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5 – Sweet and Comforting Like A Hot Chocolate

Private jet, somewhere between Los Aneles and Bogutá.

Night was coming on. Inside the private jet, the cabin lights were dimmed, the air hushed—the kind of silence that feels less like travel and more like a first-class library in the sky.

Steve sat by the window, hunched over a compact work desk, typing, frowning at his iPad like it had personally betrayed him. Across from him, Isaac lounged back, a cup of black tea in hand, his gaze lost in the reflection of his own shadowed face against the window’s dark glass.

Steve exhaled—long and defeated, like a man finally surrendering to the absurdity of his own itinerary. He set the iPad down gently on the small table in front of him. “Can I ask you something?”

Isaac turned his head, slow and deliberate, raising one eyebrow. “Depends.”

Steve gestured first at the iPad, then vaguely at the air around them, as if pointing at the invisible chaos they’d created. “I just realized… this is day five of a month-long route, and we’ve already done six countries.”

Isaac took a calm sip of his tea. “Yes.”

Steve blinked, waiting for more that never came. “So… the last three countries are supposed to be done in—what, two days?”

“Give or take.”

Steve pressed his fingertips to his temples. “Right. Sure. Nothing wrong with that. Apart from the fact we’ve been burning through a hundred and fifty grand a day just to hand-deliver paintings and say, ‘Thank you and have a good day.’”

Isaac glanced over, far too composed. “At least I didn’t sleep with anyone.”

Steve raised both thumbs in mock applause. “Amazing. Moral integrity on a jet-fueled redemption tour. We’re basically the FedEx of the soul, boss.”

Isaac smiled faintly. “We should make the slogan: Isaac Renauld—fast, precise, and emotionally unavailable.”

Steve grinned. “And never jet-lagged. Because, you know, never sleeps either.”

Isaac chuckled—not freely, but sincerely. Then he turned back to the window, eyes distant. Maybe he was looking at the dark stretch of land miles below, or maybe somewhere much deeper. “I thought… if I gave it enough time, I’d quiet down.”

Steve followed his gaze into the void. The sky outside was ink-black, starless. “And it turns out the longer you stay quiet, the louder it gets in your head, huh?”

Isaac didn’t answer. But the small, bitter smile on his lips was all the reply needed.

Steve stood, opened the mini-fridge, and pulled out a can of sparkling water. Settling back into his seat, he raised it like a toast. “All right. Here’s to the fastest, priciest, most temptation-free trip in human history.”

Isaac lifted his cup. They clinked—can to porcelain. “And to make it home still human.”

Steve took a sip. “Or at least getting eight hours of sleep like one.”

Isaac’s voice softened, barely a whisper. “Four hours a night.”

Steve shot him a look. “Wow. Impressive. You realize that’s enough time to burn fifty grand in your dreams, right?”

Bogutá

The afternoon air was crisp and clean, sunlight filtering gently through the branches of guayacán trees blooming gold along the avenue.

Isaac stood at the base of the condominium tower, a large, brown-paper-wrapped frame balanced awkwardly in his arms. He cursed under his breath.

God, Fez, why couldn’t you have normal hobbies? Fishing, maybe. A PlayStation. Not nude portraits and a hundred and thirty ex-lovers.

He stepped into the elevator, pressed the top floor, and watched the numbers climb. At least there are only nine paintings left to return, he muttered inwardly. Nine more heartbreaks packed in canvas.
If he’d actually painted all one hundred and thirty, I’d need a therapist and a cargo ship.
Fez, you bastard, I bet you’re laughing now—watching me stumble through the gauntlet of women who once belonged to you.

The elevator chimed. Doors opened.

And Isaac immediately wished he’d braced himself.

The apartment door ahead opened slowly, spilling a wash of sunlight that framed the figure of Luna Estrada.

Her dress—pale copper satin—clung to her like liquid light, its slit rising dangerously high, the back open down to the curve of her waist. The fabric breathed with her, whispering against her skin instead of covering it.

No jewelry. Just coral lipstick and a tumble of loose waves grazing her shoulders.
Simple. Devastatingly so.

For real, lady? Isaac cursed silently. You answer the door like that for guests?

Every defensive instinct in his body snapped awake. Luna, he realized instantly, would be a far more perilous encounter than any of the six women before her.

