Days after their stolen escape blurred into a dream they never dared speak about. Time no longer lived in hours or routines. It lived in stolen glances, accidental touches, and the quiet ache that pulsed whenever they were apart.
They met almost every day, though neither of them planned it out loud. Sometimes at the music class where he taught, where he lingered longer than necessary pretending to "help" with something. Sometimes at the coffee shop tucked behind the music class where he sat across from her, too close, too aware. Their worlds never collided openly, yet fate kept stitching them together in the shadows.
They never crossed into each other's personal lives.
No "Where were you?"
No " What where you doing?"
Only the aching of " What took you so long?"
Both carried aches they never named, endured in silence.
He still made his nightly call to his girlfriend, that ritual carved into his life long before she ever entered it. And she never tried to disturb that world. She never wanted a place that wasn't hers to claim. She knew the danger of what they were doing. If the truth ever surfaced, it wouldn't just hurt; it would break an innocent heart that trusted him blindly.
Yet neither of them stopped.
They couldn't.
This wasn't lust. Not a mistake born out of frustration or loneliness.
It was something deeper... an emotional tether that formed the moment their wounds recognized each other.
He loved his girlfriend openly. Undeniably.
His loyalty was carved into him like bone.
The life he built with her was steady, earned, almost sacred.
When he was with his girlfriend, he didn't think of the other woman; not because she didn't matter, but because he never let his worlds touch.
But then there was her: the storm he never expected, the fire he never tamed.
She entered his soul like music breaking through a locked room.
No warning.
No permission.
Just a sudden, devastating truth.
She wasn't part of his life's blueprint, but she became the one thing he couldn't control.
When he was with her, she filled every corner of his mind, every breath, every heartbeat until his restraint felt like a flimsy curtain trying to hold back a wildfire.
After that day, they built a new ritual: silent, nightly video calls.
They didn't talk. They didn't need words.
Sometimes they just stared; two souls caught between longing and impossibility.
He would fall asleep with her face still glowing on his screen, as if she was the only remedy to the storm inside him.
She only ever asked for one thing:
For those few stolen minutes, he belonged only to her.
Not his future. Not his loyalty. Just his focus. His eyes. His breath. His presence.
And every night, he gave it.
Devoted. Intense. Quietly sinful.
She loved how his gaze softened when he saw her, how his smile held a thousand unspoken confessions. Those calls were more intimate than touch.... stripping them bare in a way the world could never understand.
Some nights, the silence turned electric.
She'd let her hair fall loose over her shoulder; he'd watch with a hunger he never admitted.
She'd notice the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his fingers rubbed the back of his neck, the faint marks she'd left on his skin still visible.
Their breaths deepened.
Their eyes darkened.
Desire smoldered; restrained but unmistakable.
A hunger that could burn through a screen.
And then one night… everything cracked.
Mid-call, when their silence was warm and dangerous, another name flashed on his screen.
His girlfriend.
He froze for a fraction of a second; helplessness flickering across his face.
He had to go.
She nodded softly. She understood.
But understanding didn't soften the blow.
When the screen went black, it felt like a blade slicing through her chest.
No tears came. She didn't need them.
The pain was raw, silent, physical... like her heart forgot how to beat.
She lay back, the phone pressed to her chest as though it could steady her breathing.
But it didn't.
The ache only sharpened.
And him?
He answered the other call, voice steady, smile practiced.
But his mind was still trapped in the last frame of her face; flushed, wounded, and trying so hard not to look abandoned.
To the world, they were separate lives.
Separate stories.
Separate loyalties.
But they knew the truth.
They were bound; by desire, by wounds, by longing, by a forbidden fire that hurt as much as it healed.
And even in their separate nights, even in the heartbreak, the flame only burned hotter... waiting for the next stolen hour, the next reckless glance, the next moment that could ruin or save them.