Part 46: The Pull Home
The Malacca trip ended exactly as it began—predictable, exhausting, and quietly disappointing.
They drove back into Singapore just after noon on Tuesday, the car filled with the faint smell of leftover cendol and the kids’ half-hearted complaints about the long drive. Stephanie kept her phone on silent the entire four days. Not once did she open Telegram when Jude was within three feet of her. She remembered every word from that Wednesday night quarrel three weeks ago—his cold, suspicious tone slicing through the kitchen:
“You’re always smiling at your phone like some lovesick teenager. Who are you texting all the time, huh? One of those running uncles?”
The accusation still stung. She would not risk another fight. Not on holiday. Not with the kids in the next room.
So she was careful.
Very careful.
But she read every single message Chris sent.
Every one.
They arrived like little lifelines in the middle of the sameness.
Friday 7:12 a.m. (while she was packing snacks in the hotel room)
Chris:
“Morning. The waterway feels empty without you yelling at me to slow down. Hope Malacca is treating you gently. Miss your terrible pacing jokes already.”
She read it in the bathroom, door locked, fan running. Her heart did that stupid flutter. She didn’t reply.
Saturday 11:43 a.m. (while stuck in Jonker Street traffic)
Chris:
“Just finished a solo 10 km. Kept looking for your ponytail in the distance. The path is too quiet. How’s the chicken rice? Better than my sad delivery version?”
She read it while pretending to check Google Maps. Jude was two feet away, driving. She didn’t reply.
Sunday 9:17 p.m. (after the kids were asleep, Jude in the shower)
Chris:
“Night run was lonely tonight. The canal looks different without you beside me. Hope you’re resting well. Can’t wait for Saturday. Miss you.”
She read it curled under the blanket, phone brightness on lowest. Tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t reply.
Monday 8:05 a.m. (on the drive back)
Chris:
“Hope the trip was okay. Thinking of you. The penthouse feels too quiet without your laughter filling the space. See you soon?”
She read it at a rest stop while Jude was buying coffee. She didn’t reply.
She loved every message.
The silly ones made her smile behind her hand.
The sweet ones made her chest ache with longing.
The simple “miss you” ones made her feel seen in a way Jude had stopped doing years ago.
But she never replied during the trip.
Not once.
Because Jude was always beside her.
And she remembered that Wednesday night too clearly.
The old routine resumed the moment they reached home.
They dropped the kids at her parents’ place for the afternoon and evening—Emma and Lucas had begged to stay over and play with cousins. Jude carried the bags upstairs while Stephanie unloaded the dirty laundry. Trunks full of worn clothes, sandy socks, cendol-stained T-shirts.
By 1:00 p.m. Jude was already changing into golf attire.
“Meeting the guys at the driving range for a quick catch-up,” he said, kissing her cheek absently. “Won’t be back till 6 or so. You okay with the laundry?”
She nodded. “Go. Have fun.”
He left at 1:10 p.m.
The apartment fell quiet.
Stephanie loaded the washing machine—wash and dry mode. It would take at least four hours. She stood in the middle of the living room, hands on hips, the silence pressing in.
It was a hot day. The kind where the air felt thick and heavy.
She looked at the clock.
1:40 p.m.
The kids were safe at her parents’. Jude wouldn’t be back for hours.
She changed quickly—thin black sports bra, matching high-waisted running tights. The outfit hugged her body, still toned from months of running. She tied her hair in a high ponytail, grabbed her watch, and headed out.
The sun was scorching.
By the 4 km mark she was panting hard, drenched in sweat, legs heavy from the trip fatigue. She slowed to a walk, hands on hips, breathing hard.
She looked up.
She was standing right in front of Waterway Point.
It was only 2:10 p.m.
The access card was already loaded on her Apple Watch—RFID ready for the lift and the door.
She stared at the building entrance for a long moment.
He’s probably working. Or resting. Or…
Her feet moved before her mind fully decided.
She walked inside.
Took the lift up.
Tapped her watch.
The door unlocked.
The apartment was quiet. Air-con on low. Windows slightly open from when she had left them last time. The faint scent of his cologne still lingered in the air.
She slipped off her shoes.
Walked upstairs.
The bedroom door was open.
The balcony doors were wide open.
Chris was outside—half-naked, only wearing loose grey swim shorts, lying on one of the sunloungers, eyes closed, AirPods in, soaking in the afternoon sun.
He looked relaxed. Healthy. Completely unaware she was there.
The condo app had already notified him someone had entered, but he hadn’t checked yet.
Stephanie stood at the balcony door, heart pounding.
She slid it open.
Chris’s eyes opened.
He sat up slowly, removing one AirPod, a slow smile spreading across his face when he saw her.
“Steph…”
She didn’t smile back immediately.
She just looked at him—sweaty, flushed, still breathing hard from the run.
Then she stepped onto the balcony.
The conversation that followed was light at first, but the undercurrent was unmistakable—testing, probing, slowly pushing boundaries they had both been circling for weeks.
They started with the easy stuff.
Chris stood up, stretching. “You came straight from a run? You’re drenched.”
Stephanie wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Yeah. Needed to clear my head. The trip was… the same old thing. Kids bored. I was bored. Jude kept saying it was cheaper. Like that’s the only reason to go anywhere.”
Chris nodded, eyes soft. “Sounds exhausting. You deserve better than the same checklist every year.”
She laughed—short, bitter. “Tell that to my husband. He thinks spending money on a proper holiday is wasteful. ‘Why fly when we can drive and eat the same chicken rice?’”
Chris leaned against the railing beside her. “He’s not wrong about the chicken rice being good… but he’s missing the point. You need new memories. New views. New… everything.”
Their eyes met for a beat longer than necessary.
Stephanie looked away first, cheeks warming.
She changed the subject—lightly, teasingly.
“So… how’s the penthouse life? Still surviving on delivery and regret?”
Chris grinned. “Barely. The fridge is still mostly full from your last visit. I’ve been eating the porridge you made. It lasted longer than I expected.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You actually ate it? I thought you’d order McDelivery the moment I left.”
