19 Aerobic Exercise

Gemma's POV.

Luke's lips taste like alcohol.

I slightly turn my head and glance towards the living room over Luke's shoulder—there are several empty bottles on the table.

He's drunk, on his own birthday.

The liquor is strong, and even the lingering taste of it on Luke's lips makes me feel slightly tipsy.

He pulls me inside, shuts the door, and presses me against the wall, kissing me fiercely.

This kiss is different from usual, like a heavy rain pounding on a window, making my eardrums and heartbeat resonate together.

So by the time I realize it, Luke has already moved me from the wall to the sofa.

I'm lying on it, and Luke is on top of me.

His lips are warm and damp, but his fingertips are icy cold. His hands roam under my clothes, slipping in through the hem.

I can't help but shiver.

Before I know it, my clothes are undone.

Luke's lips leave mine and travel downward from my neck, kissing and sucking hard, leaving small wet marks on every inch of my body.

My nerves are on edge, as though long roots are growing inside me, rising and falling in rhythm with his movements.

The ceiling light is warm in tone, and Luke's hair is messy, gleaming with glow. His breath is hot against my skin.

It's cold outside, but inside, it feels like there's a fire burning.

I remember we're still in a cold war, and I should push him away.

But the scent of alcohol on Luke lingers around me, making my head spin.

"Do you want me?" I ask, managing only this one question.

Luke nods, his hair swaying slightly.

"Why do you want me?" I ask again.

Luke takes off his shirt and looks up at me. In his eyes, I see my reflection. "Because you're Gemma Dawson."

The world falls silent.

Alright, fine.

I reach out and hook my arms around his neck.

I know we still have many issues between us, like how I'm almost transparent in front of him, while he's a black fog to me. Like how, when we argue, it's always me who apologizes first, and he stays on his high pedestal just like when I was chasing him.

But today...

Forget it, I'll think about all that tomorrow.

I respond to his kiss passionately.

When Luke's hard thing enters me, thrusting deep, my mind goes blank, and I gasp sharply.

He stops. "Are you okay?"

I bite down softly on his shoulder. "Don't stop."

And then he doesn't stop anymore.

When it's all over, I'm lying in his arms, too exhausted to even lift a finger.

Luke carries me to the bathroom, gently places me in the bathtub, and silently kneels halfway to wash my body.

A few small lights are on in the bathroom, and now I can see both of us clearly. His chest and shoulders are marked with the scratches I left, and my body is a mess of fluids.

The sound of running water is soft, and the warm water washes away the smells and fluids from my skin.

Then I hear Luke say, "I'm sorry."

Suddenly, my entire body tenses up.

When a man apologizes to a woman after sex, it usually means only one thing.

He was drunk and dragged her to bed because of alcohol, and he won't take responsibility.

Is Luke one of those irresponsible jerks?

As I start to feel upset, Luke continues, "It's not that I was trying to hide things from you. It's just that something bad happened on my birthday... I don't want to remember it."

Turns out he's apologizing for our last argument.

I exhale in relief.

I look into Luke's eyes and lean in to kiss his lips. They're still warm and damp.

"Tell me when you're ready."

Just like how I confessed to him about being the other woman once. I know how hard it is to fully bare yourself to someone you love. I have patience.

Afterward, I stand up, dry myself off with a towel, and prepare to get dressed and leave.

But just as I go to the bedroom to grab my shirt, a pair of arms wrap around me from behind.

Luke's chest is pressed tightly against my smooth back. His heartbeat feels like it's pounding directly onto my skin.

"Don't go. Stay here." I hear him say.

We stand there, quietly holding each other.

After a while—

"My nightlight is still at home," I suddenly remember.

"I'll go get it for you."

"My pajamas."

"I'll get those too."

"My makeup."

"I'll bring everything over."

I look up at him. "Actually, we're neighbors, we live so close. It's not necessary—"

Before I can finish my sentence, he already has me pinned to the bed, resuming our "aerobic exercise."

This night marks the beginning of my belongings appearing at Luke's place—starting with a pink hairpin, then a water cup, face masks, and more and more.

Basically, I live at Luke's house now, only going back to my place occasionally when I realize I'm missing something.

