Part 37: Rain and Quiet Love
It was only 4:05 p.m.
The hot pool still bubbled gently behind them. The air smelled of jasmine oil and wet skin. Stephanie’s thighs trembled faintly from the aftershocks, her inner walls still fluttering around the memory of him. Chris’s chest rose and fell in heavy, satisfied breaths, his arms loose around her waist, holding without trapping.
She lifted her head from his shoulder.
Their eyes met—soft, unguarded, full of something that felt bigger than the room.
Without a word, she eased herself off him. A small, involuntary sigh escaped her when he slipped free; the sudden emptiness made her core clench once more. She stood slowly in the water, droplets sliding down her breasts, her stomach, the insides of her thighs. Her legs felt unsteady, but she didn’t reach for support. She simply turned and walked toward the ensuite shower.
This time she left the glass door wide open.
No click of the lock. No hurried glance over her shoulder. Just an open invitation.
The rain shower came on with a soft hiss—warm, steady, like summer rain. Water poured down in thick, even sheets, drumming against the tiles and her skin. She stepped fully beneath it, tilting her head back so the stream ran through her hair, over closed eyes, down her throat. Her hands lifted slowly, palms sliding over her collarbones, then cupping her breasts. She washed herself with deliberate care—not rushed, not performative, but reverent. Fingers traced the gentle curves, thumbs brushing over nipples that were still sensitive and dark. Suds formed under her touch, white and silky, sliding down her ribs, pooling in the shallow dip of her navel before continuing lower.
She turned slightly, letting the water cascade over her back, over the dip of her spine, over the firm roundness of her backside. Her hands followed—palms gliding over shoulders, down the length of her arms, across her stomach, then between her thighs. She cleaned there gently, tenderly, fingers parting her folds for just a moment to rinse away the evidence of their joining. A soft exhale left her lips—half relief, half lingering pleasure.
Chris watched from the edge of the pool.
He hadn’t moved yet. His eyes followed every slow path of water across her body, every glide of her hands. There was no urgency in his gaze—only quiet awe. The woman in front of him was not performing. She was simply being—completely, unashamedly herself. And that was more intimate than any touch they had shared.
Their eyes locked through the steam.
No words. Just recognition.
He rose.
He stepped into the shower with her.
The rain enveloped them both.
Stephanie turned toward him, water streaming down her face. She didn’t speak. She simply stepped closer until their bodies touched—wet skin on wet skin, breasts pressing softly against his chest, her arms sliding around his waist.
Chris wrapped his around her—gentle, encompassing. One hand rested at the small of her back, the other cradled the nape of her neck. He pulled her in until there was no space left between them, until she could feel every beat of his heart against hers.
They stood like that under the rain—embracing, breathing together, letting the water wash over them like a blessing.
After a long moment, Chris reached for the body wash on the ledge. He squeezed a generous amount into his palm, warmed it between his hands, then began.
He started at her shoulders—slow, sweeping strokes that followed the lines of her muscles. His thumbs pressed gently into the knots that had already begun to reform. She sighed, melting further into him. His hands moved down her arms—fingers interlacing with hers for a moment, then continuing to her wrists, her palms, the sensitive insides of her elbows.
He turned her slowly so her back faced him.
The water poured over them both as he lathered her back—palms gliding from neck to lower spine, thumbs tracing either side of her vertebrae. He knelt slightly, hands sliding over her hips, then cupping her backside with tender care—kneading softly, not possessively, just appreciating the shape of her. She leaned forward, bracing her hands against the tile, letting him wash her completely.
His touch was worshipful.
He turned her again.
Now facing him, she watched as he knelt fully—water streaming over his shoulders—and began at her calves. Strong hands moved upward—slow circles over her shins, thumbs pressing into the muscle of her thighs, palms gliding over the sensitive inner skin until he reached the juncture of her legs. He didn’t linger there sexually—just washed with the same gentle thoroughness, fingers parting her folds only enough to rinse, then moving on.
Stephanie’s breath hitched anyway.
She took the bottle from him.
Her turn.
She started at his chest—palms flat, spreading soap over the broad planes of his pectorals, thumbs brushing his nipples until they peaked. She followed the line of his sternum down to his abs—fingers tracing every ridge, every shallow valley. She knelt too, water pounding on her back, and washed his thighs—strong, powerful, still trembling slightly from earlier. Her hands moved inward—gentle, careful—cupping him, cleaning him with slow strokes that made him groan softly against her hair.
They rose together.
Their bodies pressed close again—slippery, warm, clean.
Chris tilted her chin up with two fingers.
They kissed under the rain shower—slow, deep, unhurried. Lips sliding, tongues brushing, breaths shared. His hands framed her face. Hers rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
No urgency.
No need to rush.
Just the simple, profound joy of being close.
Of being held.
Of being loved.
They stayed like that—kissing softly, bodies pressed together, water pouring over them—until the knock came.
Three gentle taps.
“Sir, madam? Fifteen minutes remaining.”
They parted slowly—foreheads touching for one last heartbeat.
Stephanie smiled against his lips—small, tremulous, full of quiet wonder.
Chris smiled back.
They stepped out together.
Towels wrapped around them—his around his waist, hers tucked under her arms. They dried each other with the same gentle care they had washed with—his hands patting her shoulders, her back, her legs; hers toweling his chest, his arms, his hair.
No words needed.
They dressed in silence—comfortable, easy silence.
When they exited the suite, Stephanie spoke first, voice light but warm.
“That was… exactly what I needed.”
Chris nodded, smiling softly. “Me too.”
They walked down the corridor.
Stephanie glanced at him sideways. “Next week?”
“Definitely.”
At the reception they thanked the staff again.
Outside the spa entrance, in the bright mall light, Stephanie turned to him.
“Thanks for today,” she said quietly. “For everything.”
Chris reached out, brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek—gentle, affectionate.
“Anytime,” he murmured. “See you next Saturday?”
She nodded. “See you next Saturday.”
They parted ways—her toward the kids’ pickup, him toward the escalator to his penthouse.
No kiss goodbye.
No lingering touch.
Just a shared smile.
And the quiet certainty that whatever came next, they would face it together.
Part 38: The Week of Complaints
Tuesday morning hit Stephanie like a brick.
She woke up to the familiar cramping ache low in her belly, the dull throb that always came with her period. She checked the date on her phone—right on schedule. Safe. No scare from last Saturday. Relief washed over her for about three seconds before the mood drop slammed in behind it.
By lunchtime she was already messaging Chris.
Telegram – 12:14 p.m.
Stephanie:
“Menses came. Officially the worst week of the year starts now. Cramps are already trying to kill me and it’s only day 1.”
Chris:
“Ouch. That bad already? Want me to send virtual hot water bottle energy?”
Stephanie:
“Send everything. Panadol, chocolate, a new uterus, whatever you’ve got.”
Chris:
“Sending all of the above. And a playlist of songs that are legally required to be played during period week. Starting with Adele on repeat.”