She studied him for a moment, puzzled—Isaac or Fez? Then the distinction hit her. Something quieter, steadier lived in this one’s eyes. He had Fez’s face, Fez’s jawline—but not Fez.

Isaac drew a slow breath, steadying himself. “Hello, Luna. I’m Isaac. This is your painting.”

He held out the canvas with a firmness that felt like armor, as if the wrapped painting might shield him from the heat radiating off her doorway.

Luna accepted it, one eyebrow arched. “So you’ve already seen every inch of me before we’ve even shaken hands?” Her tone was teasing, but the sweetness in it was sharpened to a dangerous edge.

Isaac faltered. He looked like a man who’d seen everything and survived most of it—until Luna spoke, and all that composure fractured.

She smiled—playful, amused—clearly enjoying how much this man, so like Fez and yet not him, struggled to find his footing.

“Come in, Isaac,” she said, stepping back. “You’ve come all the way from Leighryn. You must be exhausted. Let me make you something special—Bogutá-style hot chocolate. You’ve never had it, I’m sure.”

Refusing felt rude, so he followed.

The apartment was bathed in soft afternoon light, its decor a curated blend of modern art and quiet wealth. Everything seemed staged for beauty—the golden lighting, the warm wood floors, the muted colors that felt almost deliberate.

Isaac exhaled under his breath. Why does this place look like a gallery? This is a trap. Fez, you cultured devil—you’re making me live your consequences.

He sat down carefully, eyes trained anywhere but on Luna as she moved toward the kitchen. That dress was an act of violence in silk—split high, open low, and too alive with every step she took.
Please stop moving, he thought, gripping his knees like a schoolboy about to be scolded.

Luna returned with two steaming cups. The scent of cacao and cinnamon drifted through the air—rich, warm, disarming. “Try it,” she said, handing him one. “Here we dip cheese into it.”

Isaac raised an eyebrow. Cheese and chocolate. His British palate hesitated, but he took the cup. The first sip melted on his tongue—sweet, thick, unexpectedly comforting, with a salty surprise at the end. “Sweet. Comforting,” he murmured. “I like it. Thank you.”

Luna watched him as he drank, eyes calculating, as though she were waiting for the first crack in his composure.

“Ever since your manager called,” she said finally, “I’ve been wondering—so my nude still exists? And he wanted you to return it. Fine. But why all the secrecy?”

Her gaze held his, sharp and faintly amused. “Let me guess. This is a test. You just want to see if I still have feelings for Fez.”

Isaac shook his head quickly. “You’ve got it wrong, Luna.”

“Why should it be wrong?” she said, smiling with that dangerous sweetness again. “I wouldn’t mind showing you if I haven’t moved on.”

Isaac swallowed hard. “For real? You haven’t moved on? After all these years?”

Luna gave a small shrug, her smile folding at the corners, as if to say—and what if I haven’t?

“Instead of talking about that…” she murmured, voice dipping to something slower, silkier. “What do you think of the painting? You must’ve seen it by now. Beautiful? Do you like it?”

Isaac steadied his breath. “I’m just the delivery man, not the temptation courier.”

Luna laughed—a soft sound, warm but with a shimmer of danger in it. Then, without hurry, she rose and tore away the brown wrapping from the painting propped against the table. The paper fell to the floor in lazy folds, revealing the portrait beneath.

There she was—Luna Estrada—painted bare, unabashed, her body rendered in strokes of shadow and light that made her look both flesh and secret. It wasn’t just sensual; it was intimate. It felt like a confession on canvas.

“See?” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. “He painted me with… feeling. Nakedness you can’t wash off.”

Isaac tensed. He tried to look away, but the painting pulled at him—gravity in oil and pigment. Okay. Okay. This isn’t sin. This is… art. I’m a courier. A courier of culture. A courier of shame.

“I—can’t really judge,” he stammered, looking anywhere but the painting. His eyes darted and accidentally caught the one place they shouldn’t. “Sorry. Reflex.”

Luna stepped closer, bending slightly, her fingers brushing under his chin. Her nails were short, her touch impossibly light.
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “Men lose focus around me all the time. But you…” Her gaze deepened, soft and searching. “You’ve got something else in your eyes. A wound. Want me to close it for you… with a kiss?”

Isaac didn’t have time to answer.

