Hey, my little rays of sunshine 😊🌞 You all have been really quiet lately. I see your votes and reads, but I don't see your cute and funny little comments 😢. So I'm popping in 🤗 to tell you I miss you and remind you to not be shy with me! Don't hesitate to tell me what you think and comment along with the story. I love to hear from you 😘

"Stop taking me for an idiot! I know everything and I won't let this pass!"

Nate hasn't even taken one step in his house that the furious voice of Pamela already welcomes him, and he has to swallow hard the thought of turning around and running away when he hasn't even seen her. With each step heavier and more hesitant, he is walking down the hallway of his home like the death row, probably carrying more guilt than some condemned persons.

"This bitch is dead!"

He freezes at the entrance of the living room, the air knocked out of his lungs, and his heart stopping as the deadly tone of Pamela's voice hits him.

He's just narrowly escaped from the tornadoes, and it's another disaster he has to face as he glimpses the silhouette of his wife, from behind, on the other side of the room by the window, though in his mind, he only sees one woman: Anastasia.

"We've already paid her, so now she has to deliver!"

Pamela turns around, and Nate breathes again when he catches sight of the phone in her hand.

Panic, dread, guilt, protectiveness, anger, and all the emotions that have gone through him at the thought of putting Anastasia's life in danger ease off, making his legs almost give out, and he's holding the door frame when Pamela finally notices his presence, offering him a wide smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

He replies with the same expression, avoiding her gaze as she resumes on the phone,

"I don't care about the tornados. We have a deal. She got the money, so she gives us the products. That's all." Her voice doesn't leave room for arguments or even an answer as she hangs up, and as fast as her tone switches, she's already standing in front of him, wrapping her arms around his torso. 

"Babe, how come you're home so late?" 

Despite the start of his tensed muscles, he kisses quickly her cheek as she looks up at him, and he hopes that her big brown eyes don't notice the awkwardness of this gesture. Actually, it's the whole embrace that feels uneasy, and he's almost frozen in her arms, probably because of her cold attitude over the phone seconds ago, or because of Anastasia's fire that has burned him earlier.

"Yeah, I got stuck because of the tornados." It is the truth in a sense, though the uneven rhythm of his heart wouldn't pass on a lie detector.

"Argh, those damned tornados again!" she groans, her smile disappearing once more.

"What happened?" He takes the opportunity to discreetly divert from the topic of conversation and also from her embrace.

"The decorator didn't deliver us! Apparently, the tornados damaged the decorations, and they don't have any other. But we've already paid them, and there's no way we'll find another decorator in so little time!" She throws her hands up in an exasperated gesture that makes him pull away a little bit more.

Though he still tries to reassure her, being a supportive husband, even if he doesn't have the other qualities required. "The decoration isn't the most important of the Charity Ball. People won't notice." 

"It is! Especially if I want to make a good impression! And I won't let that pass!"

"It isn't really their fault." He shrugs, the simple gesture tensing his muscles more than he's imagined.

"I don't care. They have to deliver us what we've paid them for, and I'll make sure of it!" She casts an icy glance at her phone, making Nate shiver.

Standing in the wide room, she could freeze anything around with just one look, and his sweat is breaking out colder and colder in the back of his neck as he observes her so close. Despite her golden skin and brown eyes, she looks like an ice queen, and the white of her cardigan is only accentuating this impression.

Though the shivers of dread seeking under his skin aren't because of her freezing fury; it is to see her that furious and merciless for something like that. Then, what would happen if she discovered something more serious... like his dangerous secrets? 

He can't even imagine if her wrath was directed towards someone else, someone warm and pure... His blood turns to ice just with that thought.

"I've got already enough work with the changes they made for the Ball!" Pamela sighs, unaware of her husband's preoccupations as she's already looking through her planner; otherwise, maybe she would notice the way he shakes the shivers away. 

"They decided to merge it with the general Charity Awards to encourage the mix of social classes because of the rise of rebel movements, to 'unite people in those insecure times' or something like this." 

"I heard of it. It's a nice idea," he notes genuinely, trying to focus on this positive change rather than freezing what-ifs and dark shadows.

"Surely, but all I know is that it gives me more to organize as the host of the Ball!"

"I'm sure you'll handle everything like always!" He offers her a small smile, his hand lightly stroking her arm, yet both drop quickly at the awkward contact that brings nothing, surprisingly no cold, yet no warmth either. "And I'll let you work in peace. I'm tired, it was a long day."

"Mhm, there are some take-outs in the fridge." She points towards the kitchen, still absorbed in her phone, and he seizes the opportunity to exit the room rapidly.

Though he isn't going to the kitchen; he isn't hungry, or at least, his hunger wouldn't be fulfilled with these leftovers.

He heads in the opposite direction, dragging his heavy and tense muscles to the bedroom, although he doubts he will manage to find sleep. He needs some calm to take in the whirlwinds of today, some silence to clear his deafening thoughts, and some rest after all the hot and cold emotions he's experienced in the last few hours.

He chuckles tiredly at the weather forecast appearing on the hallway's screen. They're announcing scorching hot tomorrow and freezing the days after, though it can still change. Some elderlies would complain about those changes in temperature, but what is bothering him are other temperature problems.

He's been through so much; he lets out a big sigh and plops on his white king-size bed as soon as he enters the bedroom.

Yet he doesn't even get to breathe properly and relax on the comfy mattress that the course of this day is already hitting him like a tornado. 

The memories aren't far actually; they are in each of his nerve-endings flaming and spinning with what has happened in that shelter, even if he still has trouble processing what has occurred – which isn't really new with Anastasia; she is a mystery. He's never come that hard by himself, and without even touching each other, they've shared an intense intimacy.