“I tried to be good,” he said, mock-serious. “For you.”
The air shifted—subtle, but there.
She stepped closer to the railing, looking out at the waterway.
“I missed this view,” she said quietly. “The path. The water. The… quiet.”
Chris moved beside her—close enough that their arms brushed.
“I missed having someone to share it with.”
Silence stretched—comfortable, charged.
Stephanie turned to face him.
“You know… I’ve been thinking about what you said last time. About not pushing. About waiting.”
Chris nodded, eyes steady on hers.
“I meant it.”
She took a small step closer.
“I know you did. And I appreciate it. More than you know.”
Her voice dropped.
“But I’m tired of waiting for things to feel right. Tired of pretending I don’t want more.”
Chris’s breath caught.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t reach for her.
Just waited.
Stephanie’s eyes searched his—vulnerable, brave, certain.
“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered. “But I know I feel more alive when I’m with you than I have in years. And I’m scared… but I’m also tired of being scared.”
She reached out—slowly—and took his hand.
“I don’t want to keep running away from this.”
Chris’s fingers curled around hers—gentle, warm, steady.
“Then don’t,” he said softly.
The sun was warm on their skin.
The waterway glittered below.
And the boundaries they had both been carefully respecting began to blur—just a little.
Just enough.
Part 47: The Fire That Consumes
The sun was relentless on the balcony, beating down with the full force of a Singapore afternoon. Stephanie felt the heat prickling her skin, turning the thin layer of sweat on her arms and shoulders into a warm sheen. She took a small step back, away from the railing.
“It’s too hot out here,” she murmured, voice low and a little breathless.
Chris nodded without a word. He followed her as she turned and stepped back into the cool interior of the penthouse. The moment she crossed the threshold, the air-con wrapped around her like a sudden embrace—cool, crisp, almost shocking after the blazing sun. A shiver ran through her body.
Her nipples tightened instantly beneath the thin black sports bra, hardening into two sensitive peaks that pressed visibly against the damp fabric. The cold air made the material cling even more tightly to her breasts, outlining every curve and the stiff little buds that ached with sudden sensitivity. She felt the change immediately—her skin prickling, a fresh wave of awareness flooding through her.
Chris stepped in behind her.
The door slid shut with a soft click, sealing them inside the quiet, climate-controlled space.
He moved closer.
His arms came around her from behind—slow, deliberate, warm against the sudden chill on her skin. His chest pressed to her back, solid and reassuring. One hand rested low on her stomach, the other slid up to cup her shoulder, thumb brushing the strap of her sports bra.
Stephanie’s breath caught.
She didn’t pull away.
Chris turned her gently in his arms until they faced each other.
Their eyes met—dark, hungry, full of everything they had been holding back.
Then he kissed her.
Not tentative. Not questioning.
Passionate.
His mouth claimed hers with a hunger that had been building for weeks. Lips parted immediately, tongues sliding together in deep, wet strokes. He tasted like salt and sun and the faint sweetness of the latte they’d shared earlier. She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into his bare skin.
The kiss deepened—messy, needy, full of longing. Tongues tangled, lips sucked and nipped, breaths shared in hot little gasps between them. Chris’s hands roamed—sliding down her back, cupping her ass through the shorts, pulling her flush against him so she could feel how hard he already was.
The fire between them ignited instantly.
It burned hot and bright, consuming every hesitation, every careful boundary they had tried to maintain.
Chris broke the kiss just long enough to lift her.
He scooped her up effortlessly—arms under her thighs, her legs wrapping around his waist. She gasped as he carried her across the room to the king-sized bed, laying her down on the cool sheets with a tenderness that contrasted the heat in his eyes.
They undressed each other slowly, reverently, like unwrapping something precious.
Chris started with her sports bra.
His fingers hooked under the hem, lifting it inch by inch. The fabric peeled away from her skin with a soft, wet sound, revealing her breasts—small, firm, nipples dark and erect, glistening slightly from the earlier sweat. He tossed the bra aside and leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the soft swell of each breast, tongue tracing the underside before circling one nipple slowly.
Stephanie arched with a soft moan.
His hands moved to her shorts next—sliding them down her thighs, taking her panties with them in one smooth motion. She lifted her hips to help, and the fabric whispered down her legs, leaving her completely bare beneath him. Her pussy was already slick, lips swollen and glistening, clit peeking out from its hood.
Chris’s eyes darkened as he took her in—every inch of her petite, toned body laid out for him like an offering.
She reached for his shorts.
Her fingers tugged them down slowly, revealing his cock—thick, hard, curving upward, veins standing out along the shaft, the head flushed dark and already leaking. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking once from base to tip, feeling him throb hot and heavy in her palm.
No words were spoken.
Only soft breaths and the rustle of fabric hitting the floor.
Chris lowered himself over her.
He kissed her everywhere.
Starting at her neck—slow, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive column, tongue tracing her pulse point until she shivered. He moved to her ear, sucking the lobe gently between his lips, whispering her name like a prayer. Then down to her mouth again—deep, loving kisses that made her toes curl.
Lower still.
He kissed the hollow of her throat, the dip between her collarbones. His lips trailed over her breasts—kissing the soft undersides, then taking one nipple into his mouth. He sucked gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp and arch. He gave the other breast the same loving attention—sucking, licking, worshipping until both nipples were shiny and swollen.
Stephanie moaned—soft, continuous sounds of pleasure. Her hands threaded into his hair, holding him to her as he moved lower.
He kissed down her stomach—slow, reverent presses of lips over every ridge of her abs, tongue dipping into her navel. He nuzzled the soft skin just above her mound, breathing her in.
Then lower.
His mouth found her pussy.
He kissed her there—gentle at first, lips brushing her swollen folds, tongue tracing the seam. He licked her slowly, savoring, then focused on her clit—soft circles, then firmer strokes, sucking gently until her hips bucked and her moans turned into desperate little cries.
She was stroking him the entire time.