Luna slid onto his lap in one slow, unbroken movement. The satin of her dress slipped higher, her legs folding neatly across him, warm and bare. Her hand traced the line of his jaw, tender as if she were sketching him in air. Her face was close—so close her breath ghosted against his lips.

Isaac froze. Every instinct screamed move, but his body didn’t obey.
She’s stunning. That’s a fact. Not a sin, just an observation, he told himself. The woman in the painting, the woman in front of me… God, Fez, what kind of spell did you leave behind?

He knew this was the moment to draw a line—but the line was dissolving. And Luna knew exactly how to erase it.

Their breaths tangled. Heat built in the space between them, a fragile tension trembling on the edge of collapse. His right hand found the smooth curve of her thigh, his left steadied her back, warm skin beneath his palm. His half-lidded eyes caught the shimmer of her lips—coral, glistening, waiting.

Then Luna closed the distance. Her lips pressed against his—soft, deliberate, tasting faintly of chocolate and cinnamon. Isaac kissed her back, hesitant at first, then deeper. The flavor was familiar, sweet and bitter, comforting. He wasn’t sure if it came from the cocoa or from her. His body didn’t care. It only understood one thing: addiction.

Luna let out a quiet sound—half sigh, half laughter. “My lips are sweet and comforting too, aren’t they? You like that?”

Isaac didn’t answer. He inhaled sharply through his nose and kissed her again—harder this time. The room contracted around them. His hands roamed, tracing the lines of her body, guided by heat and heartbeat. Thigh, waist, spine—the map of a sin he didn’t want to know by heart. Luna tilted her head back, freeing his mouth to trail down her throat.

Her fingers tangled in his hair. She arched into him, a soft moan escaping her lips. Then she lay back, pulling him down with her, their bodies moving together in the hush between want and reason.

Isaac kissed her again—hungrier, lost. His hands slid over her, everywhere. Luna’s breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed. One more moment, and the world would tip.

And then—something snapped.

In the blur of breath and skin and heartbeat, Isaac suddenly recoiled, as though he’d been struck by his own conscience. He pulled back, stumbling to his feet, hands dragging through his hair, his breath sharp and uneven. Wake up, you idiot. Wake up.

Luna blinked, stunned. Her dress hung open, hair in disarray, lips flushed from his kiss. Her face asked the question her mouth couldn’t: What went wrong?

Isaac didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. “I’m sorry, Luna,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to—take advantage. I… I have to go. Have a good day.”

He turned and left, fast, almost running.

Luna sat there for a long moment, dazed and a little angry. So close—and gone. But beneath the frustration, a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She could still taste him: that deep, awkward, aching kiss that had felt too real to be just desire.
Shame Bogutá doesn’t host Formula Prime, she thought, amused. Or maybe I’ll find a reason to visit Brazil next season when he’s there. You’ve made me curious, Isaac.

Meanwhile, Isaac’s heart was still hammering as the elevator doors closed. Luna’s lips, her neck, the press of her thigh—all still burned into him like a brand.
Damn it. Damn it! he cursed silently. This is worse than I thought.

By the time the car sped toward the VIP hangar at El Dorado Airport, Isaac sat slumped in the backseat, dazed. His fingers tapped against his thigh in uneven rhythms while his thoughts spun out of control.
Enough. Stop. I’m not Fez. I’m not Fez. I’m not Fez.
But the most terrifying part wasn’t that they mistook him for Fez. It was that, for a moment, he almost became him.

En Route to Vangkok.

Somewhere over the Pacific, the jet felt like a floating capsule between continents—quiet, cold, too clean to feel alive.

Isaac sat motionless in his seat, reclined but not resting, eyes half-shut. He wasn’t asleep. His fingers tapped softly against the armrest, his breathing even but far from calm.

Across the cabin, Steve watched in silence. Twenty minutes, and Isaac hadn’t moved an inch. No expression, no words. That wasn’t the Isaac he knew. But Steve had learned when to step in—and this was one of those times.

He rose quietly, opened the small fridge, and took out a can of sparkling water. Without saying anything, he set it down on the table beside Isaac.

Isaac turned slightly. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed. “You got any aspirin?”

Steve looked up. The question told him everything. This wasn’t just exhaustion—it was something else, something heavier.

He bent down, opened the compartment under his seat, and pulled out a small first-aid kit.
“One if the pain’s mild,” he said, handing him two tablets. “Two if you’d rather forget everything.”