That blissful, tempting look she's given him afterward will be imprinted forever in every part of him, and the flashbacks are coming back faster and greater, with, of course, an unforgettable steam.

In her darkened doe eyes, he could guess she's wanted more. He's needed more, and he still does. He has known the moment they've taken that path of 'helping each other out' that it would never satisfy his insatiable lust. He has tried by himself; he has tried with Pamela, but nothing feels as good as Anastasia, as her sweet body wrapped around him. 

She is a fire, and he still has this aching burn in him, which he dreads will reduce him to ashes.

He shakes his head as that thought brings a dark smoke, and when he manages to dissipate it, it's a shiver that rolls down his spine with another flashback of today: the moment he's walked home and has got frozen with fear.

So many flashbacks spinning through his head, so many different sensations invading his body, it feels like he is running a high fever. The symptoms are really similar: hot and cold sweat, shivers, and dizzying thoughts, but he isn't sure there's a cure, so he decides that there's only one thing to do, standing up and walking out of the room again.

A shower will do him good, though he doesn't know if he needs it cold or warm.

Finally, he's opted for a tepid shower, which has done nothing to warm his cold worries and guilt, and neither it has cooled down his burning lust.

He walks back to his bed with his muscles as heavy, as burning, and as shivering, and he even stumbles upon his backpack as his thoughts are wandering too far. He doesn't remember leaving it here when he's arrived, yet he's had other preoccupations then; he still has them. So the bag appears like a great distraction, and the only one he can find, to occupy his restless mind and body as he starts to unpack it.

However, his distraction and his hand are stopped when he pulls out his blue sweater, still slightly wet, and still impregnated with Anastasia's perfume. Before he can fight it, his hands are bringing the pleasant fabric to his face, and he inhales it slowly, letting it invade him from his nose to his lungs, and then his veins and his mind.

He knows very well he looks like an addict, but her scent is like a drug. He can smell her usual fruity fragrance mixed with the smell of fresh rain, and the last remainings of his own perfume mingled with the sweetness of her most intimate scent. This strange combination feels heavenly, enveloping him in a dazed cloud and shutting down his torments, definitely like a drug.

He's already back in that shelter with all the forbidden memories when his phone vibrates and sobers him up too fast to the bland reality.

'Anastasia', just reading the name on his phone intoxicates his mind again, and his fingers are slightly shaking as he opens the text.

'Hey, I hope you got home safely.

Thank you once again for driving me'

This is as effective as her scent because a smile stretches instantly his lips, and a dizzying lightness is invading. As for his previous preoccupations, he can't remember them as he's picturing her biting her lip, her soft eyes shining with gratefulness, like she always looks at him when she thanks him, nearly embarrassed to bother. 

He shakes his head, keeping a wide grin glued to his lips, and once more, not caring because he is alone.

'Yes, I got home safely. Thanks.

And once again, you're welcome :) Stop telling me thank you!'

He should be the one saying 'thank you' or 'sorry'; he doesn't know, after what has happened. But thinking back about this uncanny and unique, out-of-this-world and out-of-time moment, his many worries are quickly coming back to haunt him again with a new salvo of shivers, and it's surely the only thing that can explain why his fingers are rushing to type again.

'I hope we're still friends after what happened?'

He freezes his fingers on the 'send' button, but it's too late, and his wide eyes might burn the screen staring at the 'sent' next to his text, unless it's his brain that will combust, as there's no reply.

"You're being ridiculous!" he mutters to himself, putting the phone on his nightstand and lying down with a great effort on his tensed muscles.

He's in his marriage bed, and his thoughts are haunted by another woman, wondering about a line of 'friendship' that they've crossed too many times. 

He is too well aware that he's already wandering off limits right now, and he tries to go back to the boundaries, running his gaze back and forth between the four corners of the wide and tidy room, from up to down, in a frantic search for something to catch himself and his thoughts. But neither the white walls, the shiny, angular furniture, nor the large perfect picture of a majestically white-dressed Pamela and slightly younger himself in tuxedo – both smiling flawlessly at the camera – manage to distract him from the simple black screen of his phone or the blue of his sweater standing out in the white and silver room.

He could close his eyes, yet he fears it might be worse. Besides, he wouldn't see the screen lighting up, and when it does, he almost jumps on his phone, almost forgetting the limitations. 

'Yes, of course. We agreed to forget, remember?'

His heart really does leap upon those few words, and with the jump, all the weights on his chest are annihilated, his ribcage opening to leave room to a sweet warmth, not too hot, just perfectly cozy like a nice sunny day or a home's fireplace. It's Anastasia and her fire appearing like a ray of sunshine. From her luminous hazel eyes, to her golden hair, and to her dazzling smile, everything about her is light and warmth, and she always manages to illuminate the darkest parts of him.

'That's an interesting way to put it into words?! But yes, I don't forget to not remember :)'

He grins at his phone, letting his mind wander and imagine her for a moment... maybe she is working at her desk; maybe she is in her bed too. He hopes she is alone. 

He hopes he can make her smile, maybe even laugh, as the crystalline sound is still echoing in his ears. Every little detail about her, every little moment with her is still inked in his memory; either he wants it or not. 

He knows he's just lied to her, yet he doesn't want her to avoid him like she has these past days. He doesn't want to lose her as a friend; he doesn't want to lose her, even if he's never had her. 

Just at this thought, he shivers again, remembering the fear that has invaded him a few minutes ago, but also in his car, when he's seen the warning messages about the tornados, how he's been terrorized to put her in danger, and how he can put her in danger in so many ways.

So what do you think of these little text messages? 😉

And Pamela, how do you think she would react if she ever finds out? She might not be so sweet after all!

Let me know what you think in the comments! I LOVE to hear you!! 😁 And vote if you like the story so far ❤