Her hand wrapped around his cock—slow, loving strokes from base to tip, thumb swirling over the leaking head, spreading the slickness down his shaft. She felt him grow even harder in her grip, veins pulsing, the head flaring with every pass of her fingers.
When she couldn’t wait any longer, she tugged him up gently.
Her voice was a breathless whisper against his ear.
“Enter me… please…”
Chris reached for the bedside drawer.
He took out a condom, tore the packet, and rolled it on with steady hands.
He positioned himself at her entrance.
Looked into her eyes.
And slid inside.
Slowly.
Deeply.
Completely.
Stephanie gasped—long, shuddering—as he filled her. The stretch was perfect, the fullness exquisite. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He began to move—long, slow, loving thrusts. Deep and steady, grinding against her clit on every downstroke. His mouth found hers again—kissing her through every thrust, swallowing her moans.
The pace built gradually.
His hips snapped harder, deeper. The bed creaked softly beneath them. Skin slapped against skin—wet, rhythmic, intimate.
Stephanie’s pleasure built in waves.
The first orgasm hit her suddenly—intense, rolling through her like a tide. She cried out against his mouth, walls clenching around him, body arching as pleasure flooded every nerve.
He didn’t stop.
He kept thrusting—deeper, harder, chasing her pleasure.
The second orgasm came faster—stronger. She sobbed his name, nails digging into his back, legs tightening around him as she came again, squirting softly around his cock.
Chris groaned—low, reverent—feeling her pulse around him.
He shifted angles, hitting that perfect spot inside her with every thrust.
The third orgasm tore through her—shattering, overwhelming. Her eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent cry, body convulsing beneath him as wave after wave crashed over her.
Chris followed moments later.
He buried himself deep, groaning her name as he came—long, powerful pulses inside the condom, his body shuddering against hers.
They collapsed together—sweaty, trembling, breathing hard.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, forehead pressed to hers.
When he finally pulled out gently, he rolled to the side and pulled her into his arms.
They lay there—limbs tangled, hearts slowing, the afternoon sun filtering through the windows.
No words were needed.
Only the quiet certainty that they had crossed the line again.
And this time, neither wanted to go back.
Part 48: Afternoon Rain and Slow Fire
Stephanie eased herself off Chris’s chest, legs still trembling faintly from the aftershocks. The sheets beneath them were warm and slightly damp. She sat up slowly, hair falling in dark, tangled strands across her shoulders. Without a word she slid to the edge of the bed and padded barefoot toward the ensuite bathroom.
Chris watched her go—every line of her back, the gentle sway of her hips, the soft curve where waist met ass. He rose a moment later and followed.
The bathroom was large and bright, morning light pouring through the frosted window. Stephanie stepped under the rain shower and turned the handle. Warm water cascaded down in a steady, soothing sheet. She tilted her head back, letting it run through her hair, over closed eyes, down her throat.
Chris entered quietly behind her.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind—chest to her back, hands resting low on her stomach. His chin settled on her shoulder. In the large mirror opposite the shower they could see themselves clearly: two naked bodies pressed together, water streaming over skin, steam beginning to rise.
Chris’s eyes traced her reflection.
He spoke softly against her ear, voice low and reverent.
“Look at you.”
Stephanie opened her eyes and met his gaze in the mirror.
He continued, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“So perfect. Every line, every curve. The way your shoulders slope here…” His right hand slid up slowly, palm gliding over her collarbone, then cupping the gentle swell of her breast. “…the way your breasts sit so high and full, nipples still flushed from earlier… the dip of your waist that fits my hands exactly…” His left hand traced that inward curve. “…the flare of your hips, the softness of your belly, the strength in your thighs from all those runs.”
He kissed the side of her neck—slow, open-mouthed.
“And this ass…” His hands slid down, cupping her cheeks with gentle possession. “…firm, round, perfect. I could spend hours just touching you.”
Stephanie melted against him—spine softening, head tipping back onto his shoulder.
A quiet sigh escaped her.
She looked at their reflection again—his arms around her, her body cradled against him, water glistening on both of them.
“Tell me,” she whispered. “How could it be better?”
Chris smiled against her skin.
“It couldn’t,” he murmured. “You’re already perfect.”
She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his in the mirror again.
“Tell me honestly.”
He kissed the corner of her jaw.
“Honestly?” His voice dropped lower, playful but warm. “If I’m allowed to be a little selfish… I sometimes imagine you bare down here.” His right hand drifted lower, palm cupping her mound gently, fingers resting against her outer lips without parting them.
“Completely smooth. Nothing between my mouth and you.”
Stephanie’s breath hitched.
She looked down at his hand, then back up at his reflection.
“Why?” she asked softly, curious rather than defensive.
Chris’s thumb stroked once—light, soothing—over the soft skin just above her slit.
“Because it feels intimate,” he said. “Vulnerable. Trusting. And because I love tasting every part of you without anything in the way.” He kissed her shoulder. “But only if you want it. Never because I think you need to change.”
Stephanie was quiet for a moment, considering.
Then she turned in his arms, facing him fully.
She glanced down between them.
His cock was still semi-hard, resting against her lower stomach. She reached down and wrapped her fingers around him gently.
He was smooth—completely shaved, skin soft and warm, balls drawn up tight and bare beneath.
She stroked once—slow, exploratory.
“You shave here,” she said quietly.
Chris nodded. “For hygiene. And… yeah, I like the way it feels. Clean. Sensitive.”
She looked up at him, eyes searching.
“I’ve never done it,” she admitted. “Not fully.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” She stroked him again—firmer this time. “But… I want to try. For me. And maybe… for us.”
Chris’s eyes darkened with affection.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured. “I’ll help. Or find someone professional if you prefer. No rush.”
She smiled—small, shy, trusting.
“Okay.”
They stepped fully under the rain shower together.
No urgency.
Just loving care.
Chris took the body wash first—squeezed it into his palm, warmed it, then began washing her.
He started at her shoulders—slow circles, thumbs pressing into tense muscles. Down her arms, interlacing fingers to clean between them. Across her chest—palms gliding over her breasts, thumbs brushing nipples in gentle passes that made her sigh. Down her stomach—fingers tracing the faint definition of her abs. Between her thighs—careful, tender strokes over her folds, parting them only to rinse, never to arouse.
