Chapter 17: Part 2 - Washing off the flour

= Sarah POV =

I kept running, blindly pushing forward as tears blurred my vision.

The corridors twisted and stretched in all directions, my footsteps echoing too loud, too frantic. I just needed to reach the lift lobby—just needed to get away.

But my legs faltered, trembling beneath me, and before I could regain my balance, an arm caught me.

Firm. Unyielding.

I gasped, twisting instinctively to break free, but the grip tightened—steady, grounding.

Chris.

She didn't say a word as she guided me through a series of doors, moving with practiced ease until we emerged in a bathroom I didn't recognize.

Marble counters. Soft, golden lighting. Pristine mirrors.

It felt suffocatingly intimate.

I staggered toward the sink, reaching for the faucet, but my fingers slipped uselessly against the smooth knob. My hands were coated in sticky dough and grime, trembling too much to get a proper grip.

Before I could try again, Chris stepped in.

Her hands—large, warm, infuriatingly steady—wrapped around mine and turned on the faucet.

I froze.

Without asking, without waiting for permission, she took my hands in hers and began to scrub away the mess.

Water cascaded over our fingers, warm and cleansing, as her thumbs pressed gently against my skin, rubbing flour and dough out from under my nails.

"Chris… stop," I said, but my voice cracked—barely more than a whisper.

"Shh." Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it—a tension barely contained.

"It's okay," she said, her words low and deliberate. "It's not your fault. I'm sorry for snapping earlier. I shouldn't have called you out like that."

She dipped her hands under the stream of water again, gathering more and cupping it to rinse the flour off my wrists and forearms.

"Mistakes happen, Sarah. We can make more dough. What we can't make more of is you."

I flinched.

Her words hit too close—too raw—and I wrenched my hands free, stepping back sharply and pushing at her to give me space.

"I can do this myself," I said, my voice trembling.

Chris didn't move.

She stood firm, bracing her hands against the edge of the sink, her body blocking me in.

"Who are you trying to shove away?" she asked, her voice colder now—harder. "You can barely see with all that flour still on your face."

I swallowed, my chest tightening.

I hated her for being right. Hated her for standing so close—too close—while my heart felt like it was shattering all over again.

I didn't answer.

Instead, I turned back to the sink, cupping water in my hands and scrubbing at my face, ignoring the sting as flour turned to paste and peeled away under my touch.

I scrubbed harder, trying to drown out the sound of my own ragged breaths—and the heat of Chris's gaze burning into my back.

I flinched as a sudden spray of cold water hit my legs.

"Chris!" I yelped, stumbling back instinctively.

Chris didn't even flinch. She crouched in front of me, a hose in hand, and was already rubbing at the clumps of dough stuck to my skirt. Her fingers gripped the fabric firmly, tugging it this way and that as if inspecting the damage.

The chill from the water seeped through my leggings, clinging to my skin like ice.

"Urgh! At this rate, I think I just need a new set of clothes," I said, exasperation breaking through the lump in my throat.

Chris straightened up, her eyes sharp as they raked over my disheveled form.

"Yeah, this isn't working. You can't go to work looking like this." She wiped her wet hands against her apron, already pulling out her phone. "Give me a minute."

Before I could ask what she was doing, she stepped outside, her voice low as she spoke into the phone.

The bathroom suddenly felt too quiet without her.

I let out a shaky breath, finally taking in my surroundings properly.

It hit me then—this wasn't just any bathroom.

Marble tiles stretched from floor to ceiling, pristine and gleaming under the soft glow of recessed lighting. The faucets—gold and ornate—glinted despite the flour I'd smudged across them. The mirrors, oval and framed with intricate gold designs, reflected my ragged state against a backdrop that felt… wrong.

Too luxurious.

Behind me, a massive porcelain bathtub with clawed golden feet sat like a throne. And to the side, a high-tech toilet bristled with buttons—bidet, seat warmer, self-cleaning functions—things I'd never even imagined using in my tiny apartment.

My gaze trailed upward.

Roman-style pillars framed the corners of the room, giving it the look of a palace, and the ceiling…

The ceiling was painted like the sky.

Clouds swirled above me, soft and billowy, broken by the occasional cherub with rosy cheeks and mischievous grins.