Stephanie:
“You’re an angel. But also I hate everything and everyone today. Including you a little bit for being too nice.”
Chris:
“Hate me all you want. I can take it. Just don’t block me when you’re on day 3 rage mode.”
Wednesday 3:47 p.m.
Stephanie:
“Work is hell. One auntie screamed at me for 10 minutes because her queue number was ‘unlucky.’ I wanted to cry in the toilet but I’m on day 2 and there’s no energy left for tears.”
Chris:
“That sounds exhausting. You’re allowed to scream back in your head. Or scream at me instead. I volunteer as tribute.”
Stephanie:
“Fine. You’re too cheerful. It’s annoying. Stop being so supportive. It makes me feel worse for being a mess.”
Chris:
“Okay. From now on I’ll be grumpy and unhelpful. ‘Wow, your life sucks. Pass the tissues.’ Better?”
Stephanie:
“…No. Don’t stop. I need the nice version today.”
Chris:
“Got it. Nice version activated. You’re doing great, even when it feels like crap. Proud of you.”
Thursday 11:08 p.m.
Stephanie:
“Jude came home, ate, scrolled phone, fell asleep. Didn’t even ask why I’m limping from cramps. I’m invisible again. I hate this house sometimes.”
Chris:
“I’m sorry. That really sucks. You deserve someone who sees you, even on the bad days.”
Stephanie:
“I know. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. I just want to feel like I matter when I walk through the door.”
Chris:
“You matter. A lot. To me, to your kids, to the aunties who yell at you (even if they’re yelling about unlucky numbers). You’re not invisible. Not to the people who actually look.”
Stephanie:
“You always know what to say. It’s unfair. I’m over here crying into my Milo and you’re being perfect.”
Chris:
“I’m not perfect. I’m just… here. And I like being here for you. Even when you’re grumpy and crampy.”
Friday evening – during their usual run along the waterway
They ran side by side, pace easy, the evening air thick with humidity. Stephanie had been quiet for the first 3 km—unusual for her. Then the complaints started pouring out.
Stephanie (breathing a little hard):
“Work was a disaster today. The system crashed right before closing and everyone blamed me even though I’m not IT. I wanted to scream.”
Chris (steady):
“That’s rough. You handle it so well though. Most people would have lost it.”
Stephanie:
“I did lose it. Inside. I’m on day 4 now and everything hurts. Cramps, backache, headache. I feel like my body is punishing me for existing.”
Chris:
“I’m sorry. Want me to slow down? Or speed up? Whatever helps.”
Stephanie (voice rising slightly):
“And Jude? He came home, saw me curled up on the sofa with a hot water bottle, and asked why dinner wasn’t ready yet. Like I’m a machine. I told him I’m on my period and he just said ‘oh’ and went to shower. No sympathy. No nothing.”
Chris stayed quiet—listening, pace steady beside her.
Stephanie kept going, words tumbling faster.
“I’m so tired of being the one who always has to hold everything together. The kids, the house, the emotions. He just… exists. And I’m supposed to be grateful because he pays the bills. But I’m dying inside, Chris. I feel like I’m disappearing.”
Chris still didn’t interrupt.
They ran another 500 metres in silence.
Then Stephanie stopped abruptly on the path.
Chris slowed, turned to face her.
She looked at him—eyes shiny with frustration, cheeks flushed from running and emotion.
“Are you dumb?” she snapped suddenly. “Why aren’t you replying me? I’ve been talking non-stop for the last 3 kilometres and you’re just… quiet. Are you tired of me already? Right?”
Chris blinked—genuinely surprised. He opened his mouth, closed it again.
Stephanie’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m being horrible. I just… I don’t know why you’re still here. I’m a mess. I complain all the time. I’m moody. I’m on my period. I’m angry at everything. And you just… take it.”
Chris stepped closer—slowly, carefully.
“I’m not tired of you,” he said quietly. “I’m listening. Because sometimes that’s what you need more than answers. I’m not going anywhere.”
Stephanie’s lip trembled.
She looked away, toward the waterway lights reflecting on the water.
“I can’t be bothered with you,” she muttered, voice small and tired. “Men are all shit.”
She turned and started walking—slow, defeated—toward the direction of her block.
Chris didn’t follow immediately.
He stood there for a moment—watching her small figure recede down the path, ponytail swaying, shoulders hunched.
Part 39 (1/2): The Walk Out
Saturday morning arrived with the same humid weight as every other weekend in February. Stephanie woke up to cramps that felt like someone was twisting a knife just below her navel. She swallowed two Panadol with Milo, kissed the kids goodbye at the door, and drove to Waterway Point on autopilot. Her mood was a black cloud—low, heavy, pressing down on everything. Yesterday’s fight with Jude still echoed in her head: his sarcastic “maybe if you spent less time on your hobby” and the way he’d looked at her like she was the problem.
She parked, walked to Starbucks, sat at their usual corner table. Phone in hand.
Waiting.
1:45 p.m.
Chris (Telegram):
“Spa?”
Stephanie stared at the message. Her fingers hovered. She typed slowly.
Stephanie:
“You forgot I’m still having menses?”
Chris:
“Right. My bad. Starbucks?”
Stephanie:
“Sure.”
She hit send and set the phone down. Her stomach churned—not just from cramps. She felt irritable, raw, like every nerve ending was exposed.
Chris arrived at 1:58 p.m.—black polo, joggers, easy smile that faltered when he saw her face.
“Hey,” he said, sliding into the opposite chair. “You look… tired.”
She didn’t smile back. “I am tired.”
They ordered—two lattes, one hot, one iced. The barista asked “for here or take away?”
Stephanie answered before Chris could speak.
“Take away. Both.”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “Not drinking here? You going somewhere else?”
Stephanie didn’t reply. She just stood, grabbed her bag, and walked toward the exit.
Chris blinked, then hurried after her, two takeaway cups in hand.
“Steph—hey, wait up.”
She kept walking—through the atrium, past the escalator, out the main doors into the bright afternoon sun. The mall noise faded behind them.
Chris caught up easily, falling into step beside her.
“Anything wrong?” he asked gently. “Still moody from yesterday?”
She didn’t answer. Just kept walking—toward the canal path that ran alongside the mall.
Chris matched her pace. “Talk to me. Please.”
Stephanie stopped abruptly near the railing overlooking the water. She stared at the canal—small boats drifting, kids feeding fish, families laughing. Normal life. She felt like she was watching it from behind glass.
Chris stood beside her—close but not touching. He set both lattes on the railing.
“I’m here,” he said quietly. “Whenever you’re ready.”
She turned to him then—eyes red-rimmed, cheeks flushed from more than just the heat.
“I haven’t visited your home before,” she said, voice low but steady.
Chris blinked. “My place?”
She nodded once.
“House tour?”
The words hung between them—simple, loaded, terrifying.
Part 39 (2/2): The Penthouse Tour
The lift doors opened with a soft chime on the top floor.
Stephanie stepped out first, latte cup still warm in her hand. Chris followed, keycard in his palm. The corridor was quiet—polished marble, soft recessed lighting, the faint scent of clean linen and expensive wood polish.