She returned the favor.
Her hands on his chest—palms flat, soap sliding over pectorals, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked. Down his abs—fingers following every ridge. Around his cock—gentle strokes, cleaning the shaft, the head, the smooth balls beneath. She knelt briefly to wash his legs, then rose again, kissing his sternum on the way up.
They rinsed each other under the rain—water pouring over joined bodies, hands gliding, lips brushing shoulders, necks, cheeks.
No sex.
Just intimacy.
Just care.
When they finished, Stephanie stepped out first. Chris handed her a thick towel. She dried slowly—patting rather than rubbing—then wrapped it around herself. Chris dried too, then pulled on a clean pair of boxers.
Stephanie picked up her soaked sports bra and shorts from the floor.
“I’ll wash these,” she said.
She carried them to the kitchen sink, ran warm water, added a drop of dish soap, and gently hand-washed the bra and shorts. Chris watched from the doorway—arms crossed, smiling softly.
She wrung them out carefully, then carried them to the balcony.
She draped the bra and shorts over the railing in the hot afternoon sun.
“They’ll dry fast,” she said.
Chris came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist.
She leaned back against him. It’s only 4pm.
They stood like that for a long time—looking out at the waterway, her body wrapped only in a towel, his bare chest warm against her back. They went back into the room to cool their sun kissed skin.
Then her watch buzzed—4:40 p.m.
Pickup reminder.
She sighed.
“Time to go.”
Chris kissed the side of her neck.
“I know.”
She turned in his arms.
Looked up at him.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For today. For… letting me be here.”
He cupped her face.
“Anytime,” he said. “Always.”
She rose on her toes and kissed him—slow, deep, full of everything she couldn’t say yet.
Then she stepped back.
Slipped into her dried clothes from earlier.
Part 49: The Quiet Kitchen
Wednesday arrived with the familiar dull ache low in Stephanie’s belly.
She woke up to the familiar cramping, the heavy bloating, the sudden shift in mood that always came with her period. She checked the calendar on her phone — right on schedule.
She texted Chris briefly that morning, keeping it short and honest.
Stephanie (7:22 a.m.):
“Menses came. Skipping the run tonight. Feeling off.”
Chris replied almost immediately.
Chris:
“Take it easy. Rest well. I’m here if you need anything — even if it’s just someone to complain to. Miss you on the path.”
She didn’t reply after that. The cramps made her snappy, and she didn’t want to dump her bad mood on him. She went through the day on autopilot — clinic work, school pick-ups, dinner, bedtime stories — but everything felt heavier. Jude came home late again, ate in silence, and fell asleep without asking how she was.
By Friday, the work backlog from the Malacca trip had piled up. Reports, emails, admin backlogs — all waiting for her. Saturday was supposed to be her reset day, but this time she knew she couldn’t afford the usual Starbucks or spa.
She texted Chris on Friday night.
Stephanie:
“Saturday I need to catch up on work. Mind if I bring my laptop to your place? I’ll be quiet.”
Chris:
“Of course. Door’s open. I’ll be here. No pressure to talk if you’re not up to it.”
Saturday morning, 1:50 p.m.
She dropped the kids at their classes, then took the lift up to Chris’s penthouse. She let herself in with the access card he had given her.
The apartment was quiet, air-con humming softly, windows slightly open to let in fresh air. Chris was in the kitchen when she walked in — wearing a simple grey T-shirt and shorts, barefoot, chopping something on the island.
He looked up and smiled — warm, gentle, no pressure.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You made it.”
Stephanie nodded, setting her laptop bag on the dining table. “Thanks for letting me come here. I have a mountain of reports to finish. Holiday backlog.”
“No problem at all,” he replied. “Make yourself comfortable. The whole place is yours.”
She sat down, opened her laptop, and tried to focus.
But the mood was still there — heavy, irritable, the lingering cramps making her short-tempered. She typed a few lines, then deleted them. Sighed. Typed again.
Chris noticed.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just moved quietly around the kitchen, preparing something. After a while he walked over with a glass of warm water and a small plate of cut fruit — dragonfruit, mango, a few strawberries.
“Thought you might need this,” he said gently, placing them beside her laptop. “No pressure to eat. Just in case.”
Stephanie looked up at him.
Something in her chest softened.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He smiled and went back to the kitchen.
She tried to work again.
But the words blurred on the screen. The cramps tightened. The frustration from the week — work, Jude’s distance, the endless cycle of being everyone’s everything — pressed down harder.
After twenty minutes she closed the laptop lid with a sigh.
Chris glanced over from the stove.
“Not feeling it?”
She shook her head. “Too many things in my head. And the cramps… they’re bad today.”
He nodded, understanding. “You don’t have to work if you’re not up to it. The reports can wait.”
She rubbed her temples. “They can’t. But I can’t focus either.”
Chris turned off the stove and walked over.
He stood beside her chair, not touching, just present.
“I was thinking… since you’re not feeling great, maybe I cook for you today? My first attempt at something real. No promises it’ll be good, but it’ll be made with good intentions.”
Stephanie looked up at him — surprised, touched.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he said simply. “You’ve been taking care of everyone else. Let me take care of you for once.”
She felt tears prick her eyes — not from sadness, but from the simple kindness.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Chris smiled — soft, genuine.
He went back to the kitchen and started.
It was his maiden attempt at cooking — clumsy but earnest. He had watched a few YouTube videos the night before after she said she was coming. He pulled out ingredients from the fridge she had stocked weeks ago — the xiao bai cai, kangkong, prawns, tofu, ginger, garlic.
“I’m attempting a simple stir-fry and porridge,” he announced, rolling up his sleeves. “If it tastes bad, you’re allowed to laugh.”
Stephanie watched him from the dining table, chin resting on her hand.
He chopped ginger awkwardly — pieces uneven, some too big, some too small.
“You’re cutting it like you’re scared of it,” she teased lightly, mood lifting just a fraction.
