"I'm sorry!"
Zayden stood at the doorway, his breath shallow from nerves. His palms were sweating as Irish opened the door to her home with an unreadable, almost cold expression. Her eyes stared sharply, but she didn't say a single word.
Irish had intentionally given him her home address. She said it was so the conversation could be more private. But the silence only made Zayden feel more suffocated.
Without much small talk, Irish pulled Zayden inside. The door closed with a heavy, intimidating thud.
"I'm here," Zayden said, trying to sound composed.
Irish turned around, staring directly at him with sharp eyes. "What do you think I am? Your whore?"
Zayden stiffened. "No... Irish, I'm sorry. It shouldn't have happened. I... I'm older, old enough for you to call me uncle. I'm an idiot!" He lowered his head in regret. "But my mind has been a mess lately…"
"A mess?" Irish folded her arms across her chest. "So Uncle Zayden, does your messed up mind justify harassing me?"
Zayden took a step forward. "Yes, I was wrong!" he said firmly. He grabbed Irish's wrist just as she moved to open the door again. "But please, just hear me out. I'm just... stressed. I'm tired. I'm frustrated because… because of the baby. Marisha and I have been trying for years."
Irish said nothing. But Zayden could see her eyes narrowing, as if weighing the truth.
"What does that have to do with me?" Irish finally asked. "You're just looking for excuses. How many women have you treated like this?"
She smirked, mocking. But inside, she was pleased. Zayden was crumbling, and she was savoring it.
Zayden let out a heavy sigh, lowering his head. "I know it sounds crazy. But every time I look at you... I don't know why, I just think maybe you could give me a child."
Irish paused for a few seconds before asking in a low voice, barely a whisper. "You mean…?"
"To be honest, you're my type. And maybe... subconsciously I tied that to my obsession with having a child. I'm really sorry. I promise I won't show up again. I hope you can understand."
Irish looked at him silently. Her face remained still, but her eyes had softened. "Is it that bad? You're really that broken over wanting a child?" she asked softly.
Zayden nodded slowly. "All I can do is apologize. If you want compensation or…"
"Uncle Zayden," Irish sighed, stepping closer slowly. "Not everything needs to be solved with money, you know? I told you before, don't take life too seriously. Sometimes you just need... rest."
Without warning, Irish pulled Zayden into a warm hug. The sudden move made the grown man stiffen at first, but he soon returned the embrace with trembling hands.
"I don't even know who to talk to anymore," Zayden whispered, lost in the warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.
Irish gave a faint smile, patting his back gently. "I may be young, over a decade younger than you, but I know what it's like to have no one. To have no one to talk to or lean on."
The hug lingered, quiet but comforting. After a long pause, Zayden finally spoke, his voice trembling. "Thank you for understanding. And... I'm sorry."
"I forgive you," Irish whispered into his ear. "Because you're my type too."
Zayden froze. Her gentle voice so close made his neck feel warm, his heart beat faster than usual. He slowly pulled away from the hug and looked into her face. She was smiling faintly, but he couldn't read it—part sincerity, part mystery.
"What do you mean?" he asked hoarsely.
Irish shrugged slightly, as if not wanting to give a clear answer.
"It means…" she chuckled softly, "even though I was angry about the kiss, I know it wasn't just lust. There was feeling. You said I'm your type, so I'll admit—you're mine too. Fair enough? I can forgive you because I know you didn't mean to hurt me."
Zayden blinked. He wanted to deny it, but also wanted to admit it. He wanted to leave, but also wanted to stay. This girl had completely overturned his logic and principles.
"If you were younger and single," Irish added, leaning against the wall, "I might've chased you first."
Zayden laughed awkwardly. "Are you serious or joking? I'm much older—I'll be forty in two years! How could you be interested?"
"What's wrong with age, Uncle?" Irish replied casually. "As long as it's legal, there's no issue, right?"
Their eyes met. Held. Their breath mingled in the warm air between them, separated by only inches. Zayden almost raised his hand to touch her cheek, but quickly lowered it again.
"I should go. I've done what I came to do—I've apologized, right?"
"Want coffee? Or tea?" Irish asked, cutting him off. A subtle signal that she hadn't given him permission to leave yet.
"Coffee," Zayden replied shortly, awkwardly.
Irish nodded and walked to the kitchen. Zayden watched her back as she moved gracefully, as if nothing had happened between them. But that calmness of hers only made him more anxious. He couldn't fully read this woman. Had she really forgiven him? Or was she playing a game he didn't understand?
A few minutes later, Irish returned with two cups of coffee.
"Relax, Uncle. Just think of me as your little sister. Sorry if my jokes earlier weren't funny. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here."
Zayden accepted the coffee. His hand brushed against hers for a split second. Brief, but enough to make his heart leap again.
"Thank you… Irish."