His tone was light, joking, but his eyes stayed serious. Isaac didn’t smile. He just nodded, murmuring, “…Thanks.”

Steve sat back down, pretending to scroll through his iPad, though his attention never strayed far.

Isaac didn’t move again. He just sat there, staring at the can in front of him, then slowly closed his eyes. A long breath escaped him, heavy and deliberate—like someone trying to swallow something bitter without tasting it.

You were right, Hollie. Type Two. They almost got me. How did you know? Because you were one of them?

Isaac exhaled again.

Remember, Isaac. You’re not here to enjoy this. It’s a mission. An inheritance. A kind of… penance, maybe.

His mind circled back, trying to seal the door that had almost opened too wide a few hours earlier. But Luna’s smile lingered—on the edge of his vision, at the back of his throat, at the trembling tips of his fingers in that final second before he pulled away.

All that remained now was the dull pulse at his temple, and the slow creep of cold from the can seeping into his palm.

6 – The Final Boss

The Long Journey from Bogutá to Vangkok

Isaac sat silent in his seat, one hand propping up his head, the other wrapped around his phone. He lit up the screen—and there it was. The wallpaper. Baby Orlando, his nephew, fast asleep with his tiny lips parted just a little, his breathing soft and steady. That small, peaceful face tugged a faint smile from him. No sound reached his ears, yet inside his head… everything was loud.

FLASHBACK

Isaac hadn’t expected the day to arrive so soon.

That afternoon he was lounging in the living room, scrolling through random videos while crunching on a bag of chips. The quiet broke with a noise from the kitchen. Hollie emerged, moving heavily, one hand bracing her hip, her face twisted in discomfort.

“I… something feels weird in my stomach, Isaac. Like—” she murmured, her breath uneven.

Isaac dropped the chips at once. Shot to his feet. “Don’t tell me—”

He didn’t finish. His eyes had already caught it: a sheen spreading across the floor. Liquid trailing down Hollie’s legs.

Isaac froze. His eyes went round.

“OH MY GOD. Your water broke?! Now?!”

Hollie nodded frantically, fingers digging into his arm.

In an instant, Isaac snapped into action. The room turned into a war zone. He snatched the car keys, Hollie’s jacket, the baby bag that had been packed for a week, and somehow—miraculously—located his phone again.

“Come on! Breathe, breathe! Can you walk? Hold on to me—slowly… Don’t tense up, Hollie, we’ve got this! You’ve seen Fast & Furious, right? Just imagine I’m Dom Toretto!”

“Dom Toretto never drove someone to deliver a baby,” Hollie groaned, half-grinning through the pain.

“Well, this is the reboot. Fast & Fatherly.”

Hours later, they were in the hospital.
Everything blurred together like disjointed scenes: the nurse’s voice, the sharp scent of disinfectant, Hollie’s damp grip on his hand, sweat soaking her pillow. Isaac struggled to stay composed, though his heart hammered like a war drum.

“I don’t want to be alone, Ike…” Hollie whispered, her voice trembling.

Isaac tightened his grip. “I’m here, Hollie. I’m right here. Just hold my hand…”

Hollie winced, trying to push, but in the thick of the pain her gaze drifted toward the corner of the room. Her eyes widened… then softened. A trembling smile broke through.

“Fez…” she breathed, as though calling to someone she knew by heart. “You came…”

Isaac turned, baffled. “Hollie? Who are you talking to?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed locked on that corner. Her breath still came in ragged pulls, yet her face was calm—serene, almost. As if someone truly stood there with her.

“Fez has been here… this whole time,” she whispered. “He’s watching us…”

A chill swept over Isaac. The hairs on his arms prickled. He followed her gaze—and for a moment, his chest tightened, as though drawn inward.

The room, once pale and dim, felt suddenly… inhabited.

Something was there. Not a shadow. Not a trick of the light.

Fez stood still. Solid, unmistakable—so real to Isaac it knocked the breath from him. Radiating quiet, wearing that warm, familiar smile Isaac could never forget. He said nothing. Yet the voice—
Isaac heard it, clear as thought, ringing inside his mind.

“I’m entrusting my child to you, Ike. Please help Hollie take care of him.”