Chris laughed. “I am scared of it. Last time I tried this, I nearly lost a finger.”
He heated oil in the pan — a little too much, it smoked slightly.
“Shit — too hot,” he muttered, turning down the flame.
Stephanie smiled despite herself.
He added garlic and ginger — they sizzled loudly. Then the xiao bai cai.
The smell was… interesting.
“Not burning yet,” he announced proudly.
She laughed — the first real laugh of the day.
“You’re doing better than I expected.”
He turned to her, mock-offended. “Low expectations. I see how it is.”
The porridge was simpler — rice, water, a bit of chicken stock cube, sliced ginger. He stirred it carefully, checking every few minutes.
While it simmered, he plated the stir-fry — a little overcooked in places, but colourful and fragrant.
He brought the plates to the table.
“Maiden dish,” he said, setting one in front of her. “Xiao bai cai stir-fry with garlic. And porridge with egg. If it’s terrible, blame YouTube.”
Stephanie took a bite of the vegetables.
It was… edible. A little salty, slightly uneven seasoning, but warm and made with care.
“It’s good,” she said honestly. “Really. Thank you.”
Chris sat opposite her, watching her eat.
“You’re glowing again,” he said softly. “Even when you’re moody and crampy.”
She looked up at him — eyes soft.
“You make me feel… taken care of. No one has done that for me in a long time.”
They ate together — quiet, comfortable.
After the meal, Stephanie insisted on helping clean up.
They stood side by side at the sink — she washing, he drying.
The simple domesticity felt intimate in a way that made her heart ache.
“You didn’t have to cook for me,” she said quietly.
“I wanted to,” he replied. “You’ve been carrying so much. Let me carry a little for you today.”
She felt tears prick her eyes again.
When the kitchen was clean, she leaned against the counter.
“I feel better,” she admitted. “Just being here. With you.”
Chris stepped closer.
He didn’t kiss her
.
He just opened his arms.
She walked into them.
He held her — tight, warm, safe.
And for the first time in a long time, Stephanie felt truly loved.
Not for what she did.
But for who she was.
Part 50: Life as Usual
The next few weeks slipped by in that quiet, steady rhythm that had become their new normal.
Weekdays were predictable. Stephanie woke at 6:15 a.m., made Milo for the kids, packed lunches (Lucas always demanded extra chocolate spread on his bread, Emma insisted on the crusts cut off), dropped them at school, then headed to the polyclinic. She worked the usual 8:30–5:30 shift: endless patient queues, blood-pressure readings, reassuring elderly aunties that their knee pain wasn’t cancer, smiling politely when the same uncle complained for the third time that week that his queue number was “unlucky.” She came home tired but functional—cooking dinner, helping with homework, bathing the kids, reading bedtime stories. Jude usually walked in around 7:30 p.m., ate standing at the kitchen counter while scrolling his phone, kissed the kids’ heads, and collapsed on the sofa. Some nights he’d join her for a quick shower; most nights he didn’t.
The weekend work schedule had become permanent. Jude’s boss had sweetened the deal: OT on Mondays too. That meant he now worked Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, leaving Tuesday and Wednesday as his only full days at home. Stephanie didn’t argue anymore. She had stopped asking why he didn’t negotiate for different days. She had stopped expecting him to.
And quietly, without anyone noticing, Chris had become the soft place she landed every week.
They never planned it explicitly. It just happened.
Sometimes they met at Starbucks—same corner table, same order (her tall Americano black no sugar, his iced latte). They’d talk for two or three hours: work gripes (her endless patient queues, his latest client who thought “reboot” was optional), kid stories (Lucas’s latest dinosaur drawing, Emma’s ballet teacher praising her turnout), random nonsense (why aunties always blame “wind” for everything, why Chris’s basil plant kept dying). They laughed a lot. Easy, light laughter that made her shoulders loosen.
Other Saturdays they went to the spa. No couples massage this time—just separate foot reflexology or back rubs in the cinema room, then meeting in the lounge afterward for chilled barley tea and sliced dragonfruit. They’d sit side by side on the plush armchairs, feet still tingling from the massage, talking about nothing important. The $30 non-peak deal had become their little ritual. Nothing sexual. Justquiet company. Just breathing the same air.
Some weekends she went straight to his penthouse after dropping the kids.
She’d let herself in with the access card he’d given her, kick off her shoes, and settle on the sofa with her laptop or a book. Chris would be at his desk in the corner—three monitors glowing, headset on, murmuring to a client about server migrations or cloud backups. He’d glance over every now and then, give her a small smile, and go back to work. She liked being in his space like that—quiet, undemanding, just present. Sometimes she’d bring her own coffee from downstairs. Sometimes he’d make her a cup from his bean-to-cup machine (he’d finally bought decent beans after she teased him about the instant ones). They didn’t need to talk constantly. The silence felt companionable.
Their Telegram chats filled the weekdays.
Monday 8:17 a.m.
Chris:
“Morning. Survived the school run chaos?”
Stephanie (in the clinic pantry, hiding her phone behind a file):
“Barely. Emma insisted on wearing mismatched socks because ‘it’s fashion.’ Lucas threw Milo powder everywhere. I look like I fought a chocolate war.”
Chris:
“Send pics. I need to see this masterpiece.”
Stephanie:
“No way. My dignity is already hanging by a thread.”
Chris:
“Fine. But I’m picturing you covered in Milo, looking adorable. It’s helping my Monday.”
Tuesday 10:42 p.m.
Chris:
“Just finished a late call. Brain is fried. Tell me something stupid to make me laugh.”
Stephanie (under the blanket, phone brightness on lowest):
“Lucas asked me today if ‘daddy’s work is to sleep in the office.’ I didn’t know how to answer.”
Chris:
“Accurate. My job sometimes feels like expensive napping with PowerPoint. Your turn—stupid thing from today?”
Stephanie:
“A patient asked if I could ‘prescribe less stress.’ I almost said yes and wrote it on a Post-it.”
