They no longer need to speak. No reason is needed anymore.
Andi's lips were slightly parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly as Alonzo gently laid her down on the couch. Her cardigan slipped from her shoulders, revealing smooth skin that glowed under the dim rooftop lights.
Alonzo hovered above her, breathing her in, as if she were something sacred. "Tell me if I go too far."
"You're not going anywhere," Andi whispered, her fingers trailing under his shirt, tugging it up.
He smiled before pulling it over his head.
Andi paused. She glanced at the body in front of her. Lean, warm, strong. But what made her bite her lower lip wasn't the abs—it was the way Alonzo looked at her. Like she wasn't just a body. Like she was his person.
He dipped back down, kissing her jaw, then her neck. His kisses slowly moved downward as he slid Andi's dress straps off her shoulders. Every inch of skin he kissed seemed to make sure Andi felt his care and warmth.
She arched her back as he brushed his lips over the swell of her chest, her breath hitching.
"This feels… so good… having nothing to hide," Andi murmured between moans.
Alonzo met her eyes. "No filters here. Every part of you is mine now. Every bit of your exhaustion, I'll take away too."
He pulled her dress down further, revealing matching black lace underneath. She gasped as his hands explored her thighs, firm but gentle.
No more restraint.
They tangled together, skin on skin, mouths meeting again and again—hungry now, needy. Alonzo's hand cupped her over the fabric, and she whimpered, pressing into him.
"Alonzo—" she breathed out his name like a prayer.
He kissed her again, deeper. "I got you, baby. Let go."
And she did.
Clothes fell, breaths quickened, moans echoed softly in the quiet rooftop air. Every touch was a promise. Every gasp, a surrender. Every thrust of their hips, a declaration of want—not just physically, but emotionally.
She cried again—not out of sadness this time, but from the feeling of finally being seen, being held, being hers.
And when it was over, Alonzo didn't speak right away. He just held her close, her head resting on his chest, the city lights flickering below them.
She was bare. But not broken.
And for the first time in a long time… she wasn't alone.
---
The house was utterly silent. Nothing could be heard except the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock in the kitchen. Gesly sat on the sofa, with no lights on, only the flicker of a cigarette in the darkness. The glow reflected in his eyes—a pulse of life he could not feel.
He drew in a breath, then slowly let it out. Cold. Heavy. Tasteless.
Am I really alive? He didn't know.
He stood, grabbed his jacket, and left the house without a word. When the door shut, it felt like he was the last person left in the world.
Early morning. The air outside carried smoke and the salty sweat of the city. He just observed as he walked—closed stores, clinking bottles, distant drunken shouts. The streetlights flickered, like ghosts dancing.
Gesly had nowhere to go. But he couldn't stop either. Because if he stopped, he would hear that sound in his head again—like drums, like thunder, like an endless scream.
Two men at a corner. Fighting. Loud voices. One holding a helmet, the other shoving hard.
"Don't push me, you fucker!"
A slap. A puff of cheap air.
Gesly didn't know why he approached. He hadn't planned it. But suddenly a voice in his head—low, cold: Try to stop them.
"Hey," he said, calm but heavy. "That's enough."
One turned to look, laughing. "What, are you some kind of hero?" And before he could answer, a fist flew.
It landed. He responded.
Fast. Unplanned. He heard the sound of skin hitting skin, the weight of air after the punch. Smell of rust, smell of blood, smell of night.
Only seconds. It was over.
The two men retreated. One last glance at Gesly, then they walked away—vanishing into the darkness. Silence returned.
He was left standing in the middle of the street, panting, hands cold. He looked at his fist—there was blood. A little. He didn't know if it was his or theirs.
He wasn't scared. Nor was he thrilled. But… for the first time, his mind was quiet.
He took a deep breath. So this is what it feels like to be alive.
A soft laugh escaped his mouth—forced, small, but real.
He was heading home. The streetlights seemed to sink into the clouds of his own mind. Each step heavy yet light. It felt like something wanted to leave his chest—not anger, not pain, but like air long trapped.
At the gate, he looked up. Light on the rooftop. Warm color. He didn't go up. He didn't even peek.
He closed his eyes, listening to himself. Silence. Just right.
"I'm okay," he whispered. Even though he knew it was a lie.
He opened the door, and as always—Gesly disappeared again into the darkness of his own home.
---
The sun was high when Andi remembered while sorting papers at the dining table—
"Wait… it's Bella's birthday next week!"
She paused, smiled. Amid all the problems, stress, and responsibilities, she had almost forgotten simple things like this.
She ran to Bella's room, shouting, "Bells! What do you want to do for your birthday?"
Bella peeked from the bed, hair tied, holding a stuffed toy. "At home, Ate. I don't want to go out. And… cute flowers theme!" she winked, still dreaming of a fairy garden.
Andi laughed. "Cute flowers, huh? Okay, I'll handle decorations, food, and cake. You invite everyone you want."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
And as always, Andi kept her word. She immediately ordered food online—lechon, spaghetti, chicken, pastel-colored cupcakes. Then she had a customized cake made with daisies and pink roses. She didn't forget the invitation letters—each had a small pressed flower in the envelope.
Then she called Bella and Gesly to the living room.
"Bells, Ges," Andi said, handing the envelopes, "give these to your classmates. It's more fun when there are more, right? Tell your adviser too so it's organized." She looked at Gesly, "Even your whole class, invite them. It's okay."
The siblings exchanged glances. Bella immediately smiled. Gesly stayed quiet but nodded slightly.
Excited.
That was all Bella could feel all day.
The next day at school, she approached their adviser holding the small basket of invitation letters Andi made. "Ma'am, can we invite everyone to our house? My birthday is next week!"
Her adviser smiled. "Of course, Bella! How many do you expect?"
"All my classmates, Ma'am! Ate said the more, the merrier!"
The adviser immediately helped. She called Bella's classmates, explained there would be a celebration, everyone was welcome.
The classroom suddenly became lively—kids whispering, laughing, asking what to wear, if there would be games, what food there would be.
"Flower theme!" Bella shouted.
"Omggg so cute!" A classmate replied. "Can we wear pink?"
"Yes! Pink, white, or yellow!"
Everyone became energetic. In one day, the whole class was filled with flowers—drawing daisies in notebooks, searching for floral dresses. And in the middle of the excitement, Bella smiled. Finally, her classmates would see their "new house."
She didn't know how to feel—proud, or embarrassed? But she knew Ate Andi would be happy if she was happy. And that was all that mattered.
Meanwhile, Gesly had a different experience.
Entering the classroom, his male classmates immediately greeted him.
"Bro! Is the rumor true?"
"Is it true your house is like a mansion?"
"Can we go? Bro, it's like a haunted house, with chandeliers and old paintings!"
Gesly just smiled, leaning against the chair. "Haunted house already? You guys are ridiculous. It's not that old," he said, glancing at the window.
But deep down, he knew there was truth in their joke—the house hadn't been updated since the 1800s. Thick walls, visibly aged wood.
"But seriously, bro," one said. "It's so rare to see a house like that. Spanish-era vibe."
"Yeah," another added, "I want to take pictures there! Maybe there are antique spirits!"
Gesly shook his head but couldn't hide a slight smile. "Fine. You can come. But don't blame me if a ghost hugs you while eating spaghetti."
They laughed. And for the first time in a long time—Gesly laughed too. Real laughter. Not forced.