Luke is always worried I won't come back. The moment I leave, even for five minutes, he'd text me, "Are you done? Why aren't you back yet?"

His attitude toward me changed drastically after we started making love.

"Why is that?"

Finally, after one session of our aerobic activity, I ask Luke about the change, voicing my confusion.

"Did I? You're overthinking," Luke says with his eyes closed, his arm wrapped around my waist.

"Could it be..." A thousand possibilities flashes through my mind, but only one seemes likely— "Could it be that my body is so incredible that you just can't get enough of it?!"

Luke's hand, the one resting on my waist, twitches involuntarily.

"If that's the case... then I'm really at a disadvantage," I continue, indulging in my perfect fantasy.

"Why?"

"Well, what if I'm actually a rare gem? Maybe I could meet an even better man?"

"..."

"Luke, why aren't you saying anything? What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking... I must not have made you tired enough, if you still have energy to imagine all this."

He pounces on me again.

I chuckle.

Lately, I keep thinking about the conversation Luke and I had on his birthday.

"Why do you want me?"

"Because you're Gemma Dawson."

Because I'm Gemma Dawson.

My heart is small, but those words fill it completely.

Winter in New York feels like it's been abandoned by the sun. Everything is gray and cold, with sharp, needle-like snowflakes that seem to know exactly how to find their way down your collar.

So unless it's something really important, I refuse to go out.

But we can't avoid running out of essentials at home—like condoms.

The first few times I go to buy them, I stay three meters away from Luke, pretending not to know him while he grabs them.

Later, I'd try hiding the condoms under a pile of face masks, and only dare to pay when there are fewer people around.

Recently, I've become quite skilled, chatting enthusiastically with the Durex sales rep and even purchasing the ribbed and fruit-flavored varieties on her recommendation.

But just as I'm leaving the store, shopping bag in hand, I stop in my tracks.

Dmitri is here again.

Luckily, he's standing far enough away that he probably didn't see what I bought.

He walks towards me. "Christmas is coming. Are you staying in New York or going back to California?"

"That's none of your business," I say, adjusting my shopping bag, the green plastic rustling softly.

"Gemma, my patience is limited," Dmitri's voice this time carries a warning.

"I think you should wake up. Not everyone should revolve around you," I snap, irritated by his attitude.

"Ever since that man came into your life, you've changed a lot," Dmitri says softly, studying my expression. "And I don't like it."

I hate this attitude of his, as if I should always be under his control. "If you still think that way, then we have no reason to meet again."

"Does that man know about our relationship?" Dmitri suddenly asks.

"Yes, he knows, and he knows everything very clearly. So please, abandon any plans to use this no-longer-secret as leverage against me," I reply firmly.

I take a deep breath. "I think he's a good fit for me, and I really want to see where things go with him. So, please, let me go."

I walk past Dmitri, heading back, but he follows closely behind. I deliberately take multiple turns, weaving through crowded streets, but he sticks to me the entire time.

I stop and turn around. "What exactly do you want?"

"I want to meet that man," Dmitri says without hiding his intentions.

"Absolutely not," I refuse outright.

"What are you afraid of? Afraid I'll deal with him?" Dmitri's tone carries a subtle threat. "Or is this man you've supposedly carefully chosen so weak he can't withstand anything?"

"First of all, I didn't 'carefully choose' him. I met him, I like him, and now we're together. Second, he's not weak," I correct Dmitri, point by point.

"Then why won't you let me meet him?" Dmitri stares straight at me.

Suddenly, a wave of molten anger rises within me, burning through my restraint.

My body almost trembles as I speak. "Dmitri, what on earth makes you think you have the right to disrupt my life, again and again? Have I been too polite with you?"

Dmitri stays silent.

I laugh bitterly. "Yes, it's my fault. When your wife came to the school to confront me, I didn't blow up at you. I didn't ask you for any financial compensation either. I simply cut off all contact with you. And because of that, you've somehow convinced yourself that as long as you get divorced, we could be together again."

"So, today, for the last time, let me tell you: I did love you, and because of that, I hate you too. I've had crazy thoughts—like killing you. But my life is more important. I need to move forward. My life is long, and every second I spend looking at you is a waste. Do you understand?"