Chris:
“You should have. I’d frame it. ‘Dr. Stephanie’s Official Less-Stress Prescription.’ I’d hang it above my desk.”
Wednesday 9:33 p.m.
Chris:
“Rough day. Boss asked why my report was late. Told him I was busy thinking about better things. He didn’t laugh.”
Stephanie:
“Poor baby. Want me to send you a virtual hug?”
Chris:
“Yes. And maybe describe it in detail so I can feel it properly.”
Stephanie:
“Okay… I’m wrapping my arms around you from behind. Chin on your shoulder. Hands on your chest. Squeezing gently. You smell like post-run sweat and that stupid expensive cologne you wear.”
Chris:
“Damn. That’s unfair. Now I’m smiling like an idiot on the train.”
The chats were light, flirty, comforting—never crossing into explicit territory, but carrying a warmth that made her days feel less heavy.
She was glowing again.
She woke up with energy she hadn’t felt in years. She sang while making breakfast. She laughed at the kids’ silly jokes. She moved through her clinic shifts with a lightness that made her colleagues comment, “Wah, Steph, you look different lately. Got secret boyfriend ah?”
She blushed and denied it, but inside she knew the truth.
The weekly meet-ups with Chris—whether at Starbucks, the spa, or his penthouse—had become her oxygen. Every “good morning” text, every silly meme, every quiet “miss you” made her feel seen. Desired. Wanted.
She was alive again.
And Jude noticed.
He noticed the glow. The extra bounce in her step. The way she checked her phone with a secret smile when she thought he wasn’t looking. He noticed and it irritated him like sand in his shoes.
One Friday night in late March, after a particularly long week of weekend work, Jude came home at 9:30 p.m., threw his bag on the sofa, and looked at Stephanie—who was humming while folding laundry—with narrowed eyes.
“You’re glowing again,” he said, voice flat. “Must be nice.”
Stephanie paused, a small T-shirt in her hands. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” He kicked off his shoes. “I’m out there every weekend, shoulder all the cost of this family, working like a dog so we can pay the mortgage and the kids’ enrichment classes… and you get to go running, go to the spa, have your little ‘me time’ every Saturday and Sunday while I slave away. Must be great being you.”
The words landed like stones.
Stephanie felt them hit her chest.
She set the T-shirt down slowly. “Jude… I’m not ‘having me time.’ I’m surviving. I’m the one handling everything during the week and all the weekends you’re gone. I’m the one who—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he cut in, sarcastic. “Poor you. Running around with your fitness friends, looking all slim and happy. Meanwhile I’m the ATM who never gets to enjoy anything. Maybe if you spent less time on your ‘hobby’ and more time being a wife, I wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
The insult was sharp. Deliberate.
Stephanie’s eyes stung. “A wife? I am a wife. I cook, I clean, I raise our children, I work full-time. What more do you want from me?”
“I want you to appreciate what I do!” he snapped, voice rising. “Instead you’re always smiling at your phone like some lovesick teenager. Who are you texting all the time, huh? One of those running uncles? Is that why you’re suddenly so ‘glowy’? Because some guy tells you you’re pretty while I’m killing myself for this family?”
The accusation hung in the air—ugly, poisonous.
Stephanie felt something inside her snap.
“You think I’m cheating because I’m happy?” Her voice trembled. “You think the only way I can smile is if I’m sleeping with someone else? That’s how little you think of me?”
Jude laughed bitterly. “You tell me. You used to be tired all the time. Now you’re glowing. Running. Spa. New clothes. New energy. What am I supposed to think? That you’re suddenly happy because of me? When was the last time we even had a proper conversation that wasn’t about bills or the kids?”
“Because you’re never here!” she shouted back. “You come home exhausted, eat, sleep. You don’t ask how my day was. You don’t touch me unless you want sex. And even then it’s quick and done. I feel like a service provider in my own home!”
Jude’s face darkened. “So now it’s my fault you’re unhappy? I’m the one paying for everything—the flat, the kids’ classes, your gym membership so you can go look good for your running friends. And this is the thanks I get? You smiling at your phone while I’m out there working my ass off?”
The quarrel spiralled—loud, ugly, the kind that left scars.
“You’re supposed to be my partner!” Stephanie cried. “Not just the guy who pays the bills! I need more than money, Jude. I need to feel loved. Seen. Wanted. And I haven’t felt that from you in years!”
Jude’s voice turned cold. “Maybe if you acted like a wife instead of some fitness influencer, I’d have energy left to give you what you want. But go on—keep running, keep glowing, keep texting whoever’s making you smile. I’ll just keep paying for it all.”
The fight ended with slammed doors and heavy silence.
Stephanie cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes, then washed her face and went to check on the sleeping kids. She felt shattered. Small. Unwanted.
The next few days she moved like a zombie.
She woke up, made breakfast, sent the kids to school, went to work, came home, cooked, bathed them, put them to bed. Mechanical. Numb. Her smiles were forced, her laughter hollow. Jude avoided her. She avoided him.
The only things that kept her going were the children’s hugs and the occasional Telegram messages from Chris.
She answered them, but her replies were short, flat, boring.
Chris noticed immediately.
Telegram – Friday 10:14 p.m.
Chris:
“You okay? Your replies feel… off lately. Miss the long ones.”
Stephanie:
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
Chris:
“You sure? You can tell me anything. No pressure.”
Stephanie:
“Really. Everything’s okay.”
She didn’t want to share.
Not yet.
The glow was still there—faint, flickering—but the light was dimming.
And Chris was watching, worried, waiting for her to let him in again.
Dear Readers,
I think I am almost half way through the arc. Every few days while I write, I learnt using AI to refine it, adding depth to the story. Truth to be told, the story is progressing on an entirely different trajectory from where I intend it to be
Ever since I’m being laid off in Feb, I had made countless job applications without much progress. Writing has become the single most important hobbies I had now to keep myself sane, and prevent from falling into depression
Hope you all like it so far, and a happy national day!
Part 51: The Weight Jude Carries
Jude Yeo turned forty-four in November, three months before the Malacca trip.
