Ep 4: The Week of Change

The Week of Change – Day One

Niel stirred in his bed, brows furrowed as an unfamiliar scent curled through the air—warm, rich, inviting. Something savory. Something… homemade.

He pushed back the silk sheets and rose, instinctively tightening the robe around his waist. As he stepped out of his room and padded down the grand staircase, the scent grew stronger. Eggs, toast, the sweetness of sautéed peppers, and something else… a touch of spice, just like the meals from his childhood.

He paused at the landing, eyes narrowing.

Dacora.

There she was in the open-concept kitchen, wearing an apron over one of her loose house dresses, her hair pulled into a high, slightly messy bun. She was humming softly—something gentle and nostalgic—as she plated breakfast with focused hands.

She looked up at the sound of his footsteps. "Good morning," she said, a little too casually.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, eyes cool. "You're cooking?"

"I promised I’d change, didn’t I?" she said, offering a hesitant smile. "I wanted to start with something simple."

Niel said nothing for a long moment, then walked over and took a seat. She brought over his plate and poured him coffee. As he ate, his expression remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered on her more than usual.

He finished the last bite and looked at her. “It’s good,” he said quietly.

The day passed quietly—pleasantly. They watched an old movie together in the lounge, Ariana’s usual spot on the couch between them now empty. Without her there, the space felt unfamiliar… yet intimate. Dacora laughed at parts she’d forgotten, and occasionally, he found himself glancing sideways at her, the edge of his mouth twitching.

By evening, the sun had turned gold, casting warm light through the tall glass windows. Dacora stood by the patio doors in a simple white swimsuit, hesitating as she looked at the pool.

Niel joined her a moment later in swim trunks, his eyes scanning her thoughtfully.

“I still can’t swim,” she said, her voice low. “Maybe you could teach me.”

His gaze softened. “You’re really trying, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “I am.”

They stepped into the pool together, the cool water wrapping around them. Niel held her waist as she floated, guiding her arms, teaching her how to kick gently beneath the surface. Every time she faltered, he caught her—hands firm, patient.

Soon they were closer than intended. Her hands rested on his shoulders. His fingers stayed at her waist a little longer than necessary.

She looked up at him, breath slightly shaky. “Thank you… for giving me this week.”

And then—before either of them thought too hard about it—she leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft, hesitant. Testing.

Niel didn’t pull away.

Instead, he pulled her closer, his lips parting as the kiss deepened. Water sloshed gently around them as he lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist. The cold of the pool contrasted with the heat of their bodies, their mouths moving like they were rediscovering something long buried.

Her fingers tangled in his damp hair. His hands slid up her back, bare and slick, drawing her closer with every heartbeat.

For a moment, nothing else existed—no past, no pain. Just the two of them in the quiet night, wrapped in the shimmer of water..

Dacora’s breath hitched as Niel carried her from the water, droplets cascading down their skin under the moonlight. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t need to. The way his arms tightened around her, the way his jaw clenched, said everything.

She clung to him, heart pounding, unsure if it was from the cold or the feeling rising between them. Maybe both.

Inside, the warmth of the house kissed her skin. He didn’t set her down—not even when they reached the staircase. Step after step, her gaze stayed fixed on his face. There was something in his eyes she hadn’t seen in years.

Not cold. Not guarded.

Something raw.

When they reached their bedroom, he pushed the door open with his shoulder, walked in, and gently laid her on the bed. The soft sheets welcomed her, but it was the way he hovered above her—wet hair dripping, chest rising slowly—that made her chest tighten.

“I’m not doing this,” he said lowly, “if it’s part of the act.”

She reached up, brushing his cheek with trembling fingers. “It’s not.”

He hesitated—just for a second—then leaned in and kissed her again. This time deeper. Slower. He traced her lips with his tongue, learning her all over again. Her fingers slid down his back, feeling every muscle ripple beneath his skin as he braced himself over her.

The kiss deepened. His hands traveled—exploring curves he'd touched before, but now with reverence, like she was something fragile. Her swimsuit slipped away. His followed. The only sounds were the rhythm of their breathing, the occasional sigh, the subtle creak of the bed.

When he entered her, it wasn’t rough, or rushed—it was deliberate. Measured. Each movement laced with something unspoken. A conversation through touch. His lips never left her skin for long, trailing over her collarbone, her throat, her mouth again. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer like she couldn’t get enough, like she’d never let go.

And maybe, for the first time in years, she truly didn’t want to.

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