He tapped the card against the reader.
The door clicked open.
Stephanie hesitated for half a second on the threshold.
Then she stepped inside.
The view hit her immediately.
Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped the entire living area. Punggol Waterway stretched out below like a silver ribbon—late-afternoon sun glinting off the water, distant HDB blocks softened by haze, the curve of the park connector path they used to run together visible in the distance. The sky was turning that perfect golden-pink that only Singapore evenings can manage.
“Wow,” she breathed.
Chris closed the door behind them. “Yeah. That view sold me.”
She walked slowly toward the windows, latte forgotten in her hand. “You wake up to this every day?”
“Most days I’m up before the sun,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “But yeah. It’s nice.”
Stephanie turned in a slow circle, taking in the rest of the space.
Open-plan living—high ceilings, dark wood flooring, minimalist furniture in greys and blacks. A long low sofa facing the view. A dining table that looked like it had never hosted more than takeout. A sleek kitchen island with two bar stools. No clutter. No photos. No signs of children’s toys or school bags or mismatched cushions.
She tilted her head.
“Very… bachelor,” she said, one eyebrow raised.
Chris laughed. “Guilty. Come on—I’ll give you the full tour.”
He led her through the main living area first.
“This is the living room,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “TV, sofa, view. The essentials.”
Stephanie walked over to the sofa—low, angular, charcoal grey leather. She sat down experimentally. Sank about three inches too deep.
“This is tiny,” she said immediately. “And uncomfortable. You can’t even stretch out properly. How do you watch movies on this?”
Chris shrugged, leaning against the kitchen island. “I don’t watch many movies. And when I do, I’m usually half-asleep anyway.”
She stood up again, testing the cushions with her hand. “It’s like sitting on a plank with attitude. You need something bigger. Softer. With actual back support. This is made for men who don’t plan to sit for longer than ten minutes.”
“Noted,” Chris said, smiling. “Next time you come over, bring a cushion critic’s checklist.”
She rolled her eyes but kept moving—toward the kitchen.
The island was beautiful—black marble, minimalist taps—but the fridge caught her attention first.
She opened it.
Empty except for a carton of milk, half a bottle of sparkling water, three eggs, and a lonely tub of butter.
She stared.
“This is tragic.”
Chris came up behind her. “I eat out a lot.”
“Clearly.” She shut the door. “You have zero food. How do you survive?”
“Delivery. Kopitiam downstairs. Protein shakes when I feel guilty.”
Stephanie shook her head. “This kitchen is wasted on you. Look at this space—” She gestured at the generous counter area, the induction stove, the empty cabinets. “You could actually cook real meals here. Stir-fry, soup, maybe even bake. But no. You have… eggs. And regret.”
Chris laughed—quiet, fond. “I’ll add ‘buy groceries’ to the list. Right after ‘buy bigger sofa’.”
She gave him a mock glare. “You should. This place has so much potential and you’re using it like a hotel room.”
He nodded solemnly. “Duly criticized. Come on—upstairs.”
A floating staircase led to the second level—bedroom and master bath.
The bedroom was simple: king bed with dark sheets, bedside tables with nothing on them except a lamp and a charging cable, large wardrobe along one wall. Another floor-to-ceiling window overlooked the waterway.
Stephanie walked straight to the bed.
She sat on the edge. Bounced once.
“Too firm,” she declared. “You’ll wake up with back pain by forty.”
Chris leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling. “I’m already thirty-eight. Back pain arrived early.”
She stood again, opened the wardrobe door. Neat rows of polo shirts, running gear, two suits. No mess. No colour.
“Very organised,” she said. “Very boring.”
“Thanks,” he deadpanned. “I try.”
She closed the door. “You need plants. Or photos. Or… something that says a human actually lives here.”
“I have a plant downstairs,” he offered. “It’s dying, but it counts.”
She laughed despite herself. “You’re hopeless.”
Last stop: the open-air balcony.
They stepped out through sliding glass doors.
The view was even better up here—unobstructed, 180 degrees of waterway, park connector, distant city skyline just starting to light up. A long outdoor sofa ran along one side. Two sunloungers faced the water. A small workout corner—yoga mat, resistance bands, a kettlebell—sat neatly in the corner.
Stephanie walked to the railing.
“This,” she said softly, “is the spot I love most.”
Chris came up beside her. “Yeah?”
She nodded, leaning her forearms on the railing. “Overlooking the waterfront. The path we used to run. The place where everything started. It feels… peaceful.”
He stood close enough that their arms brushed.
“Plenty of space for two,” he said quietly. “Suntanning. Working out. Just sitting.”
She turned her head to look at him.
The sun was low now—golden light catching in his eyes, along his jaw.
She sipped her latte—long gone cold—and set the cup on the railing.
Then she stepped forward.
Wrapped her arms around his waist.
Pressed her cheek to his chest.
Chris’s arms came around her automatically—gentle, steady.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his shirt. “For being moody. For venting on you. For everything.”
He rested his chin on top of her head. “You don’t have to apologise. Not to me.”
She tightened her hold. “I do. You’ve been nothing but kind. Patient. And I keep… pushing you away. Snapping. Disappearing. And you’re still here.”
“I like being here,” he said simply.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him.
“Chris?”
“Yeah?”
“If I want to visit you again… can I?”
His smile was slow, soft, full of quiet relief.
“Anytime,” he said. “Door’s always open for you.”
She bit her lip—small, shy smile.
“Can I have another access card? For next time?”
Chris’s eyes warmed.
He nodded once.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll get you one.”
She hugged him again—tighter this time.
And for a long moment they just stood there—on the balcony overlooking Punggol waterfront—two cups of cold latte forgotten on the railing, the sun setting behind them, the future wide open and terrifying and beautiful.
Part 40: The Grocery Run
Wednesday evening, 7:15 p.m.
The Punggol Waterway path was quiet—post-rush-hour lull, just a few cyclists and dog-walkers. Stephanie and Chris had started their usual loop: easy 8–10 km, side-by-side rhythm, light chatter about the week.
Chris was in his element tonight. As a remote freelance IT consultant working on a project basis, his schedule was gloriously flexible. No fixed office hours, no daily commute. Clients paid him very well—for troubleshooting server migrations, optimizing cloud setups, and occasionally dealing with the kind of unreasonable demands that came from people who thought “reboot” was a dirty word. One client had once blamed a three-hour downtime on “bad feng shui in the server room.” Chris had fixed it in twenty minutes and still billed for the full day.
The money was excellent—enough to afford the penthouse above Waterway Point, the high-end running shoes, the occasional overseas race entry. But his real second life was professional stock trading.
He traded mostly U.S. markets (tech and growth stocks), which meant his trading window opened at 10 p.m. Singapore time (pre-market) and ran until 4 a.m. when the NYSE closed. He’d sit in front of three monitors in his penthouse, coffee in hand, following futures, scanning charts, placing orders. After market close he’d wrap up, log off, and finally sleep around 4:30–5:00 a.m.