What the hell was this place?

I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly hyper-aware of how small I felt here—how out of place.

Was this part of the café?

I'd been working here long enough to know every corner, every cramped storeroom and squeaky bathroom door. But this… this felt like a different world entirely.

Something private. Hidden.

I turned back to the mirror and stared at my reflection.

I was red-cheek, with swollen lips and puffy, red eyes from rubbing them so hard. My skirt was soaked, sticking uncomfortably to my legs. My bun had come loose, and strands of hair curled wildly around my face.

I looked lost.

The sound of Chris's voice drifted back through the door—low and serious.

I clenched my fists.

What was I even doing here?

Chris had cornered me, dragged me into this pristine space like I was some problem she needed to fix, and now…

I didn't even know what came next.

The door creaked open, and I spun toward it, my heart leaping.

Chris stepped inside, pocketing her phone. Her eyes immediately found mine in the mirror.

Chris stepped back into the bathroom, her demeanor lighter, almost teasing, like she had already decided the day's troubles were behind us.

"Ruby says you can pick something from her wardrobe when you're ready. She'll let Heather know you're taking a mental health day—paid, of course. So don't worry about work." Her voice softened. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

I shook my head, my fingers twitching against the damp fabric of my skirt.

"No, you're right," I murmured. "I-I shouldn't have been so clumsy. I ruined a perfectly good batch of dough because I got startled, and—"

Chris frowned, stepping closer. "What startled you?"

I hesitated, my heart pounding. "I… I saw that chef—your ex—feed you something. I didn't know you were already so close with everyone here. And then when I realized who she was…"

I looked away, my voice faltering.

Chris was silent for a moment, and when I dared glance up, I caught her smirking.

"Is that jealousy I'm hearing?"

"No!" The word came out too quickly, too sharp, and I winced at the sound of it. "You can do whatever you want—with whoever you want. I'm not jealous!" I waved my hands defensively, as though I could bat away her words.

But Chris didn't back off. Instead, she took a slow, deliberate step forward.

I froze as her hand brushed down my shoulder, light as silk, before trailing along my forearm. It left a path of tingling heat in its wake.

She tilted my chin up, her fingers firm but careful, forcing me to meet her gaze. Her dark eyes were unreadable, but there was something in them that made it impossible to look away.

"You know," she said softly, her voice like velvet, "jealousy isn't always a bad thing."

Her thumb brushed along my jaw, and I shivered despite the warmth radiating off her body.

"It just means someone matters to you. That you want to be closer to them. It's natural, Sarah. You don't have to be shy with me."

Her other hand found my waist, slipping around to my back, pulling me closer, and suddenly, I couldn't breathe.

"Tell me how you really feel," she whispered. "Tell me everything."

I was trembling now—whether from the lingering dampness of my clothes or the heat of her touch, I couldn't tell. My head spun, torn between the dizzying need to lean into her warmth and the screaming reminder that this wasn't right.

"N-No, you've got it all wrong. I'm not—"

Before I could finish, Chris moved.

Her lips crashed against mine, stealing my breath and scattering every thought I had left.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It was hungry, possessive—like she had waited too long for this moment and wasn't going to let it slip away.

I gasped, and she took full advantage, deepening the kiss and pulling me tighter against her.

My back hit the cold marble wall, and the shock of it only made me sink further into her warmth. Her hands roamed—one still cupping my jaw, the other pressing into the small of my back, anchoring me in place.

I couldn't move. Couldn't think.

All I could do was feel—her heat, her strength, the way her fingers splayed across my waist as though she was claiming me right here, right now.

I should have stopped her. I should have pushed her away.

But instead, my hands fisted in the fabric of her shirt, holding her closer, desperate for something solid to ground me as the world tilted.

When she finally pulled back, I was left breathless, my lips tingling and swollen.

Chris didn't let go.

Her forehead rested against mine, her breath warm as it fanned across my skin.

"Don't lie to me," she murmured. "Not about this."

Her words hit me harder than the kiss, and I felt the sharp sting of tears threatening to return.

Because as much as I wanted to deny it—as much as I wanted to convince myself that this was wrong—I couldn't ignore the way my body had responded to her.

I couldn't pretend I didn't want more.