Unable to tolerate the increasing drum beating in my heart, I went back to my room under the pretext of sleeping.
The next morning, we hired a scooter to ride across Sidemen. As we left the tourist bustle behind, the road began to twist and turn, carving its way through emerald jungles and past villages where life moved to a slower, older rhythm.
"Hold on tighter," Caelum called back to me over the sound of the wind.
I hesitated for only a second before sliding my hands forward, encircling his waist. I felt the sharp intake of his breath beneath my palms, the way his back straightened just a fraction. I leaned closer, my helmet resting against his shoulder blade, and I could have sworn I felt the steady, strong beat of his heart.
The road curved, and he pressed back slightly, his body fitting against mine like we'd done this a hundred times. I didn't pull away. My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on.
He slowed at a scenic overlook, and I felt his hand cover mine, just for a moment, just long enough to send a current down my spine. "You okay back there?"
I swallowed. "Perfect."
He didn't move his hand. Neither did I.
The roads in Sidemen unfurled like a ribbon of grey through a landscape painted in impossible greens. We passed women carrying towering offerings of fruit on their heads, their steps sure and graceful. We passed men leading ducks with red leashes to the rice paddies. Caelum would slow down for a better look, and I would whisper facts in his ear—the name of a flower, the story behind a small roadside temple. He would nod, and I felt the movement through his whole body. I was glad that my research about Indonesia was coming handy.
We parked the scooter and began to walk, following the narrow paths that traced the contours of the paddies. The paddies were a brilliant, almost luminous green, swaying gently in the breeze. The only sounds were the trickle of water in the irrigation channels, the distant call of a bird, and our own footsteps.
Caelum stopped walking, his gaze fixed on the mountain. "It's more than beautiful," he said, his voice quiet with awe. "It feels... sacred. Like the earth is breathing."
I watched him, not the view. I watched the way the light sculpted the planes of his face, the way his throat moved as he swallowed. A fierce, possessive love for this moment, for this place, for him, welled up inside me.
Am I falling in love with my own creation?
****
The day after, I signed both of us for a jewelry making workshop in Sidemen. The workshop smelled faintly of metal and incense. Rain misted over the thatched roof, soft and rhythmic, blending with the hiss of the torch flame. Beside me, he rolled up his sleeves, and I couldn't help noticing his manly hands, veins are visible, just as I imagined.
"Hold the wire steady," the silversmith said, his voice calm, patient. I tried. But my hands trembled just enough to make the piece wobble. And, of course, he noticed.
"Here," he murmured, stepping closer behind my back. I felt him before I saw him, his body brushing against my shoulder, his hand covering mine to guide it. "Like this. Slow, steady."
His fingers enveloped mine, firm yet gentle, his breathing syncing with my own. The heat from the forge mixed with the warmth of his body, and suddenly—this slow act of shaping silver into a ring felt too intimate for something so small.
"Better," he said quietly near my ear, almost a whisper.
"Only because you're holding me," I replied before realizing how it sounded. My cheeks burned hotter than the metal in front of me.
He chuckled softly, low in his throat. "Then I'll keep holding until it's perfect."
I could feel my cheeks getting warm. What's with him and his words? I wondered. My heart skips a beat or two when he talks like this without being aware that he just flirted.
We looked down as the ring started to take shape—soft edges, imperfect but beautiful. I imagined it on his hand, then mine. The thought sent a pulse through me I tried to ignore.
"Maybe," he said after a moment, still not looking up, "we should make two."
I turned to him. His eyes held mine steady, a glint of mischief and something deeper beneath. "Matching ones?" I teased, though my heart thudded traitorously in my chest.
"Matching," he said simply. "So no matter where we go, we'll both have something we made together."
The silversmith glanced up from the table, smiling warmly at us. "You two make a very lovely couple," he said. "Young lady, you are lucky to have such a sensitive boyfriend."
The words hung in the humid air, sweet and dangerous. Couple. Boyfriend. My chest tightened. Those weren't words I used for him—at least, not out loud.
Before I could process the rush it sent through me, I laughed too quickly, trying to sound casual. "No... no, we're not a couple. Just friends."
He looked at me, quiet, and I instantly regretted saying it. The smirk that touched his lips wasn't mocking—just quiet, like he wanted to ask, 'Are you sure?'
The silversmith returned to his work, humming softly, but my heart wouldn't settle. His hand brushed mine as he reached for the same tool, and I flinched.
"Just friends, huh?" he said finally, voice low enough that only I could hear.
I felt heat rise to my neck. "That's what we are. At least until I figure out the situation," I replied, staring at the silver in front of me, the glimmer of it catching the light like my pulse skipping out of rhythm.
He leaned closer, his breath grazing my ear. "Strange," he murmured. "Doesn't feel like it. Like we are friends."