That schedule explained why Chris almost never ran in the early morning. He was either still trading or crashing after a late night. His runs were always evening or night—cooler air, empty paths, the city lights reflecting on the waterway. It suited him perfectly: finish trading, change into running gear, hit the path to clear his head.
Tonight, though, he was running with Stephanie—earlier than his usual post-8.pm solo sessions, just after dinner.
They were at the 3 km mark—right after passing the water lily pond—when Stephanie suddenly veered right instead of left.
Chris slowed, confused.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
She didn’t break stride. “I’m going to NTUC.”
Chris blinked. “What?”
She kept running—ponytail bouncing, black sports bra and shorts dark with sweat. Chris caught up in three strides.
“NTUC?” he repeated, matching her pace. “As in… grocery shopping? Mid-run?”
“Yup.”
He laughed—half disbelief, half delight. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
They ran the remaining 800 metres in companionable confusion, turning off the connector path toward Waterway Point mall. Stephanie didn’t explain. Chris didn’t push. He just ran beside her, amused, curious, already sensing this wasn’t about forgetting milk for the kids.
They reached the mall entrance, slowed to a walk, then jogged through the sliding doors. The air-con hit them like a cold wave—sweaty skin prickling instantly.
Stephanie headed straight for the basement supermarket level, grabbed a trolley, and pushed it toward the fresh produce section without breaking rhythm.
Chris followed, still in running gear, both of them drawing a few amused glances from late shoppers.
She started in vegetables.
First: a big head of Xiao Bai Cai—crisp, green leaves still wet from the misting system. Into the trolley.
Then: kangkong—long stems, dark leaves. Two bundles.
She reached for tau pok—golden-brown tofu puffs—then hesitated, grabbed three packets instead.
Chris leaned on the trolley handle, watching her with growing fascination.
“Forgot to buy groceries for the kids?” he asked lightly.
Stephanie didn’t reply. She just moved to the mushrooms—shiitake, button, enoki—dropping generous handfuls into a plastic bag.
Next aisle: fruits.
She picked up a net of Thai seedless lychees—plump, rosy, fragrant. Then dragonfruit—two large pink ones. A bunch of bananas (the small, sweet local kind). Three mangoes—still firm but fragrant. A punnet of strawberries that smelled like summer.
Chris raised an eyebrow. “This is… a lot of fruit.”
She ignored him. Moved to seafood.
Fresh prawns—large, grey, glistening on ice. Two trays. Then a whole pomfret—silver skin shining. She asked the uncle to clean and portion it.
Chris watched her load the trolley like she was on a mission.
“This is not a normal grocery run,” he said, half laughing.
She finally spoke. “It’s not for home.”
He paused. “Then…?”
She pushed the trolley toward dairy.
Yogurt—Greek, plain, big tubs. Milk—full-cream for Lucas, low-fat for Emma. Butter—real butter, not margarine. A block of cheddar. Eggs—two trays.
Chris’s eyes widened. “Steph… how much are you planning to cook?”
She didn’t answer. Just kept going.
Condiments aisle next.
She grabbed oyster sauce (Lee Kum Kee, the premium bottle). Light soy sauce. Dark soy sauce. Sesame oil. A jar of sambal belacan. Fish sauce. Shaoxing wine. A big bottle of rice vinegar. Then—impulsively—a jar of Thai green curry paste and a packet of dried chilli.
The trolley was nearly full now—bags hanging off the sides, produce piled high.
Chris finally laughed—soft, incredulous. “Wow. What a feast. That’s how much you eat in a week?”
Stephanie pushed toward the checkout without answering.
The cashier scanned item after item. The total climbed.
$78.
$112.
$156.
$189.
$203.57.
The cashier smiled. “Payment by?”
Stephanie looked at Chris—calm, expectant.
He blinked.
She turned to the cashier. “He’s paying.”
Chris stared at her for one stunned second.
Then—without protest—he lifted his wrist. Apple Watch tapped the terminal.
Beep.
Approved.
Stephanie selected “plastic bags—big ones.” Eight thick ones.
The cashier packed everything carefully.
Stephanie grabbed four bags—two in each hand.
She looked at Chris.
He was still processing.
She lifted the remaining four bags toward him.
“Here. Help me carry.”
Chris took them automatically—two in each hand. Heavy. Full.
He looked at her. “Need help bringing it back home? Will they see me?”
Stephanie shook her head once.
“It’s for your home,” she said simply.
Chris’s mouth opened. Closed.
She was already walking toward the exit—bags swinging, posture straight despite the weight.
Chris hurried after her—eight bags total between them, groceries bumping against their legs.
“Steph—wait—”
She didn’t slow.
“My hands ache,” she said over her shoulder. “Move faster.”
Chris stared at her back—small, determined, carrying half his week’s groceries like it was the most normal thing in the world.
He adjusted his grip.
And followed.
Part 41: The Fridge, the Dust, and the Goodbye
The lift doors opened onto Chris’s penthouse floor with a soft chime. Stephanie stepped out first, four heavy grocery bags pulling at her arms, Chris right behind her with the other four. The corridor was quiet—polished marble, soft recessed lighting, the faint scent of clean linen and expensive wood polish.
Chris tapped his keycard. The door unlocked.
Stephanie walked in without hesitation, kicking off her running shoes at the entrance and padding straight toward the kitchen in her socks. Chris followed, setting his bags on the marble island with a relieved exhale.
“These are heavy,” he said, flexing his fingers. “You sure you didn’t buy bricks instead of groceries?”
Stephanie was already unpacking. She pulled out the first item—a big head of xiao bai cai—and held it up like evidence.
“This,” she announced, “is for stir-frying with garlic. Quick, healthy, goes with everything. You eat vegetables, right?”
Chris leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with amused fascination. “I eat them when they’re delivered in a mixed-rice packet.”
She rolled her eyes and placed the greens in the crisper drawer. Next came the kangkong.
“Kangkong belacan,” she said. “Spicy, garlicky, addictive. You’ll thank me after the first bite.”
“I’ll probably burn the kitchen down trying to make it,” he replied, but he was smiling—wide, boyish, like he couldn’t quite believe she was here, in his space, filling it with food and opinions.
Stephanie laughed. “I’ll teach you. One day. When you’re ready to graduate from instant noodles.”
She moved on to the prawns—large, grey, glistening on ice. She opened the fridge door wider and started arranging.
“Prawns for sweet-and-sour. Or just steamed with garlic. Simple. Delicious. Protein without thinking too hard.”
Chris tilted his head. “You’re really doing this. Stocking my fridge like I’m a real person.”
“You are a real person,” she said, placing the prawns on the middle shelf. “Just one who lives on delivery and regret.”
He laughed—low, warm. “Accurate.”
She pulled out the pomfret next. “Fish. Pomfret is forgiving—steam it with ginger and scallions, five minutes in the steamer. No skill required. You can handle that, right?”
“I can handle boiling water,” he offered. “Maybe.”