The birthday came and went with the same quiet efficiency as everything else in his life these days. A family dinner at the usual Punggol hawker centre—chicken rice, satay, a small slice of cake Emma insisted on buying from the bakery. The kids sang off-key. Stephanie smiled, took photos, posted one to Instagram with a simple “Happy birthday to the best dad ❤️”. He smiled back, kissed her cheek for the camera, thanked everyone, and went to bed early because he had a 7 a.m. client call the next morning.
Forty-four felt heavier than forty-three.
He noticed it first in the mirror at 6:30 a.m. on weekdays—when he was brushing his teeth and catching his reflection under the harsh bathroom light. The bags under his eyes were permanent now. The lines across his forehead deeper. The hair at his temples had more grey than black. His shoulders—once broad and strong from army days and weekend basketball—had begun to round forward from too many hours hunched over spreadsheets and Zoom screens.
Work paid better than ever. The ASEAN portfolio promotion had come with a 25% raise and the promise of “long-term security.” But security, he was learning, came at a price.
Weekends were gone. Completely.
Saturday and Sunday were now office days or client calls or emergency reports that “had to be done before Monday APAC open.” Monday overtime had become standard too—his boss casually adding “just a few hours” that always stretched into full afternoons. That left Tuesday and Wednesday as his only real days at home, and even those were half-eaten by catching up on sleep or emails he couldn’t finish on the weekend.
He barely saw the kids anymore.
Emma used to run to the door when he came home, showing him her latest ballet move or a sticker she got from school. Now she was usually already in bed, or doing homework in her room. Lucas still hugged him goodnight, but the hugs were quicker—routine, not excited. Jude would sit on the edge of Lucas’s bed, ask about dinosaurs or volcanoes, and Lucas would answer in sleepy one-word sentences before turning over.
He missed them.
He missed the sound of small feet running toward him. Missed being called “Daddy” five times in thirty seconds. Missed being needed in the way only young children need their father.
He missed Stephanie too.
Not just the sex—though he missed that desperately—but the version of her he had fallen in love with at twenty-eight.
Back then, every weekend they could steal was spent in a hotel room or her rented flat when her flatmates were away. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
There was the time at the budget hotel in Bugis—tiny room, thin walls, but they didn’t care. She had straddled him on the desk chair, skirt pushed up, laughing as the chair creaked dangerously. He remembered the way she rode him—slow at first, teasing, then faster, head thrown back, moaning his name until he had to cover her mouth with his hand so the people next door wouldn’t complain.
Another time, the boutique hotel in Chinatown—rain pounding on the windows, her on her knees in front of him, looking up with those eyes while she took him deep. He had come so hard he saw stars, then pulled her up and kissed her like he was starving.
The weekend at Sentosa—day-use room because they couldn’t afford overnight. They fucked three times in four hours: once on the bed, once in the shower, once on the balcony with the curtains half-closed, her back against the railing, legs wrapped around him, both of them laughing when a seagull landed nearby and watched.
That Stephanie—hungry, playful, insatiable—was gone.
After marriage, after Emma, after Lucas, sex became rare. Then rarer. Then almost nonexistent.
She was always tired. Always.
“Kids are exhausting,” she’d say, turning away when he reached for her in bed. “I just need sleep.”
He understood. He did. Parenting was hard. She carried most of it.
But understanding didn’t fill the emptiness.
Lately, though, she was different.
She glowed.
Not the tired-but-content glow of someone who had a good nap. Not the post-holiday tan. The kind of glow young women have when they’re in the early flush of a relationship—eyes brighter, skin clearer, small secret smiles when she thinks no one is looking, extra care with her clothes and hair.
He noticed.
He noticed the way she checked her phone more often. The way she angled the screen away from him when a notification came in. The way she’d bite her lip to hide a smile, then lock the phone quickly when he looked over.
He noticed she ran more. Came home flushed and energized instead of exhausted. Wore the same black sports bra and high-waisted tights every Friday evening for the group run, came back later than usual, sometimes with a lightness in her step he hadn’t seen in years.
He noticed she talked about the running group more—Lina this, Wei that, “Chris said the pace was too fast today”—casual, but always Chris.
He had joined the Punggol Waterway Runners WhatsApp group months ago (mostly to keep tabs on her schedule). He read every message. Group runs were Friday evenings and occasional Saturday mornings. She was always there. Always home by 8 or 9 p.m. Never suspiciously late.
No proof.
No hotel receipts. No unexplained absences. No strange perfume on her clothes. No late-night calls.
Nothing.
And that made it worse.
Because he knew something was different.
He just didn’t know what.
He felt her slipping away.
Not dramatically. Not with fights or ultimatums.
Just… fading.
The woman he fell in love with at first sight—the one who couldn’t keep her hands off him, who laughed at his bad jokes, who looked at him like he was the only man in the room—was no longer there.
In her place was a polite roommate who ran the household efficiently, smiled for the kids, and quietly resented him for not being enough.
He didn’t know how to fix it.
He didn’t know if he could.
He was in his mid-forties, energy leaking away year by year. Work drained him. Kids drained him. Marriage drained him. He barely had enough left to focus on his job and his family, let alone rekindle whatever spark had once existed between them.
He still had needs.
But every time he reached for her, she felt distant. Mechanical. Like she was performing a duty.
He remembered the early days—every weekend possible spent in a hotel or her flat, bodies tangled for hours, laughing, breathless, insatiable.
Now it was once every few weeks, quick, lights off, condom on, done in ten minutes.
He missed her.
Missed the connection.
Missed feeling like he mattered to her.
He suspected someone else was giving her that feeling now.
But he had no proof.
And without proof, all he could do was watch her glow… and feel himself fading further into the background.
Helpless.
Tired.
And quietly terrified that he was losing the woman he still loved—even if she no longer loved him back the same way.
I know some bro here are hot for actions
In the coming chapters, it will be a build up to their most explosive session ever.
It will span across 7-8 chapters, before the actions unravel chapter by chapter
Have patience my friends.. you won’t regret it
Part 52: The Vendor Trip
The email landed in Stephanie’s inbox on a quiet Wednesday morning in early March, subject line: “Vendor Conference Invitation – Selected Team Members”.
