||•The Fortunate•||

\\.7NEW ROUTINES AND SOFT DISCOVERIES ✨\\

She was trying to stay composed, trying to stay wrapped in whatever she'd told herself before she walked in here. But her body said otherwise. Her breathing had changed. Her grip on the towel had loosened. Her legs shifted slightly, as if she couldn't quite sit still under the weight of the moment.

She was quiet. But her silence spoke volumes.

And I was listening to every word.

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Senade's  POV:

He stepped closer, and suddenly the air between us felt heavier—like the whole room had shrunk. I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening on the towel in my lap.

Why is he moving closer?
What does he want?

I looked down, blinking fast to hide the heat creeping up my cheeks. His presence was overwhelming—his skin glowing, the way his muscles moved even when he wasn't trying, that deep, dark brown that seemed to drink in every light around him. I couldn't stop noticing.

My heart was pounding, and I was sure he could hear it.

He stopped just in front of me. I didn't want to meet his eyes, but when I did, I found myself caught. They weren't harsh or demanding. They were steady—like he was trying to see something real beneath my shy silence.

"I... um," I started, voice barely a whisper, then stopped. What could I even say?

"You always look at people like that?" I blurted, cheeks burning. "Like you already know what they'll say... but you're waiting to see if they'll lie."

He raised one eyebrow, a slow smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Like what?" he asked softly.

I fidgeted with the towel, eyes darting away. "I... I don't know. It's just... how you looked at me." My voice was small. Shy. "Like you're... measuring me."

He didn't say anything for a moment. Just watched. And somehow, that silence felt safe.

My breath hitched, and I swallowed again, hoping I wasn't too exposed. But maybe, just maybe, I wanted him to see it all—the awkwardness, the curiosity, the quiet hope tucked inside the shyness.

He studied me for a long beat—like weighing the storm beneath my quiet. Then, without a word, he turned and moved toward the closet.

"Wait here," he said, voice low and steady.

I nodded, heart still thrumming wildly.

He returned with a soft, oversized shirt—the kind that smelled faintly of him. Cotton, worn just enough to be comfortable, is perfect to cover more than just skin.

"Put this on," he said, holding it out.

I hesitated, but the invitation was gentle, impossible to refuse. Slowly, I slipped the damp towel from my shoulders and lifted the shirt over my head. It swallowed me whole—long sleeves draping past my wrists, the hem falling well below my hips.

The fabric was soft against my smooth, warm skin—my rich, deep mocha tone catching the light in a way that made the shirt look like it belonged to me now. I tugged the collar down a little, feeling the quiet protection it offered.

He moved closer, hands steady and sure as he reached for my hair.

My 4a and 4b curls were still damp, the tight coils weighted down by water droplets, glistening under the soft bedroom light. He gently untangled the strands, careful not to pull, his fingers skilled and deliberate. The smell of shampoo and rain lingered in my curls, wild and beautiful.

"It's okay," he murmured, as if reading my thoughts. "You don't have to say anything."

His hands worked patiently, the warmth radiating from his skin touching mine—skin that was a contrast to his own deep, dark chocolate hue. Where his was like polished mahogany, smooth and glowing from the shower, mine was more like soft caramel—warm, glowing, alive.

He finished, and stepped back, eyes lingering on me with something like approval—like he was silently saying You're safe here.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, feeling seen, wrapped in that shirt and his quiet attention.

He held the door open with a steady hand, and I stepped inside, the scent of mint and vanilla greeting me like a whispered promise. It was soft—cool but comforting—filling the room with a warmth that settled into my bones.

The bed looked inviting, draped in crisp white sheets that seemed almost luminous in the gentle light. I hesitated near the edge, unsure how this moment should feel—vulnerable, safe, or something else entirely.

DeMarkus didn't say a word. Instead, he moved quietly, pulling the blanket back with care and motioning for me to lie down.

I obeyed, the fabric cool against my skin as I settled into the softness.

He reached over, smoothing the blanket over me with deliberate tenderness, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. His touch was gentle but firm—a silent assurance that I was not alone, that I was cared for.

As he straightened, his eyes held mine one last time, deep and unwavering.

"I'll be right outside," he said quietly, voice low but steady.

He turned, opening the door to leave, but paused just before stepping out.

"Sleep well," he said, the simple words carrying a weight I couldn't ignore.

Then the door closed softly behind him, leaving me wrapped in the warmth of the room—and something more. Something like hope.

I wanted to say something—anything—but the words got caught in my throat.
This was new. Unexpected.
To feel safe like this. To let someone in.
His presence lingered, even as the door clicked shut.
Maybe I wasn't as alone as I thought.

Maybe... maybe this was the start of something.