Isaac held his breath. His eyes burned. He gave the smallest of nods, his voice a thin thread.
“I promise, Fez…”

And at that very moment, a newborn’s cry burst through the room—sharp, alive.

Hollie sobbed, exhausted yet radiant. “Look, Fez… your baby… he looks just like you…”

Isaac turned toward the tiny bundle—skin flushed, fingers curling at nothing—then back to the corner where Fez had been standing.

But Fez was gone.

What remained was a hush—not empty, but peaceful. As though something had passed through the room: a blessing, a final message, a love unfinished… now carried forward through this birth.

Isaac lowered himself beside Hollie. His hand still held hers, but his gaze lingered on the space that, moments ago, had meant everything.

He smiled, aching yet soft. “Congratulations, Fez… you’re a father.”

And for the first time since all the hardship, Isaac felt—quietly, solidly—not alone.

Orlando had entered the world like lightning on a rain-soaked night—bright, startling, unforgettable.

Isaac didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or fall to his knees in gratitude. All he knew was this: the tiny creature swaddled in white, squirming with a face that echoed someone long gone, had altered his world in a single breath.

PRESENT TIME

Isaac leaned back into the jet seat, which suddenly felt narrower than usual, though its dimensions had never changed. His breaths came heavy. Measured. As if his lungs needed to remind his soul to stay put.

I have to stay grounded. I have to.
Even if my nerves are stretched to breaking.
I’m supposed to set an example. I’m Orlando’s uncle, for God’s sake.

What—am I going to let him grow up hearing rumours that his uncle can’t keep his hands to himself?

Think, Isaac. Orlando deserves a sane role model.

His fist tightened on his thigh, then slowly loosened.

I’m not Fez.
I’m not Fez.
I am. Not. Fez.

He drew another breath—slower this time—hoping it could clear the mist crowding his mind, though he knew the fog wasn’t outside. It was inside him.

Isaac turned to the window. Morning light brushed the plane’s wing. Below, Southeast Asia unfurled in patches of green and brown—like a floating mosaic on a hazy sea. One more hour until landing.

Deep breath, Isaac. Focus. Just two to go.

Two names flickered across his mind. Two faces. Two different battlefields.

Vivian. Alexis.
Be nice to me, please.

Vangkok.

Vivian Pramoj had not expected to open her door and find a man standing there with a gentle smile and a calm, steady gaze.

“Hello, Ms Pramoj. I’m Isaac—the one who called you some time ago. It’s good to finally meet you.”

He offered his hand. His manner was polite, his voice even, and that smile… it tugged at Vivian like a rope thrown back into the past.

She took his hand, studying his face openly, without hurry. Her heartbeat slowed. 

That face… it wasn’t just similar. Standing before her was a reflection of the man she had once loved with all she had.

“Oh—hello. I’m pleased to meet you too, Isaac. Just call me Vivian—it’s friendlier that way.”

With an easy step to the side, she invited him in.

“Did you fly straight from Leighryn to here…?”

“Yes, something like that.” Isaac steered clear of specifics. Too many countries, too many stories that didn’t matter now.

“I’m sorry if my visit feels abrupt.”

Vivian gave a small, warm smile. “No need to apologise, Isaac… I happen to be free today.”

Isaac nodded. “That’s good then.”
He handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“Please take a look. You might want to make sure it’s really yours.”

Vivian stared at the package for a moment, then bit her lip. Slowly, delicately, her fingers tore along the edge. Through the widening slit came colours she recognised—strokes she could never mistake.

Herself, captured in Fez’s most honest brushwork. Her bare form rendered with a softness that held both shyness and a quiet confidence. As if she’d known: I belong to the man I love.

Vivian held her breath.

The last time she’d seen this painting was the day Fez finished it, years ago.

She looked at Isaac, her vision slightly blurred. Of course he had already seen it.

Is he anything like Fez…?

Isaac seemed to sense the thought.

“I’ve seen the painting, Vian. I’m sorry if that feels uncomfortable. Fez left it with me when he was already in prison. He wanted me to be the one to return it to you. And… well, you know he couldn’t have done it himself.”

Vivian let out a long, slow breath.

“He kept it for years. He could’ve returned it anytime, but I suppose before he was arrested, he never intended to give it back. It was just for his private collection… wasn’t it? He was a maniac about these things.” Her voice softened toward the end.

“He’s gone.”