I froze—my fingers still wrapped around the piece of silver I'd been shaping into a ring. I could see our reflections in the polished surface—a little blurred, a little too close.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because he was right. It didn't feel like "just friends." It felt like standing on the edge of something uncertain and irresistible—the space between a heartbeat and a promise.
****
Back at the villa, with the sound of rain pressing against the windows, I sat on the couch with my laptop open. My phone kept lighting up—missed calls, messages from Rhys. Each one more desperate than the last, each word dripping with false sincerity.
He said he wanted to make amends, that he realized his mistakes. But I knew better. His book was due. My words were his lifeline, and just like before, he was reaching for me only because he needed saving.
I typed a short reply...cold, professional. You'll get your book. Then I blocked him.
Now, I needed to write something. Anything.
The laptop screen in front of me was blank and the blinking cursor was a cruel reminder that I had run out of inspiration to write. My mind felt scraped clean, as if every word had already been spent to make money for people who didn't deserve them.
I sighed, buried my face in my hands. "It's useless," I muttered. "I'm completely burnt out."
A soft clink interrupted my frustration. I looked up to see Caelum setting a cup of hot tea beside me, the steam curling gently between us. He didn't say anything at first—just sat down beside me, shoulders almost touching. His warmth bled into the space between us, calm and grounding.
"What's bothering you?" he asked quietly.
"My story," I said, exhaling slowly. "Nothing's coming out. I think I've run out of things to write, or worse — to imagine."
He turned towards me, eyes—steady, unreadable, but too intense to ignore. "Maybe you just need... a muse."
One corner of his mouth lifted. "Do you want me to inspire you?"
I tried to laugh it off. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"
He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing the space between us. "You'll see," he murmured, eyes never leaving mine.
The tea was getting cold. But I was burning.
The inspiration he spoke of turned out nothing like what I had imagined. I half expected him to steal my breath with a kiss that would shatter all reason—something wild and uncontained.
Instead, he nestled in closer, the distance between us shrinking in quieter, more dangerous ways. "Let's brainstorm," he said calmly, as if he hadn't just set fire to my thoughts.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on me. "You created me as your male lead, right?"
"Yes," I said softly. Then, after a pause, the truth slipped out before I could stop it. "And also as my ideal partner."
His brows lifted slightly and I could feel a smirk. I looked away anticipating judgement from him. "It was a bad day," I confessed. "I just wanted to forget my ex. So I imagined... the kind of man I'd rather be with." My voice faltered under his quiet focus.
"So I'm your ideal partner?" he asked, "I thought we were....friends."
"It's not like that," I stammered, forcing a shaky laugh. "I didn't know you'd actually appear." I still couldn't meet his eyes. "You were supposed to stay on paper."
"Ah," he murmured, leaning closer, his gaze dipping briefly to my lips before finding my eyes again. "So... whatever I do or think is exactly what you want me to, isn't it?"
I hesitated. "Probably."
He smiled, slow and deliberate. "Then I want you..."
My breath caught, my heart thudding in my throat. For a suspended moment, everything stilled—the rain outside, the world itself.
"...to try to write one of your old stories," he finished softly, a sly spark in his eyes. He knew what he was doing. "Maybe there's something in them worth rediscovering."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. He chuckled quietly, the sound low, amused. Something inside me anticipated that he would kiss me.
"But they were too childish." Masking my embarrassment I said.
"Try once more before coming to a conclusion." His voice now firm.
I opened my phone's gallery where old photos of my handwritten stories were tucked away like forgotten secrets. They weren't meant for anyone else—just relics of the days when words came to me as easy as breathing.
When I was little, my father used to bring home storybooks every month. I'd literally devour them, tracing the letters with my finger as if touching the words could make me a part of them. My mother noticed how I hovered between the pages, so she bought me a journal "to keep my thoughts safe," she said. I didn't realize then that my thoughts would grow into stories of their own—messy, wild, and honest.
I had once shown those pictures to Rhys, when I was reminiscing my past. But he hadn't even looked. He was always somewhere else—inside deadlines, ambition, excuses, parties. The words that shaped my childhood meant nothing to him.
But now, here was Caelum, assuring me that the stories still mattered. He didn't rush me. Instead, he coaxed the past out gently.
He leaned in, eyes glancing at the photos on my screen. "You wrote all these?" he asked softly.
"Yes," I whispered. "When I was a kid."
"Then they're part of who you are now," he said, tilting his head slightly. There was warmth in his voice.
I stared at him, wondering if it was just coincidence—his patience, his thoughtfulness—or if it was because he was born of my thoughts, shaped by what I wished my partner could be. Maybe that's why he could see me so clearly. Maybe that's why, sitting there under the gold light of Sidemen's quiet night, I felt like I was being read, line by line, the way I had once read every story I ever loved.