"Don't worry, I'll be gentle."
His breath was warm against my neck. My fingers curled into the sheets as a hand traced the curve of my waist. His voice was low—coaxing, sinful, and patient.
"Just breathe... and hug me."
Skin on skin. A weight over me, pressing me into the mattress, grounding me and undoing me at the same time.
"Ah—wait—"
"I've got you."
His fingers were laced with mine. My legs trembled.
The scent of him—sharp cologne and something darker, addictive—filled my senses. Lips grazed my jaw. Teeth tugged on my earlobe. My breath hitched.
================================================================================================================================
"..."
"...."
My eyes snapped open, and my cheeks flushed pink as I muttered, "Damn it!"
It was night.
A quiet, ordinary night where any normal human should be peacefully asleep—dreaming of beaches, puppies, or tax evasion.
But not me.
"WHY THE HELL AM I REMEMBERING THAT NIGHT AGAIN?!"
I shot up from bed like a horror movie protagonist, heart pounding and face burning. The silence of my apartment absorbed my shout like it was used to my late-night meltdowns.
Which, frankly, it was.
Muttering curses under my breath, I shuffled out of bed and marched to the kitchen. I grabbed a glass, filled it with cold water, and gulped it down like I was trying to drown the memories. It didn't work.
Seriously, what the hell was wrong with my brain?
It had been over a week since the pregnancy test turned positive. Seven whole days of spiraling, panicking, bargaining, vomiting, then panicking some more. And in that time, like a broken rerun on a cursed TV channel, my mind kept dragging me back to that night.
The heat. The heavy breaths. The feel of warm hands against my waist. The voice whispering against my ear—
"Just breathe and hug me."
I gripped the edge of the sink like it could anchor me back to reality.
"Am I going crazy? Or is my soon-to-be baby torturing me?" I muttered, staring down at the silver drain like it held the answers.
I didn't understand it. Why the hell did I keep remembering that night—that intense, mind-numbing, embarrassingly satisfying night—over and over again?
It wasn't just a flashback. It was a replay. Like my brain had set it on loop and decided to air it during prime insomnia hours.
It all started again after I saw that banner at school. That stupid, absurdly perfect face with the cocky smirk and dreamy eyes.
Bastien Chevalier.
The second I saw his poster, something inside me didn't just flicker—it short-circuited.
No—not something.
Everything.
And look, I'm not saying I definitely slept with the world-famous Italian superstar Bastien Chevalier. But my subconscious seemed pretty damn convinced. And unfortunately, it was a better storyteller than I ever asked for.
"I must be going crazy," I told the fridge.
The fridge didn't disagree. It just hummed in cold, heartless judgment.
I padded back to my room like a ghost of shame, crawled into bed, and curled into a ball. My hands instinctively went to my stomach.
"Please…" I whispered, stroking my barely-there bump like it was some ancient seal of chaos. "Let Papa sleep, my child. I'm begging you. Sleep. Peace. Quiet. No more sex replays."
The baby didn't answer. Which meant the flashbacks probably would appear.
***
The Next Day,
And of course… my soon-to-be baby did not let me sleep.
I'd heard pregnancy messed with your body—mood swings, cravings, fatigue—but no one warned me about the sex-scene replays in full HD.
Seriously, what kind of cursed womb came with its own late-night adult cinema?
"Sigh… I want creamy buns," I muttered, dead-eyed as I drove to school, looking like the walking embodiment of a breakdown… yet somehow still gorgeously tragic. Like if insomnia were a runway look.
Today was the day.
The day our school—bless the owners and their obsession with fame—turned into a part-time talent agency and decided that we, the overworked teachers, would also serve as unpaid interns for a celebrity.
And not just any celebrity. The celebrity. Bastien freaking Chevalier.
And sure, I could have dressed normally like the exhausted mess I was… But logic said, He's a celebrity, you idiot. Dress up like a human.
So, I dressed up. Slept zero hours. Looked like death dipped in designer cologne.
And when I pulled into the school gates, it hit me.
No, not realization. A wall of shrieking banshees.
"AAAAAHHHHH! BASTIEEEEN!!!"
"MY HUSBAND! MY SOULMATE!"
"I'D HAVE YOUR BABIES!!!"
I blinked.
There were girls—maybe some grown women too—waving sparkly banners like "BASTIEN, BREED ME" and "LET ME LICK YOUR ACCENT."
And that… that was the moment I knew.
"…Fuck," I whispered, gripping the steering wheel with dead resolve. "I am totally doomed."
The entire school had been hijacked.
Bastien Chevalier's face was everywhere. On banners, posters, t-shirts, water bottles, and even the bulletin board—the one sacred space meant for school notices like "Exam Schedules" and "Please stop microwaving fish in the teacher's lounge."
Instead?
"🌟 BASTIEN CHEVALIER – OFFICIAL FAN SIGNING EVENT 🌟"In Comic Sans.
Even Satan wouldn't go that far.
Dragging my sleep-deprived corpse into the teacher's office felt like stumbling into a war zone. Giulia was already running around like a headless chicken on six espresso shots.
"WHERE'S THE COFFEE MACHINE?! WHO MOVED THE TABLE?! WHO THE HELL PUT FLOWERS IN BASTIEN'S FAVORITE COLOR ON THE WRONG SIDE?!"
She stopped mid-rant when she saw me slouch in, holding a paper bag with my shamefully dry croissant.
"God, you look like you were run over by a truck," she said.
"I wish I was," I muttered. "At least I'd get to nap in the hospital. Free pudding, too."
She paused, then actually looked at me. Like, really looked. Her expression softened, shifting from sass to concern.
"I see you're already having mood swings."
"Yeah…" I sighed, collapsing into my chair. "The baby's torturing me by playing re-runs like it's a favorite episode."
She blinked. "What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "Hormones. Sleep deprivation. Possibly rabies."
Giulia gave me a stare so judgmental I swear I saw an invisible HR complaint forming in the air. But then, against all odds, she… softened. Again. Twice in one morning—this was suspicious.
"Alright, fine. You're not going to the front lines," she said, dramatically tearing the clipboard assignment like she was burning ancient war orders. Then, with a magician's flair, she pulled a different sheet from her folder.
"I'm assigning you one simple job. No crowds, no chaos. Just this—" she handed me a dusty-looking walkie-talkie, "—and your remaining sanity".
I blinked. "Wow… did we just time-travel back to the '90s?"
"Shut up." She smacked my arm with the walkie. "It still works, unlike your attitude."
"Okay, okay, chill! But… what exactly is my ancient, walkie-powered job?"
She smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. It was the kind of smile that meant trouble.
"You're going to follow Bastien for the entire day and report to me if he needs anything."
"…What."
"What?"
"What?! Why that job?!" I hissed, clutching the walkie like it had betrayed me.
"Because it's easy, and more importantly, safe for your baby, idiot. You just need to stay close, watch, and report. That's it."
"But—! I don't wanna do that!"
She narrowed her eyes. "Elio. I'm already coordinating a fan event with hundreds of screaming teenagers, five missing volunteers, and a celebrity rider list that includes room-temperature water imported from the Alps. Don't make me add 'arguing with a hormonal co-worker' to that list. So… just do what I say."
I laughed nervously, giving her a shaky thumbs-up like I wasn't internally spiraling. "I... I'll do that. Yes. Obedient and calm. That's me."
"Good." She turned and strode off like a woman with no time for fools. "Behave properly in front of him and don't make a fool of yourself."
I watched her disappear around the corner and slumped back into my chair, muttering to no one in particular, "I feel like I've had too much Bastien for one week."
Too much Bastien… and he hadn't even walked in yet.