Vivian nodded gently. 

She looked at the painting again, taking it in with a gaze weighted by memory.

“To be honest… I always hoped he’d be the one to return it to me. But… maybe I should be grateful that it’s back now, no matter how. Thank you, Isaac.”

She turned to him, her eyes dimmed with a quiet ache. “Really. Thank you.”

“No worries,” Isaac replied lightly—though the depth in his eyes said otherwise.

Vivian offered a small, curved smile.

“Come, sit. Let’s talk for a while, shall we? I’d like to know more about you. You’re not in a rush… are you?”

Isaac hesitated, just for a heartbeat. Then he nodded. “With pleasure.”

A moment later, Vivian handed him a cup of hot tea and settled beside him.

“…Fez never mentioned he had a twin brother,” she began at last, breaking the quiet. “From what I read, you two only met again as adults?”

Isaac gave a faint smile. “That’s right. We were separated because of… circumstances, and only discovered we were related about four years ago. Such a short time—and now we’re apart again, living in different worlds.”

He drew a long breath. “What about you? When did you and Fez date, Vian?”

“Oh… you won’t believe it. We were together in 2011—nine years ago, Ike.”

“2011.” Isaac nodded slowly. “Wow.”

“You know, back then I was nobody. But he… he lifted me up. He believed I could shine. He criticised my songs, my stage presence, even my taste in clothes. He shaped me.”

Isaac listened, silent and steady.

“He cared so much. And when he asked if he could paint me… without anything on, I said yes.” Vivian chuckled softly, bitter at the edges. “Because I thought, well… we loved each other. And love made me unashamed. But do you know what embarrassed me more than my naked body on a canvas? The fact that I still love him. Even now.”

Her smile faded.

“I can’t forget. And when he left… he didn’t give me a single reason. No goodbye, no explanation. He just vanished. I waited, and waited, and in the end I found out from the media that he was seeing some Vilipina singer. I…”

Vivian’s voice cracked. She bowed her head, as if trying to hide a wound years old yet raw as ever.

“If he’d said I was ugly, or he’d grown bored… I could’ve taken it. But disappearing without a word…? Isaac, do you know what it’s like to be left hanging for years?”

Isaac nodded slowly, but said nothing. Sometimes silence was the truest sympathy—because no words could reach a grief untouched and unfinished.

“I wanted to hate him…” Vivian’s voice fell to a fragile murmur. “…for disappointing me so deeply. But I can’t. Fez… he was the best man I ever knew.”

Her eyes glossed with tears. Her fingers tightened in her lap.

“He knew everything I loved. He knew how to treat me… how to make me feel like a princess, you know? Every time I was with him, I felt… chosen.”

Isaac stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“I can’t forget any of it… not even after almost nine years. It still haunts me. Every night. And now…” Vivian bowed her head again, her shoulders beginning to shake.

“…now he’s gone. Dead. How am I supposed to move on…? We never even truly broke up. No last words. No closure. Why…?”

And at last, the tears spilled.

Isaac instinctively shifted closer, reached for the box of tissues on the table, and offered it to her.

Vivian took it without a word, though her sobs had not quite eased.

“…I don’t even know what to call myself anymore, Ike,” she whispered. “A fool? An idiot? Completely hopeless…?”

Her fingers clenched the tissue tight.

“I used to think about visiting him—especially after the accident, when he was paralysed. But I never dared. I was terrified he’d reject me outright. Terrified he’d pretend he didn’t know me.”

Isaac nodded slowly. There was a wound there—one he recognised, one he had seen before in another shape.

“All of my friends said I was stupid. That I shouldn’t waste a single thought on a man who left me without a word. And they’re right. But... I still can’t hate Fez. I just can’t.”

The tears came again—quieter now, but deeper.

“Was his charm really that strong? Strong enough to leave me like this? He… he meant too much. And now he’s gone… What am I supposed to do, Isaac…?”

Isaac drew a long breath. Before him sat a woman carrying the same kind of wound as so many who had crossed Fez’s orbit. A wound suspended—never given the chance to close.

“There’s only one thing, Vian…” Isaac’s voice was low.

“Accept that he’s gone. That’s where everything begins. You’re young—there’s so much still ahead of you. So many good men out there. You deserve happiness.”

Vivian nodded faintly and dabbed at her eyes.

