uGULUVA Chapter 22

NCANEZWE CELE.

I would be lying if I said I slept—not even a single drop. It’s 03:00 a.m., and I requested a cab about five minutes ago. My phone vibrates just as impatience settles in my chest.

I’m outside, sir.

I release a slow breath, grab my jacket, and walk out of the hotel room without looking back. The corridor is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder. The lift ride down feels longer than it should, my reflection in the mirror staring back at me—eyes sharp, jaw tight, mind far from calm. Outside, the cold air slaps some sense into me. I slide into the back of the cab, murmuring the address, and the driver pulls off smoothly. Dubai at this hour is a different beast—empty roads, dim streetlights, secrets tucked into shadows.

I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes, but she’s there immediately. Phindile. The way her breath hitched when I leaned too close. The way her body betrayed her before her mouth ever could. That scent—warm, soft, dangerous—still clings to my senses like it’s branded itself into me.

This is madness, I tell myself.

She is not mine. She is part of a plan, a story we are selling to the world. Nothing more.

Yet my body doesn’t listen.

The cab turns into the quiet street near the housing, slowing down as if even the driver understands the hour demands respect. I look at the last messages I sent her.

I will be back by 03:30 just to make our story more convincing, Mamacita.

I swallow hard at my own words. Convincing who, exactly? The world… or myself? The cab comes to a stop a short distance away. I pay the driver and step out, adjusting my jacket as I walk the rest of the way. The gate creaks as I stand in front of it, well thanks to MK. Lights are off. The house is asleep.

Not the kind of sleep that’s light and restless, but the heavy kind—walls settled, floors quiet, air holding its breath. I stand there for a moment with my hand on the door, listening. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Just the low hum of night. I push the door open slowly.

It gives way without complaint, and I step inside, closing it behind me with care. The darkness wraps around me as I move through the passage, my steps measured, deliberate. I know this house well enough now to walk it blind, but tonight I’m careful anyway. Some instinct tells me not to disturb the stillness.

The stairs creak softly beneath my weight as I climb them. One step. Then another. Every sound feels louder than it should be, like the night is paying attention.

Her door is at the end of the passage. I stop there for a second longer than necessary, staring at it. There’s something about crossing that threshold—like stepping into something I shouldn’t linger in for too long. Eventually, I push it open. The room greets me in silver.

Moonlight spills through the curtains, casting soft lines across the bed. She’s lying on her side, face turned toward the window, lashes resting against her cheeks. Peaceful. Unguarded. The sight pulls a smirk from me before I can stop it.

Deep sleeper, I think.

I step further in, careful again. She doesn’t move. Not even a twitch. For a moment, I just stand there watching her breathe, slow and even, as if the world hasn’t touched her tonight.

Then I reach for the switch.

The light clicks on. Her eyes flutter open almost immediately. So much for deep sleep. She blinks once, then again, adjusting to the light. Her gaze finds mine, unfocused but familiar. Too familiar.

“Nca?” Her voice is soft, thick with sleep, and it rolls through me like a quiet curse. It hits my chest first, then settles lower. I clench my jaw. F-uck.

“It’s me, mamacita,” I say, keeping my tone steady. Casual. Controlled. I shrug out of my jacket, letting it slide from my shoulders. “Go back to sleep. I’ll take the couch.”

She hums in response—not quite a word, not quite a sound. Just acknowledgment. Acceptance.

Her eyes close again as if I were never anything more than part of the room. I turn away before I can think too much about that.

My shoes come off quietly near the door. I pull my shirt over my head, the fabric clinging for a second before releasing me. The room suddenly feels warmer, heavier. I leave my pants on, like a boundary I’m not ready to cross—even in my own head.

I glance back at her once more. She hasn’t moved. Still breathing evenly. Still asleep. Or pretending well enough. The balcony door slides open with a soft sound, and the cool night air greets me like a slap of clarity. I step outside, leaning against the railing as I pull out a cigarette. The city lights flicker in the distance, indifferent to whatever storm is brewing inside me.

I light up and inhale slowly. The smoke fills my lungs, steadies my thoughts—but not enough. Behind me, through the glass, she sleeps. Or rests. Or waits. I don’t know which one unsettles me more. I exhale into the morning and stare up at the sky.

*

THE MORNING.

Phindile slowly opens her eyes, her senses waking before her thoughts. Strong arms are wrapped around her, her head resting against a firm chest. She inhales softly—and the scent tells her everything.

Him.

Her brows knit faintly as awareness settles in. When did he get back? She shifts slightly, and Ncanezwe feels it immediately. He loosens his hold, though he has been awake for a long while now. He had woken before dawn and chosen not to move, wanting only to feel her there—how naturally she fit against him, how peaceful it made him feel. He hadn’t expected her to wake this early.

“Morning,” he says quietly, sitting up and stepping off the bed, the sudden space between them making the moment feel awkward.

Yet even as he moves away, the warmth lingers. He had felt at peace with her tucked safely between his arms. He walks away slowly, movements deliberate, and settles on the top of the couch, leaning back with a calm, controlled presence. Phindile sits up straighter in bed, suddenly aware of her body, the lingering closeness still heating her skin. Morning light streams through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the room, highlighting the quiet intimacy lingering between them.

“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice slightly breathless as she glances toward him. The simple greeting feels heavier than usual, laden with unspoken thoughts and the memory of last night.

Ncanezwe clears his throat, low and deliberate. “I… I apologise if I made you uncomfortable,” he says, eyes meeting hers for a fraction of a second before looking away, betraying a hint of unease.

Phindile freezes for a moment, taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. She had been shocked at how close he held her, the way his body seemed to claim the space beside hers—but instead of fear, she feels something else: a curious sense of safety she hadn’t expected.

“Uh… no problem,” she answers softly, voice tinged with surprise and something else she doesn’t quite name. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, the soft fabric of her short pajamas brushing against her skin, making her hyper-aware of the electricity in the air.

Ncanezwe’s gaze lingers on her, unflinching, making warmth creep up her neck. She can almost feel the intensity of his stare tracing her movements without touching. Even across the room, a magnetic pull seems to bridge the distance between them.

Phindile rises from the bed, careful but conscious of every subtle movement, each one catching his attention. She walks toward the bathroom door, thoughts a mixture of embarrassment, anticipation, and something she’s reluctant to admit: desire. Every step feels amplified under his watchful eyes, and she feels heat rise instinctively, betraying her composure.

*

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