He leaned back against the couch, trying to calm his mind. The aroma of the warm coffee should've helped, but unfortunately, the scent of her body was stronger in his senses.
Irish sat sideways next to him, crossing her legs comfortably. Her gaze was no longer fierce. Now it was... softer. Too soft, even. As if there had never been any tension between them.
"Have you ever felt lonely… even with someone waiting for you at home?" she asked suddenly, turning to him with a curious look.
Zayden froze. The question hit like a silent bullet straight to the chest. He glanced at her briefly, then back to the cup in his hands.
"Often." His voice was nearly a whisper. "But it's not Marisha's fault. She's been good. I'm the one who's… maybe too thirsty."
"Thirsty for what?" Irish asked, leaning in slightly, her voice like a secret whisper.
Zayden shook his head slowly. "Affection… attention… I don't know. I'm confused too. Maybe I've been putting too much pressure on her for a child. I'm the selfish one."
Irish smiled faintly. She touched Zayden's arm—soft, warm, unhurried. A touch that didn't demand but gently seeped in.
"You're only human. It's normal." Irish looked at him with deep understanding. "But you should've communicated it with her, right?"
Zayden let out a long sigh, like releasing a burden he'd been carrying alone for years. "The thing is… she can't have kids because of trauma. She was assaulted as a child. And when she got pregnant, she had to terminate it. Her past is so dark. I can't blame her or add more wounds. So I keep it all inside."
Irish smiled, though her heart clenched tightly. So that wicked woman pretended to be a victim? she thought. What a manipulative bitch. But Irish's face remained calm, her voice gentle, revealing none of the storm brewing inside.
"She's lucky to have you," Irish said sincerely, though the words felt bitter on her tongue. "Not many people can accept and stay after knowing their partner's past."
Zayden lowered his head, eyes starting to water. There was silence for a few seconds before Irish spoke again, softly.
"If you ever need to talk, I'm here. I might be young, but that doesn't mean I can't be a safe place to come home to."
She moved closer slowly and hugged him. Her embrace was warm, light, but enough to soothe the turmoil inside him.
"It must be exhausting, carrying it all alone…"
Zayden said nothing. But he returned the hug, as if he'd finally found a safe haven after being lost in restlessness for so long.
He closed his eyes, letting himself sink into her arms. He didn't realize when his hand moved lower, gently touching Irish's waist. The slow caress felt like a silent request, a hint of pressure, yet careful and hesitant.
Irish didn't resist. Instead, she shifted closer, pressing herself against him, making Zayden lose control even more.
In a heartbeat, their lips met. Brief. But enough to spark fire.
Zayden pulled away quickly, breathless and full of regret. "I—I'm sorry, this is wrong."
Irish's hand cupped his jaw, stopping him from pulling away. Her eyes were sharp but soft, filled with boldness. "Let us make one more mistake," she whispered gently, almost like sweet poison. "Just one last time."
Zayden stared into her eyes, breath quickening. He knew this was crazy. He knew it was wrong. But when Irish whispered that promise, that this would be the last, everything else vanished. Logic, morals, even guilt.
His hands moved on impulse, lifting Irish with ease. Her petite frame clung to his waist and neck, like a little koala gripping tight.
Irish let out a breathy laugh, her gaze still locked on Zayden. Their bodies pressed together, close enough for their breaths to scorch each other's skin—every exhale a brand.
Zayden didn't hesitate. He kissed her again, deeper this time.
The kiss burned, a collision of raw emotion and desire too long held back. Irish's hands slid into his hair, fingers threading through the strands, while his grip dug into her waist, pulling her flush against him. A soft whimper escaped her throat, muffled between their lips.
Zayden pressed harder, grinding his hips against hers in a slow, deliberate friction that made Irish arch into him. Her quiet moan was a shuddering confession—no words needed.
Their breaths grew ragged. When their eyes met, the tension between them crackled, beyond denial now.
"Uncle Zayden…" His name spilled from her lips like a plea, ragged and wanting.
Zayden's control teetered. His gaze darkened, torn between restraint and ruin—but then Irish claimed his mouth again, her kiss deeper, hungrier. That was all it took.
His hands roamed up her back, dragging her closer until her body melted into his lap. Her legs wrapped around him, locking them together as his arms banded around her waist, possessive and sure. Every touch ignited embers they'd tried to smother.
"Let's just… give in this once," she whispered, her voice rough with need. Her palms slid down his chest, lower—
Zayden flipped their positions in one fluid motion, pinning her beneath him. The heat of his body seared through her, and Irish gasped as he rolled his hips, deliberate and slow.
"Just once," he agreed, voice gravel.
Their lips met again, hotter now, desperate. Time blurred—there was only this, Zayden's hands mapping her skin, Irish's nails scraping his shoulders, the slick slide of mouths and whispered moans. A reckless, rising fire neither could stop.