Beautiful Mess.

I stayed in Korea for exactly one week.

Just enough to breathe.

Just enough to sleep without feeling like i had to explain why i was crying.

Just enough to walk around with my hoodie up, facemask on, pretending i was a ghost nobody could see.

But i knew i couldn't stay forever.

Not in sebastian's condi.

Not in another country.

Not when my silence was beginning to feel like running, not healing.

So i booked the flight.

No hesitation.

I didn't even blink when i clicked confirm.

I left my half-finished coffee on the table, zipped up my suitcase, and took one last look at sebastian's condo that held all my breakdowns.

No more hiding.

No more pretending.

-

When i landed in Manila, the sun was already setting.

The sky looked tired, like me.

Faded orange, a hint of pink.

The kind of color you could only catch if you arrived at just the right time.

My driver was already waiting.

I didn't want to deal with airport photographers or people who might recognize me as the international horse racer or Sebastian's sister or the one and only daughter's of Claudia and Raphael Gutierrez, so i wore all black—hoodie, joggers, sunglasses, cap.

Typical "I just got off a flight and don't want to talk" look.

When i got home, the door opened before i even knocked.

And there they were.

My parents.

"Anak…"

My mom's voice cracked.

My dad looked like he hadn't shaved in days.

It was the first time in years i saw them this… soft. Vulnerable. Uncomposed.

They both walked toward me and hugged me at the same time.

"I'm sorry, Atasha," my mom whispered against my shoulder. "We should've been there. We should've listened."

My dad didn't say anything.

Just held me tighter.

I felt his breath hitch.

I didn't cry.

I didn't hug them back either.

I just stood there, letting them say sorry, letting them feel better about finally saying it.

But i couldn't bring myself to respond.

Not yet.

I wasn't angry.

I wasn't sad.

I just… didn't feel anything.

I didn't bother unpacking.

I didn't eat.

I didn't rest.

There was no time to process.

Jetlag could wait.

Pain could wait.

Tonight, I needed to feel something.

Even if it was just the numbing heat of alcohol sliding down my throat.

So i changed.

Black mini dress.

Boots.

Red lips.

Uber to the bar.

No security.

No bodyguards.

I was just Atasha tonight.

No last names.

No reputation.

No pressure to behave.

The lights were low and the bass was loud.

I liked it here because the music made it impossible to think.

People were already dancing, and i didn't even order a drink yet, I went straight to the floor.

Bodies swaying. Heat.

The occasional hand on my waist.

I let them touch me.

Let them think i wanted it.

I didn't, but i don't care.

I just needed to disappear.

Until—

"Hands off."

A sharp voice behind me.

I felt my arm being pulled, hard, and then i was being dragged away from the dance floor.

"What the fuck?" I snapped, trying to pull away.

It wasn't until we were outside, past the smoke, the sweat, the crowd and that i realized who it was.

Lorenzo.

Of course it was him.

Leather jacket, that same goddamn cold expression like he hadn't missed me at all.

We were in the parking lot now.

Alone.

Streetlight flickering above us like it couldn't decide if it wanted to stay on.

I snatched my arm away. "Are you stalking me?"

He didn't answer at first.

Just stared.

His jaw clenched.

His eyes sharper than i remembered.

"Are you serious right now?" he finally said. "Is that who you are now? Grinding up on random guys like a goddamn pick-me?"

I blinked.

Laughed bitterly. "Wow. So now you care?"

He stepped closer.

"I've always cared, Anastasia. You're just too busy acting broken to notice."

I scoffed. "Says the guy who only care when he wants to fuck."

"And you come running every time."

That shut me up.

Because it was true.

"You think this is funny?" he said again, voice lower now, angrier. "Flirting with strangers in bars like you're not the same person who cries in my arms after sex?"

"Fuck you."

"No. Fuck you," he snapped. "What the hell is wrong with you? One minute you're all over me, next you're disappearing to Korea without a word. Then you come back and let some guy put his hands all over you?"

I slapped him.

Hard.

The sound echoed.

My hand stung.

His face turned to the side but he didn't react. Didn't even flinch.

And then—

He kissed me.

I tried to push him away, shoved at his chest with both hands. "Let go of me!"

But he didn't stop.

Didn't speak.

Didn't ask.

He just kept kissing me like he had something to prove.

Like punishing me with softness was better than fighting me with words.

And i hated him for it.

But i kissed him back.

Because i hated myself more.

"Stop the car," I muttered.

He didn't.

We were already pulling into the driveway of the hotel.

His hotel.

The same one we always ended up in when we were too angry or too horny or too lost to go home.

"Lorenzo," I said again, louder. "Stop the—"

But he'd already parked.

And before i could open the door, he was on me again.

Mouth against mine.

Fingers in my hair.

Hands dragging me onto his lap.

It wasn't romantic.

It was ugly.

Desperate.

Rough.

The kind of kiss that says I hate you but I need you so bad it's killing me.

Somehow we made it to the room.

Clothes scattered down the hallway.

My boots hit the wall.

His shirt got stuck on the doorknob.

By the time we got to the bed, we weren't talking.

We didn't need to.

Our bodies knew the conversation we were too afraid to start.

After, I lay on the edge of the bed, sheet wrapped around me.

My back to him.

I could hear him breathing.

Still fast. Still angry.

It was always like this.

We'd fuck.

Then silence.

Then i'd leave.

But not tonight.

"I need to know," I said, barely above a whisper. "What the hell are we doing?"

He didn't answer.

Typical.

I turned to face him. "Answer me! What are we? Do you like me or not?!"

His eyes met mine.

Cold, unreadable. But not empty.

"Do you?"

That caught me off guard.

He sat up, leaned against the headboard, ran a hand through his hair.

"I don't do relationships," he said. "I thought you know that."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Then what are you asking?"

I swallowed.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe just… stop making me feel like i'm only worth your time when you're horny."

His jaw clenched.

"You're not," he said quietly.

"Then why do you act like i am?"

Silence.

And then, he looked at me. Really looked.

Like he'd finally taken off the armor.

"I'm scared shitless of you, Anastasia."

I blinked. "What?"

"You get under my skin. You make me feel things i don't want to feel. And yeah, maybe i'm an asshole for keeping it casual, but don't think for a second that this—us—it's nothing to me."

He sighed, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I see the way you break down when you think nobody's watching. I see the weight you carry like it's stitched into your fucking spine. And maybe i don't know how to love properly, maybe i'm too broken to even try—but don't ever think i don't want you."

I didn't realize i was crying until he reached out and wiped a tear from my cheek.

"I don't know what we are," I whispered.

"Neither do I," he said. "But i want to find out."

We didn't say anything after that.

I just curled up beside him, head against his chest.

Listening to his heartbeat like it was a song only i could hear.

Not lovers.

Not strangers.

Something in between.

Something dangerous.

But maybe… maybe something real.