She shook her head, smiling. “We’ll start small. Baby steps. No open flames yet.”
The tofu came next—silken and firm blocks.
“Mapo tofu,” she declared. “Comfort food. Spicy, soft, warm. Perfect for nights when you’re too tired to think.”
Chris watched her arrange everything with careful precision—vegetables in the crisper, proteins on the middle shelf, condiments lined up neatly in the door racks. The fridge was transforming before his eyes—from a barren wasteland to something that actually looked lived-in.
“You know I’m not a cook,” he said quietly, almost apologetically. “I once tried to fry an egg and set off the smoke alarm. True story.”
Stephanie paused, a bottle of oyster sauce in her hand. She looked at him—really looked—and her expression softened.
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. Someone has to make sure you don’t starve to death in this fancy penthouse.”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not that hopeless.”
“You have three eggs, half a carton of milk, and a stick of butter that’s probably older than Lucas,” she countered. “You’re pretty hopeless.”
They both laughed then—light, easy, the kind of laughter that fills a room and makes everything feel warmer.
She finished stocking the fridge—door racks filled with sauces, shelves neatly organized—and closed it with a satisfied nod.
“There. Now you have no excuse to order McDelivery at 3 a.m.”
Chris grinned. “I’m keeping the McDelivery option open. For emergencies.”
She swatted his arm lightly. “You’re impossible.”
They were both laughing again—quiet, comfortable, the kind of laughter that happens when two people feel safe enough to be silly.
Stephanie glanced around the kitchen, then the living area. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“This place is still too… empty,” she said. “It’s clean, but it’s not lived-in.”
Chris followed her gaze. “I like clean.”
“You like sterile,” she corrected. “Come on—let’s tidy up a bit. Cleaning is good exercise anyway.”
He raised both hands in surrender. “You’re the boss.”
She started in the living room—straightening the already-straight cushions on the low sofa, fluffing them anyway. Then she moved behind the TV console. She bent down, peered into the gap.
“Chris.”
He came over. “Yeah?”
She pointed. A thick layer of dust coated the cables, the power strip, the back of the TV. Grey fluff, almost furry.
“Your house is due for a spring cleaning,” she said. “In the middle of the year.”
Chris winced. “I… don’t look back there often.”
“Clearly.” She straightened, hands on hips. “You need a duster. And maybe a life.”
He laughed—full, delighted. “You’re ruthless.”
“I’m honest,” she corrected. “And you’re lucky I’m here.”
She grabbed a microfiber cloth from under the sink (he actually owned one) and started wiping down the back of the TV, the cables, the shelf. Chris watched her—small, determined, moving with purpose—and felt something warm and unfamiliar expand in his chest.
She was here.
In his space.
Taking care of him in the smallest, quietest ways.
And he didn’t know how to tell her how much that meant.
When she finished, she dusted her hands together and turned to him.
“There. Slightly less tragic.”
Chris smiled—soft, real. “Thank you.”
She shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
They stood there for a moment—kitchen island between them, fridge now full behind her, the view of Punggol Waterway glittering through the windows.
Her phone alarm buzzed—8:30 p.m.
She glanced at it. Sighed.
“Time to go home.”
Chris nodded, but neither moved immediately.
Stephanie looked around one last time—the clean counters, the stocked fridge, the balcony doors open to the night air.
Then she stepped forward.
Wrapped her arms around his waist.
Pressed her cheek to his chest.
Chris’s arms came around her automatically—gentle, steady.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his shirt. “For being moody. For venting on you. For everything.”
He rested his chin on top of her head. “You don’t have to apologise. Not to me.”
She tightened her hold. “I do. You’ve been nothing but kind. Patient. And I keep… pushing you away. Snapping. Disappearing. And you’re still here.”
“I like being here,” he said simply.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him.
“Chris?”
“Yeah?”
“If I want to visit you again… can I?”
His smile was slow, soft, full of quiet relief.
“Anytime,” he said. “Door’s always open for you.”
She bit her lip—small, shy smile.
“Can I have another access card? For next time?”
Chris’s eyes warmed.
He nodded once.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll get you one.”
She hugged him again—tighter this time.
Then she stepped back.
He walked her to the door.
Before she left, he pulled her into one last hug—longer, warmer.
“Thank you,” he said against her hair. “For today. For everything.”
She smiled into his chest.
Then he reached into a drawer by the entrance, pulled out a spare access card—freshly programmed, white plastic with the building logo.
“Here,” he said, pressing it into her palm. “For next time. Or any time.”
Stephanie looked down at the card, then up at him.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
She slipped it into her pocket.
Gave him one last small smile.
And left.
The door closed softly behind her.
Chris stood there for a long moment—alone again in his quiet penthouse—fridge full, balcony doors open to the night, her scent still lingering in the air.
He smiled to himself.
Small.
Private.
Hopeful.
Part 42: Fever and Care
Thursday night, 10:42 p.m.
Stephanie’s phone lit up on the nightstand while Jude was already snoring beside her.
Chris (Telegram):
“Hey… caught a bad cold. Fever spiked this evening. Probably won’t make tomorrow’s run or Saturday meet-up. Sorry. Feel like crap.”
She stared at the message in the dark. Disappointment bloomed instantly—sharp, surprising in its intensity. Saturday had become sacred. The one pocket of time each week that belonged only to her and Chris: coffee, laughter, the spa, the pool, the quiet moments where she could breathe without carrying the weight of wife/mother duties. Now it was gone.
She typed back quickly, thumbs moving before she could second-guess.
Stephanie:
“Oh no… how bad is it? Have you taken medicine? Drinking enough water?”
Chris:
“Paracetamol, lots of water. Still freezing though. Body aches everywhere. Think I’ll just sleep it off.”
Stephanie:
“Rest properly. Don’t push yourself. Message me if it gets worse, okay?”
Chris:
“Will do. Miss our run already. Night.”
She set the phone down, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. The disappointment lingered—deeper than she expected. Saturday without him felt suddenly… empty.
Friday passed in a blur of clinic work, school pick-ups, dinner prep. She checked her phone more often than usual. No new messages from Chris. She told herself he was sleeping it off. Still, worry gnawed at the edges.
Saturday morning, 1:50 p.m.
She dropped Emma and Lucas at their classes as usual. Walked into Waterway Point. Passed Starbucks. The corner table was empty.
She stood there for a long moment—staring at the chair that had become theirs. No iced latte waiting. No MacBook open. No Chris glancing up with that half-smile when he saw her.
The mall suddenly felt too loud, too bright, too ordinary.
She pulled out her phone.
Stephanie:
“You okay? How’s the fever?”
No reply.
She waited five minutes. Ten.
Nothing.
She called.
Straight to voicemail.
Worry sharpened into something closer to fear.
She looked toward the escalator that led up to the residential levels.
She didn’t think.
She just walked.
The lift ride up felt endless.
She tapped the access card he had given her.
The door unlocked.
She stepped inside.