She opened it during her 10:15 a.m. break, sitting in the clinic pantry with a lukewarm kopi in one hand and her phone in the other.
The message was from the polyclinic’s operations manager, copied to the entire admin and nursing team:
============================
Dear Team,
We are pleased to inform you that our department has been selected to attend the upcoming 3D2N Vendor Conference and Product Showcase in Bangkok, Thailand, from Tuesday 21 April to Friday 24 April 2024.
The conference will include two full days of workshops, product demonstrations, and networking sessions (22–23 April), with a half-day sightseeing tour arranged by the vendor on the final morning (24 April). All airfare, airport transfers, conference fees, and accommodation (3 nights at a 4-star hotel in Sukhumvit) are fully sponsored by the vendor.
Selected attendees: Stephanie Ng, Lina Tan, Mei Ling, $$$$$ Wong, and Priya Devi (Admin & Nursing team).
Please confirm your availability by 15 March. We look forward to representing the polyclinic and bringing back valuable insights for our operations.
Best regards,
Operations Manager
============================
Stephanie stared at the screen for a long moment.
Three days. Two nights. Bangkok. Fully paid.
Her first reaction was quiet excitement—a rare work trip, a change of scenery, a chance to meet other polyclinic staff from different branches, maybe even learn something useful for once.
Her second reaction was practical: Tuesday 21 April to Friday 24 April morning. That means I’m gone almost the entire week. Jude will have to rearrange his off days. The kids…
She forwarded the email to Jude with a short note.
Stephanie (WhatsApp to Jude, 10:32 a.m.):
“Work trip to Bangkok end of April. 3D2N, fully sponsored. Selected team only. Thoughts?”
Jude replied during his lunch break.
Jude:
“Nice. Which days?”
Stephanie:
“Tue 21 Apr to Fri 24 Apr morning. Conference Wed-Thu, sightseeing Fri morning.”
Jude:
“That’s almost the whole week. I’ll need to shift my off days. Mum and Dad can come over to help with the kids.”
Stephanie:
“Yeah. I’ll talk to them. Is it okay with you?”
Jude took a few minutes to reply.
Jude:
“Who else is going?”
Stephanie:
“Just the girls from my department: Lina, Mei, $$$$$, Priya. No guys.”
Another pause.
Jude:
“Okay. Go lah. It’s work. Good opportunity. Just make sure the kids are sorted.”
Stephanie exhaled slowly.
Stephanie:
“Thanks. I’ll confirm with the team.”
The clinic WhatsApp group exploded shortly after.
Lina:
“Girls, Bangkok trip confirmed! 21–24 Apr. Fully paid! Who’s extending to Sunday for free & easy? I want to shop at Siam Paragon, eat at street food stalls, maybe do a floating market tour!”
Mei:
“Me! We can share rooms and split the extra night cost. Airfare already covered. Just hotel top-up. Saturday night in Bangkok sounds perfect.”
$$$$$:
“Count me in! My husband can handle the kids for one extra night. Let’s do it!”
Priya:
“I’m in too. Long time no girls trip. Steph, you coming for the Sunday extension?”
Stephanie stared at the messages.
The idea was tempting. One extra night—Saturday to Sunday. Shopping at Siam Paragon, street food at Jalan Alor, maybe a quick visit to the floating market or a rooftop bar. No kids. No Jude. Just the girls. Laughing. Eating. Being herself without anyone needing her for five minutes.
But she hesitated.
She thought of Jude’s message: I’ll need to shift my off days. Mum and Dad can come over.
He hadn’t said no. But he hadn’t said yes with enthusiasm either.
She typed slowly.
Stephanie:
“Sounds fun but I’m not sure about extending to Sunday. Kids might miss me too much. Let me check with Jude first.”
Lina:
“No pressure lah. But think about it. We can book the extra night together and you can decide later. Sunday flight back is still early enough to be home for dinner with the family.”
Stephanie locked her phone.
She felt the familiar tug-of-war inside her chest.
Part of her wanted to say yes—desperately. A whole extra night away. No responsibilities. No one asking for anything. Just her and the girls, laughing, eating, being silly like they used to before marriage and kids swallowed her whole.
But the other part—the part that still loved her family, still felt guilty every time she thought of Chris—whispered: You’re already gone so much. Jude already works weekends. The kids already ask why Daddy’s never home. If you extend…
She sighed.
She would talk to Jude tonight.
Dinner was quiet. Kids chattered about school. Jude ate quickly, scrolling his phone. After the kids were bathed and in bed, Stephanie sat on the sofa beside him.
She showed him the group chat messages about extending to Sunday.
“Some of the girls want to stay one extra night,” she said carefully. “Shop, eat, free and easy. Airfare’s already covered. Just extra hotel cost—maybe $120–150 if we share rooms. Flight back Sunday evening, home by dinner time.”
Jude scrolled through the messages, expression neutral.
“You want to go?” he asked.
Stephanie hesitated. “It would be nice. Just one extra night. The kids will be with your parents anyway. They won’t even notice I’m gone one more day. I’ll be home Sunday night.”
Jude nodded slowly.
He didn’t look angry. Just tired.
“Okay,” he said. “Go. Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”
Stephanie blinked.
“Really?”
“Yeah. You’ve been handling a lot. Work, kids, everything. One extra night won’t kill anyone. Just… come back recharged, okay?”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you.”
He gave her a small smile.
“Anything for you.”
She felt a pang of guilt—sharp, familiar.
He was trying. In his own way.
She texted the group later that night.
Stephanie:
“I’m in for the Sunday extension. Let’s book!”
The replies came fast—excited emojis, plans for shopping at Siam Paragon, street food at Jalan Alor, maybe a rooftop bar or floating market tour on Saturday night, who would room with whom.
She locked her phone.
Lay in bed beside Jude.
Stared at the ceiling fan.
And wondered why the thought of one extra night away made her feel both excited and guilty at the same time.