Isabella's POV:-
She thought she was drowning. But maybe she was finally waking up.
The bed was cold when Isabella woke.
Isabella blinked slowly. No warmth beside her. No trace of Richard. Just cool sheets and that strange heaviness in her limbs. Her body felt stiff, her head foggy, like she'd been dreaming too hard.
Something lingered. A strange memory clung to her—soft and unclear. Lips brushing her forehead. A warm mouth brushing her breast. Gentle, almost tender.
But there'd been no weight. No voice. No hands pulling her close.
It couldn't have been real. A dream, maybe. Probably.
Richard never touched her like that anymore. Not since… that one night, long ago. Drunk. Awkward. Unspoken since.
She sat up slowly and felt the blanket slip off her shoulder.
She looked down.
No towel. No bra. No panties.
Her entire body was naked.
The blanket barely covered her now. The towel must have slipped off while she slept, left twisted somewhere at the edge of the bed. The cool morning air slid over her skin like a whisper—especially between her legs. Her thighs clenched instinctively, and heat rushed up her neck.
What the hell was I hoping for?
Embarrassment crept into her chest.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her and swallowed down the heat in her cheeks. It wasn't just about a missing towel. It was what she wanted to feel that scared her most.
She wrapped herself in her robe and opened the door.
Locked.
Her breath caught—just for a second—before she spotted the note on the table.
Then she saw the note he'd left on the counter. She called out to the housekeeper for coffee, and moments later, the woman appeared with a soft smile and a warm cup in her hands.
"Mr. Winchester left early," she said politely. "Something about the airport and some case files."
Of course he did.
Isabella nodded, accepted the mug, and sipped.
It was bitter. Burnt. Lifeless.
Just like everything else in this house.
She stared into the dark surface of her coffee and whispered to herself,
When did we stop trying? When did we stop being anything?
And then—quieter, more dangerous—
If that dream had been real… would I have wanted more?
Or have I just been waiting… for someone else entirely?
She got ready. With nothing to do at home, she left for school early. Too early.
The sun was still soft and low. The front gate was a half mile away, and the security guard didn't even look up as she passed.
She wandered the outdoor corridor, arms crossed, the breeze brushing lightly against her bare legs. No students. No noise. Just the quiet hum of her own thoughts.
Then she heard it.
A splash.
She turned toward the pool.
One figure. One swimmer.
One figure moved through the water—clean strokes, strong and sure. Broad shoulders breaking the surface like they were born to.
She stopped. Watched.
Ten seconds.
He didn't come up.
Twenty.
Still nothing.
Thirty. Fifty.
Her chest tightened.
Shit—he's not surfacing.
She kicked off her flats and dove in without thinking.
The cold hit her like a slap. She gasped, pushed forward, eyes wide and searching.
There he was—just beneath the surface. Eyes closed. Still.
She reached him, grabbed his face, and leaned in, lips brushing his, ready to give him air, heart pounding, panic rising. She cupped his face and leaned in, lips to his, breath ready to fill his lungs—
—
And suddenly, his arms snapped around her. Pulled her in.
His arms snapped around her waist. His lips crashed into hers—hard, hungry, wet. Their mouths crashed. Wet, open, real.
A kiss.
It wasn't a rescue. It wasn't panic.
Just Evan.
It was hot and real and wrong.
Her mouth opened on instinct. Her body gave in for a second. Maybe two.
Then she shoved him hard. Came to the surface and shouted—
"What the hell was that?" she gasped, her voice echoing across tile and water.
He smiled. Calm. Confident. Soaking wet and full of danger.
"I just continued what you started," he said.
"I thought you were drowning," she snapped.
"I thought you wanted it."
Her body betrayed her. It wasn't the cold that made her tremble. It was heat. Everywhere.
She climbed out of the pool, soaked and furious, her clothes clinging to her skin in all the worst ways.
No backup outfit. No spare anything.
He handed her his gym bag.
"I have gym stuff in my bag," he said. "You can wear it. I'll dry your clothes in the locker room."
"I'll just go home—" Isabella said.
"It's raining," he said, nodding toward the grey sky. "You won't make it in time."
She sighed, teeth clenched. She agreed and started removing her clothes. Evan was standing behind the door.
"Turn around," she said. "No peeking."
"I'm not that kind of guy," he said with a grin—and turned his back.
She peeled her wet blouse off slowly, her soaked bra clinging to her breasts. Each layer made her more aware—of the way her nipples brushed the cold air, of the weight of her own want.
She dressed in his T-shirt and shorts. They hung off her, soft and warm and scented like him.
She hated how much she liked it.
He walked into the room. She followed him. Both started drying the clothes using the hand dryer.
It took around an hour—mostly dry.
"I know you're hungry," Evan said.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"You know it already."
He gave her the dress and waited outside. She changed back to her clothes and said,
"I'll wash your clothes and give them back tomorrow."
He leaned in, his voice low.
"No need," he said. "I want your scent in them." He took them and smelled them in front of her.
Her throat tightened.
She didn't reply. Just grabbed the bundle and walked away. A small smile of lust on her face.
Third period.
He came in late. Again.
Swim bag. Wet curls. That look in his eyes like he knew exactly what she thought of when she touched herself.
He dropped a slip on her desk.
"Miss me?" he whispered.
She didn't answer.
"Take your seat, Mr. Hartley."
He obeyed.
Slowly.
She turned to the board and wrote something. Anything. But her mind wasn't in it.
She could feel him watching her.
Tracing the curve of her waist.
The dip of her spine.
The inch of skin between her skirt and blouse.
She hated it.
But she needed it.
After school.
She stayed late to organize the assignments. Alone. Or so she thought.
She didn't hear him enter.
She just felt him.
His chest behind her back. His breath near her ear.
"You forgot this," he said, handing her a paper. His fingers brushed her wrist—slow. Sure.
His chest brushed her back. His hand reached past her, grabbing a textbook from the shelf.
She didn't pull away.
Then his arms were around her. His lips brushed her neck.
She should've stopped him.
She didn't.
She didn't move. Couldn't. Her hands frozen on the books. Her pulse pounding behind her ribs.
Her head tilted back. Her pulse jumped.
Her eyes fluttered closed. Her body leaned back against his without meaning to.
"I know you're lonely," he murmured. "Just like me."
She replied, "Hmm," lost in deep emotional thoughts.
The intercom buzzed.
She came to her senses and pushed him away, took the call.
A name. A room number. A reason to run.
She spun around, breath hitched.
"This isn't right," she said. "Stay in your limits."
She clutched the paper to her chest and walked out. Fast.
But before she turned the corner, she saw his face.
His eyes didn't chase her.
They warned her.
Next time, they said.
You won't run.
That night, she didn't even pretend.
She locked the bathroom door.
Turned on the shower—not to clean—but to drown the sounds.
Steam filled the room. The walls blurred.
She leaned back against the tiles. Closed her eyes.
She imagined his hands. His lips. His mouth where her fingers were now.
She slid them between her thighs.
Her breath broke.
She moved slow. Deep. Right where she needed him.
Her body arched.
Her skin burned.
She moaned—raw, desperate.
And when she came, falling apart under the rush of heat and guilt…
It wasn't Richard's name that echoed in the steam.
It was Evan's.