The apartment was dim—curtains drawn, windows closed. The air was stale, thick with the metallic tang of illness and unventilated space. No lights on. No sound except the low hum of the air-con someone had forgotten to turn off.
She slipped off her shoes. Walked quietly through the living area, past the stocked fridge she had filled weeks ago (still mostly untouched), up the floating staircase to the bedroom level.
The master bedroom door was ajar.
She pushed it open gently.
Chris lay on his side in the king bed—sheets tangled around his waist, bare chest rising and falling unevenly. His face was flushed, forehead damp with sweat. A damp towel lay crumpled beside the pillow. An empty glass of water sat on the nightstand.
She stepped closer.
His eyes fluttered open at the sound of her footsteps.
“Steph…?” His voice was hoarse, cracked.
“Hey,” she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.
Burning.
“Jesus, Chris. You’re on fire.”
He tried to sit up. Winced. Fell back against the pillow. “I’m… okay. Just… cold. And hot. At the same time.”
She looked around. No medicine in sight. No food wrappers. No sign he’d eaten anything today.
“When did you last eat?” she asked.
He closed his eyes. “Lunch… yesterday? I think.”
Stephanie’s heart squeezed.
She stood immediately. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
She hurried downstairs to the kitchen.
The fridge door opened to the same neat rows she had arranged weeks ago—xiao bai cai slightly wilted now, prawns frozen, pomfret still in its packet. Almost nothing had been touched. He really hadn’t cooked. Hadn’t eaten properly.
She pulled out ingredients quickly: a small knob of ginger, a few spring onions, a handful of rice from the pantry, chicken stock cube, the last of the eggs. Classic porridge. Simple. Nourishing. Easy on a feverish stomach.
She rinsed the rice, diced the ginger, sliced the spring onions, set the pot on the induction stove. While it simmered—low heat, lid on—she filled a small bowl with cold water, soaked a fresh face towel, wrung it out.
Upstairs again.
Chris was shivering under the thin blanket.
She sat beside him, gently pulled the blanket down to his waist.
“I’m going to cool you down,” she said softly.
He nodded weakly.
She lifted his T-shirt—damp with sweat—and peeled it off. His chest was hot to the touch, skin flushed. She folded the wet towel, laid it across his forehead. He sighed in relief.
She continued—wiping his neck, his shoulders, down his arms. Gentle strokes. No rush. Just care.
She moved to his legs—pulled the blanket lower, wiped down his thighs, calves. When she reached his groin, she hesitated only a second—then carefully, respectfully, cleaned him there too. He didn’t flinch. Just watched her with quiet gratitude.
She turned him gently onto his side, wiped his back—long strokes from shoulder blades to lower spine. His breathing slowed. Eased.
Downstairs the porridge was ready.
She ladled it into a small bowl, added a drizzle of sesame oil, a sprinkle of spring onions, a soft-boiled egg on top.
Upstairs again.
Chris managed to sit up with her help—pillows propped behind him.
He was too weak to hold the spoon steadily.
She fed him.
One spoonful at a time.
He swallowed slowly, eyes never leaving her face.
After half the bowl, she gave him paracetamol and a glass of water. He drank obediently.
By 3:30 p.m. the fresh air from the open windows (she had cracked them all) had started to clear the stale smell. The fever seemed to ease slightly—his skin less scorching, breathing more even.
He fell asleep again—deep, peaceful.
Stephanie looked at him—flushed cheeks, damp hair, vulnerable in a way she had never seen.
She stood.
She couldn’t just sit.
She cleaned.
Quickly, efficiently.
Dusted the shelves. Wiped the nightstand. Changed the pillowcase (sweat-soaked). Opened more windows. Fluffed the duvet. Tidied the bathroom counter. By 4:00 p.m. she was sweating again—forehead damp, T-shirt clinging—but the room felt fresher. Lived-in. Cared for.
She returned to the bed.
Chris was still asleep—breathing steady now.
She sat on the edge, then—without thinking—lay down beside him.
Her head found his chest.
She listened to his heartbeat—strong, regular, alive.
The sound soothed something deep inside her.
Her eyes closed.
She fell asleep.
4:40 p.m.
Her watch buzzed—kids pickup reminder.
She stirred.
Opened her eyes.
Chris was awake—looking down at her.
His hand rested gently on hers, thumb stroking slow circles over her knuckles.
He smiled—weak, but real.
“It must be my good fortune,” he whispered hoarsely, “to have found you.”
Stephanie smiled back—soft, tired, full of affection.
“I’m more than good fortune,” she murmured. “I’m a good cook… and a good cleaner as well.”
Chris’s laugh was small, raspy, but his eyes shone.
He squeezed her hand.
And in that quiet room—fresh air drifting in, heartbeats steady beneath her cheek—Stephanie felt, for the first time in a long time, that maybe she didn’t have to carry everything alone anymore.
Part 43: Sunday Care and Quiet Sunday
Sunday morning arrived with a nagging worry that hadn’t left Stephanie since Friday night.
Chris had gone silent after her last message Thursday evening:
“Fever still high. Sleeping it off. Talk soon.”
No good-morning text.
No silly meme.
No “miss our run” note.
Nothing.
She checked Telegram three times during breakfast. Nothing.
She called once at 10 a.m. Straight to voicemail.
By 11:30 a.m., the worry had turned into a tight knot in her chest.
She looked at Emma and Lucas—already dressed for their day at grandma’s.
“Kids, Mummy’s dropping you at Nai Nai’s early today, okay? Then Mummy has to run an errand.”
Emma pouted. “Can we go to the playground after?”
“Next time, baby. Promise.”
She drove them to her parents’ place in Hougang, kissed their foreheads, told her mum she’d pick them up after dinner, and left before anyone could ask too many questions.
The entire MRT ride to Waterway Point, she stared at her phone. No new messages.
By the time she reached his building, her heart was hammering.
She tapped the access card.
The door unlocked.
The apartment was still dim—curtains mostly closed, windows only cracked open from when she’d left them last Saturday. The air felt thick, stale, heavy with the lingering smell of illness: faint sweat, unwashed sheets, the metallic tang of fever.
She kicked off her shoes, walked through the living room. The fridge hummed quietly—still stocked exactly as she’d left it. Not a single container moved. Not even a glass taken out. Her stomach twisted.
He hasn’t eaten. At all.
She hurried up the floating staircase.
Bedroom door ajar.
Bed empty—sheets rumpled, pillow dented, but no Chris.
Bathroom door open.
She rushed in—heart in her throat—expecting to find him collapsed on the tile.
Empty.
She spun around, eyes scanning wildly.
Then she looked toward the balcony doors—half-open, morning sun spilling in.
Chris was outside.
Half-naked—only wearing loose grey sweat shorts, bare chest, barefoot—doing slow yoga poses on the sunlounger area. Downward dog, then warrior II, movements careful but steady. AirPods in. Eyes closed. Completely unaware she was there.
Relief hit her first—sharp, dizzying.
Then anger.
Then tears.
She flung the balcony sliding door open so hard it rattled.
“CHRIS!”
