender, terrifying.
Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. A sharp vibration that snapped the world back into place.
He sat up quickly, almost too quickly, running a hand through his hair. I rolled to the other side, my cheeks burning, pretending to stretch.
But the moment lingered, caught between us like an unfinished confession.
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The Interruption
Anton's POV
The buzz of my phone still rattled through my chest, though the sound had already stopped. For a fleeting heartbeat, I wanted to ignore it. To stay in the warmth of that almost—too-almost—moment beside Krystel.
But I couldn't. Not with him.
The name flashing on the screen made my jaw tighten. Simeon.
I stepped into the hall before answering.
"Sir."
"Anton," his voice carried the weight of command, clipped and heavy. "You sound distracted. Don't tell me you're letting the girl interfere."
A coldness spread inside me. "It's not like that."
"Don't lie to me. I trained you better than that." Simeon's voice sharpened, each word deliberate. "Remember what we agreed upon. Emotional entanglements... they ruin everything. If you lose focus now, you won't just be risking yourself."
I pressed my palm against the wall, trying to steady the pull in my chest. Krystel's laughter from the kitchen reached me faintly—soft, unguarded, like sunlight leaking through a locked window.
It wasn't supposed to matter.
But it did.
"Understood," I forced out, my voice even.
"Good," Simeon replied, though I could almost hear the suspicion. "You have your task. Don't fail it for a woman you barely know."
The line clicked dead, leaving silence heavy as lead.
I stood there for a long moment, torn between duty and the fragile warmth I'd just left behind.
The Journal
Krystel's POV
Anton returned with a look I couldn't read. Guarded, maybe. The openness I'd glimpsed when he woke beside me—gone, shuttered behind something colder.
He said nothing. Just poured himself coffee, his movements precise, careful.
It shouldn't have stung. But it did.
Later, when he wasn't looking, I took my notebook from my bag. A habit I hadn't explained, not even to Princess.
I began to write.
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He's careful with everything. His words, his steps, the way he holds himself—as if one wrong move will shatter the life he's built. But today, for a moment, I saw something else. I saw him breathing like the world wasn't heavy. Like maybe, with me, he could just... exist.
I paused, the pen trembling.
I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe because if I don't, I'll forget that it happened. That he looked at me like I wasn't just another stranger. Like I mattered.
I closed the journal quickly when Anton walked back into the room.
"Everything okay?" I asked lightly, pretending.
He nodded, though his eyes didn't meet mine. "Yeah. Just fine."
But I knew something had changed.
And though I didn't understand it yet, I felt it deep in my chest—today had edged us closer to something dangerous.
Something real.
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The First Slip
Krystel's POV
The afternoon light poured through the windows, painting everything in a sleepy golden haze. Princess had finally dozed off on the couch, leaving just me and Anton at the table.
I fiddled with the notebook in front of me, pretending to jot down something important, when really I was just aware of him. Of the way his arm brushed the back of the chair, of how close his breath felt in the silence.
I looked up, and he was already staring.
Not cold. Not guarded. But caught. Like he hadn't meant to, but couldn't look away.
"You're... staring," I whispered, my throat dry.
He blinked, a quick shake of his head. "Sorry. Didn't mean to."
But neither of us moved.
The silence stretched, trembling. My pulse raced, my body leaning just slightly forward without permission. His hand twitched on the table as if fighting with itself, whether to close the distance or not.
And then it happened.
Not a planned kiss. Not a practiced one. But a slip—his shoulder shifted, I turned my head, and suddenly our mouths brushed. Too light, too quick, almost nothing.
But the jolt it sent through me... it felt like everything.
I gasped softly, pulling back an inch. "Anton..."
His gaze darkened, unreadable but burning. "That was—" He stopped himself, shaking his head again as if trying to push away the weight of it.
But I didn't let him. My hand lifted, fingers brushing the rough line of his jaw, and this time I was the one who leaned in.
No accident. No hesitation.
The kiss deepened, clumsy at first, but growing sure, urgent. His hand came up to cradle the back of my neck, anchoring me, pulling me closer until the air between us was gone.
And for the first time since meeting him, I felt the wall around him break. Just a little. Just enough.
When we finally broke apart, both breathless, he whispered against my lips, almost like a confession, "I shouldn't..."
"Maybe not," I murmured, my forehead resting against his. "But I wanted to."
And he didn't argue.
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and then Add to home screen.