The next day, she was in Chase’s living room again, the low amber light making the place feel warm, almost conspiratorial. The faint scent of sandalwood clung to the air, mixing with the quiet hum of whatever instrumental track he’d put on in the background.
She sat cross-legged on the couch, hands curled around the mug of tea he’d made for her, while he lounged in the armchair opposite, one knee draped lazily over the other.
“So,” he began, his tone smooth and coaxing, “tell me… how did it feel?”
Valeria’s lips curved into a faint, almost guilty smile. “Better than I expected. I thought I’d feel… bad, maybe. But it was…” she trailed off, searching. “…thrilling.”
“Thrilling how?” His voice dipped lower, deliberate, like he was inviting her to confess something intimate.
She leaned back, eyes half-lidded as she remembered. “At the store… there were these girls, listening. When I made the joke about him looking like some loser dad? They laughed. It was—” She hesitated, swallowing. “…it was like a rush. Like I’d just taken something from him and everyone could see it.”
Chase’s mouth curled into the faintest smirk. “And did he fight back?”
“No. He just… shut down. Got quiet. I could feel it.” Her tone warmed, almost proud.
“Good,” Chase said, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s the point, Val. The silence means you hit him where it hurts. It means you’ve found the cracks.”
She didn’t even notice the way he called her Val instead of Valeria now—it felt right.
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