He startled, nearly lost balance, straightened quickly. Pulled out one AirPod.
“Steph—?”
She marched toward him, tears already spilling over.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Her voice cracked. “You’re supposed to be sick! Fever! Not eating! Not replying! I called you! I texted you! I thought you passed out or—or worse!”
Chris stood frozen, hands half-raised in surrender, eyes wide.
“I—I’m feeling better,” he said weakly. “Fever broke last night. I just… needed fresh air. Yoga helps me loosen up—”
“You’re half-naked in the sun!” she shouted, tears streaming now. “You didn’t eat since yesterday! Your fridge looks exactly like I left it! You didn’t message me back! Do you know how worried I was? I thought—I thought something happened to you!”
Her voice broke completely on the last word.
Chris stepped forward fast—alarm flashing across his face.
“Hey—hey, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I slept most of yesterday. Phone was on silent. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She swiped at her tears angrily. “You scared me so much. I kept imagining you lying on the floor somewhere… alone…”
He closed the last distance between them.
Pulled her into his arms—tight, enveloping, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other around her waist.
She stiffened for half a second—then melted against him, face buried in his bare chest, sobs shaking her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m okay. I’m right here.”
She clung to him—fingers digging into his back.
“I was so scared,” she mumbled against his skin. “I thought… I thought I’d lost you.”
“You didn’t,” he said softly. “I’m right here.”
They stood like that on the balcony—sun warming their skin, waterway glittering far below—until her sobs quieted to hiccups.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him.
“You look terrible,” she said, half-laughing, half-crying. “Your face is still flushed. Have you eaten anything today?”
He gave a sheepish smile. “Not yet. Was going to after yoga.”
Stephanie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Come on,” she said, voice still thick. “I’m cooking for you. Again.”
He followed her inside—obedient, still a little dazed.
She marched straight to the kitchen, opened the fridge—still mostly as she’d left it.
She pulled out eggs, spring onions, ginger, the last of the rice, chicken stock cube.
“Porridge again,” she announced. “You’re not arguing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
While the rice simmered, she filled a bowl with cold water, soaked a fresh towel, wrung it out.
Upstairs again.
Chris was sitting on the edge of the bed—still shirtless, sweat shorts low on his hips.
She knelt in front of him.
“Shirt off again,” she said softly.
He lifted his arms without protest.
She wiped his chest—gentle strokes across his pectorals, down his abs, along his sides. He shivered slightly—not from cold, but from her touch.
She moved to his arms—shoulders, biceps, forearms.
Then his back—long strokes from neck to lower spine.
She didn’t touch below the waist this time—just cleaned what she could reach.
When she finished, she laid the towel across his forehead again.
“Better?”
He nodded. “Much.”
Downstairs the porridge was ready.
She ladled it into a bowl—topped with sliced spring onions, a drizzle of sesame oil, a soft-boiled egg.
She carried it up on a tray—along with a fresh glass of water and paracetamol.
Chris managed to sit up straighter.
She sat beside him.
He was still too weak to hold the spoon without shaking.
So she fed him.
One spoonful at a time.
He ate slowly—eyes never leaving her face.
After half the bowl, she gave him the medicine.
He swallowed obediently.
Part 44: The Mechanical Night and the Quiet Goodbye
Monday morning came and Chris was back at his monitors.
Three days of fever had left a small mountain of client emails, pending server migration reports, and a backlog of stock watchlists that needed updating before the U.S. pre-market opened at 10 p.m. He texted Stephanie once—short, grateful, still a little hoarse.
Chris (Telegram, 9:42 a.m.):
“Fever broke properly last night. Back to work today. Thanks again for Saturday. You saved me. Miss you already.”
Stephanie read it in the clinic pantry during her morning break. She smiled—small, private—then typed back.
Stephanie:
“Good. Rest properly when you can. Don’t push too hard. Miss you too.”
They didn’t meet that week.
Chris dove headfirst into catch-up mode: daytime IT calls with Southeast Asia clients, nighttime trading sessions until 4 a.m., short naps, repeat. Stephanie kept up her solo runs and the group’s Friday evening session, but without Chris beside her the path felt longer and quieter. She told herself it was good—normal, safe, family-focused. She spent evenings at home: homework supervision, bath time, bedtime stories. Jude’s mood had lifted slightly; the post-peak lull in his ASEAN portfolio meant fewer weekend emergencies. He came home earlier twice that week, even helped Lucas with bath one night. It felt… civil. Almost normal.
But normal didn’t fill the quiet ache that had settled under her ribs since the penthouse.
Saturday arrived—March 1st, mid-year school holiday looming.
They met at Starbucks as usual. No spa promo this time; just coffee and conversation. Nothing “hanky-panky.” Just the two of them at the corner table, lattes cooling between them, talking about nothing and everything: Lucas’s latest volcano obsession, Chris’s disastrous attempt at growing basil on his balcony again, the auntie at the clinic who now believed all illnesses came from “too much phone radiation.”
It was easy. Comfortable. Safe.
Until Jude brought up the holiday plan over dinner that night.
“Malacca again,” he said, casual, like it was already decided. “Three nights. Budget hotel near Jonker Street. Food’s cheap, kids can run around, we save on flights. Same stuff as last year, but cheaper.”
Emma looked up from her drawing. “Again? We always go to Malacca…”
Lucas wrinkled his nose. “I want to see snow.”
Stephanie stared at her plate.
Jude shrugged. “Snow costs money. Malacca is practical. Why fly somewhere expensive just to do the same things—eat, walk, take photos? We can do that here for half the price.”
Stephanie felt the words land like wet cement.
She wanted to argue—wanted to say the kids were bored, that she was bored, that repeating the same trip every holiday felt like slowly erasing the possibility of new memories. But Jude’s tone left no room for negotiation. It was already booked in his mind.
She swallowed. “Okay. Malacca it is.”
Emma sighed. Lucas went back to drawing volcanoes.
Stephanie stared at her rice.
Later that night—Friday, after the kids were asleep—Jude came to bed.
He rolled toward her in the dark.
His hand slid under her T-shirt—familiar, automatic. No kiss. No whisper. Just the press of his body, already hard against her hip.
Stephanie closed her eyes.
She didn’t push him away.
She never did.
He tugged her shorts down—efficient, wordless. She lifted her hips to help. He rolled on a condom (always now, ever since she’d asked). Then he entered her—slow at first, then steady, mechanical thrusts. No foreplay. No lingering touches. Just the familiar rhythm: in, out, in, out, his breath quickening against her neck.
Stephanie lay still beneath him.
Her mind drifted.
She thought of Chris.
Not the sex in the pool—not the raw intensity—but the way he had held her afterward. Silent. Steady. Arms around her like she was precious. The way he had listened when she cried. The way he had wiped sweat from her forehead with his thumb. The way he had looked at her—like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.
Jude’s pace quickened—short, urgent thrusts. A low grunt. He finished inside the condom, body tensing, then relaxing.
He rolled off her almost immediately.
Pulled up his boxers. Turned onto his side.
Then—unexpectedly—he reached back, wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her against his back.
“I miss you,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Sorry I’ve been neglecting you. Work’s been crazy. I’ll make it up to you… slowly.”
Stephanie stared at the ceiling fan.
His arm felt heavy. Not comforting. Just… there.
She didn’t reply.
He was asleep within minutes.
She lay awake for a long time—his breathing even beside her, the condom wrapper crinkling under the sheet, the faint smell of latex lingering.
Guilt pressed against her ribs like a stone.
She had let him inside her body tonight.
But her mind had been somewhere else.
With someone else.
She felt dirty—not from Jude’s touch, but from her own thoughts.
She loved her husband. She did. In the worn, tired way you love someone you’ve built a life with.
But love wasn’t the same as desire.
And desire—real, aching, can’t-breathe-without-it desire—was what she felt when she thought of Chris.
She closed her eyes.
Tears slipped silently into her pillow.
She fell asleep feeling guilty.
And terribly, terribly alone.
Part 45: The Same Old Malacca
The Malacca trip came and went like a rerun of a drama no one was excited to watch again.
They left Friday after work—Jude driving, Stephanie in the passenger seat staring out the window, kids in the back arguing over who got the tablet first. The North-South Highway stretched ahead, familiar in its monotony: rest stops with the same overpriced kaya toast, the same giant billboards for Genting, the same slow crawl through the Tuas second link.
They arrived at the budget hotel near Jonker Street just before dinner. Connecting rooms—Jude’s idea of practicality. Two double beds in one room for the kids, one queen in the other for them. Cheap, clean, central. The kids dumped their bags and immediately asked for Wi-Fi password. Stephanie unpacked the snacks she’d brought from Singapore. Jude checked his work email one last time.
Saturday was the usual checklist.
Jonker Street at 10 a.m.—crowded, humid, the same rows of shophouses selling nyonya kuih and pineapple tarts. They bought the same things they always bought: durian puffs, gula melaka cendol (extra santan), chicken rice balls from the same stall they’d gone to five years in a row. The kids ate half-heartedly, already bored. Emma complained the cendol was “too sweet this time.” Lucas wanted to go back to the hotel pool.
Lunch at a familiar Hainanese chicken rice place—same tender poached chicken, same fragrant rice, same chili sauce that made Jude sweat. Stephanie ate mechanically, smiling when the kids wanted photos for Instagram, nodding when Jude said “this is still the best one in town.”
Afternoon: Mamee Monster Museum. The kids ran through the interactive exhibits—same slides, same photo booths with oversized Mamee monster heads. Stephanie took the photos, laughed at the right moments, but inside she felt the same flatness she’d felt last year. And the year before. Jude kept checking his phone for work messages even though he’d promised “no work this trip.”
Evening: boat ride on the Melaka River. The same narrated tour—Dutch Square, Stadthuys, the riverbank murals. The kids took selfies. Stephanie stared at the water, trying to feel something. Jude put his arm around her shoulders for one photo. She leaned into it automatically. The guide’s voice droned on.
Dinner: satay celup and nyonya laksa at the same corner shop. The kids were exhausted, fighting over the last piece of otak-otak. Stephanie mediated. Jude paid. They walked back to the hotel—everyone too tired to talk much.
Back in the room, kids showered first, then collapsed into their beds. Stephanie helped them brush teeth, read one quick story, turned off the light. They were asleep in minutes—worn out from heat, walking, sugar.
She went to shower.
The bathroom was small—typical budget hotel cubicle: standing shower, toilet, sink. She stepped under the hot water, letting it wash away the day’s stickiness—sweat from Jonker, stickiness from cendol, the faint smell of river water. She closed her eyes, trying to rinse away the flatness in her chest.
The door opened.
Jude stepped in—naked, already half-hard.
Stephanie’s eyes snapped open.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked—low, urgent, conscious of the thin walls and sleeping children next door.
“It’s been so long since we did this,” Jude murmured, voice thick. He stepped under the spray with her, pressed himself against her back. His erection slotted between her ass cheeks—hot, insistent.
“Nooo,” she whispered, trying to twist away. “The kids are right next door—”
“They’re asleep,” he said, arms coming around her waist. One hand slid between her legs—fingers parting her folds, stroking without preamble.
Stephanie tensed. She knew this script. She knew the ending. If she pushed him away now, he’d sulk tomorrow. The kids would feel the tension. The whole trip would sour. Everyone would suffer.
So she let him.
She stopped resisting.
Jude turned her around—back to the tiles, water pouring over them both. He lifted one of her legs, hooked it over his hip. His fingers probed once, twice—checking wetness. She wasn’t ready, not really, but her body responded on autopilot. Enough.
He positioned himself.
Pressed in.
No condom.
Stephanie stiffened. “Jude—no—”
“It’s safe,” he muttered against her neck. “Your menses are near. I calculated. Today should be fine.”
She knew he was right. She’d felt the bloating since yesterday—the familiar heaviness in her lower abdomen. Her cycle was due in two or three days. Statistically safe.
But still.
She closed her eyes.
He started moving—slow at first, then steady, mechanical. In, out, in, out. His breath quickened against her ear. His hands gripped her hips—firm, functional. No kisses on her mouth. No whispered endearments. Just the rhythm of release.
Stephanie stood there—leg hooked over his hip, back against cold tiles, hot water pouring down—letting him take what he needed.
Her mind drifted.
She thought of Chris.
Not the sex in the pool—not the raw intensity—but the way he had held her after. Silent. Steady. Arms around her like she was precious. The way he had wiped sweat from her forehead with his thumb. The way he had looked at her—like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.
Jude’s pace quickened—short, urgent thrusts. A low grunt against her neck.
She felt him swell inside her.
She whispered—barely audible over the water—“Can you… at least not inside? We can’t afford another baby at this age…”
Jude groaned—half acknowledgment, half need.
He pulled out at the last second.
Hot spurts landed on her thigh—thick, warm, mixing with the shower water and sliding down her leg in slow, white trails.
He shuddered once, twice, then relaxed.
Pressed a quick peck on her cheek.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
He stepped out, grabbed a towel, dried himself roughly, and left the bathroom.
Stephanie stood under the spray a moment longer.
Water poured over her face, hiding the tears that finally came.
She felt like a tool.
Used.
Cleaned.
Put away.
She washed between her legs—carefully, thoroughly—then turned off the tap.
When she stepped out, Jude was already asleep—snoring softly, back to her.
She dried herself. Slipped into pyjamas. Crawled under the covers.
Lay on her side—facing away from him.
Stared at the wall.
Guilt pressed against her ribs like a stone.
She had let him inside her body tonight.
But her mind had been somewhere else.
With someone else.
She loved her husband. She did. In the worn, tired way you love someone you’ve built a life with.
But love wasn’t the same as desire.
And desire—real, aching, can’t-breathe-without-it desire—was what she felt when she thought of Chris.
She closed her eyes.
Tears slipped silently into her pillow.