“You know…” she murmured, “you remind me of Holden. Fez’s girlfriend—the one the media talked about nonstop when they found out she was pregnant with Fez’s baby. You’re exactly like her. And Hollie was the same. When she broke up with Fez, she said she couldn’t move on because she loved him too much.”

Isaac lowered his head for a moment, hiding something behind his gaze.

“Hollie…” Vivian sighed. “She’s so lucky. She carries the most precious memory of him… inside her own body. In her womb. Do you know how she’s doing now? Has she given birth?”

“Yes.”

The word was brief. Firm. Loaded with far more emotion than its size allowed.

Vivian nodded. “If I could… I would have wanted that too. A piece of Fez that would live with me. But now… well.” 

She exhaled softly. “Truly, Hollie’s the lucky one. Even until the end of his life, she was still his partner, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Vivian bowed her head once more.

“Every night, our memories keep circling in my mind. And these past eight years… I’ve felt directionless. I just want one thing: to escape his shadow. To be free.”

Isaac looked at her with quiet, steady empathy.

“As I said, Vian. Acceptance. That’s the first step. I know it isn’t easy—but you can do it.”

Vivian didn’t answer. She simply leaned closer, letting her weight rest against Isaac’s shoulder.
“Sorry… I just need someone to lean on.”

Isaac hesitated, but only for a breath. Then he lifted an arm and wrapped it around her gently, his hand brushing her shoulder in quiet reassurance.

“Cry as much as you need, Vian. And when you’re done… rise again.”

For a long moment they stayed like that—her tears ebbing into slow, trembling breaths. Then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, Vivian said:

“…May I ask you something, Ike?”

He didn’t reply at once. A small, wary knot tightened in his chest. But looking at her tear-streaked face, he couldn’t turn her away—not before hearing her out.

“As long as I can manage it, tell me, Vian.”

His voice was composed. His heart was not.

“You look so much like Fez… and I… I miss him so terribly.”

Vivian looked up at him from inches away, her voice soft but weighted.

“Would you let me… think of you as Fez, just for tonight?”

Isaac fell still. His heartbeat stumbled. The request was quiet—yet it burned.

He remembered the seven women he had visited before; remembered how some had flirted, some had begged, some had reached for comfort in ways he’d nearly succumbed to. He remembered Luna—how close he had come to failing. He remembered every temptation he’d turned away from.

But Vivian… Vivian had held his attention from the start, long before she touched him, long before her grief softened the walls he’d built.

The painting alone had shaken him; the memory of Fez layered on her words only dug deeper. And now, her loneliness—raw and unguarded—pressed against something deep inside him.

And yet… was he truly so small, so unanchored, that he would let himself become Fez’s shadow in someone else’s eyes? Fez was gone. Isaac was not Fez. He was his own person. Why should he agree to vanish behind a memory?

He lowered his gaze. He wanted to say no. But the word would not come.

Vivian didn’t give him time to retreat.

“…Please, Ike. Just tonight. I’m not asking you to be the Fez I knew… I only want to look at that face again—the face I’ve missed for so long. You understand, don’t you? Don’t be offended… I only want to fill this emptiness, even if it’s only for a moment.”

Her hand rose, brushing his cheek with a tenderness edged in longing.

“Please…”

Before Isaac could breathe, her lips were on his—soft, tentative, seeking permission.

He should have stepped back, should have cut the moment before it found shape, yet something within him, a bruise he had never quite learned to name, rose up to meet her instead. He returned the kiss, tentative at first and then with a deepening pull that neither of them tried to resist. Her grief folded into his unrest, his careful guard loosening beneath the weight of her loneliness, and what had begun as a gesture of comfort drifted into a realm neither intended to enter.

Vivian’s arms circled him with the fragile desperation of someone reaching for the last warm trace of a memory she could not bear to release. Isaac held her, feeling a storm gather inside him, swift and unwelcome, stirred by the echo of a face he had lost and the tug of a present he knew he had no right to touch. The resemblance, the echo of the past, the quiet pull of her need wound together in a knot he could not untangle.

He understood how wrong this was. He understood she wasn’t really seeing him. She was looking through him, searching for a ghost.

Yet that night, neither of them held on to sense or restraint. Vivian slipped into the soft haze of memory, Isaac into the uneasy refuge of forgetting himself for a moment, and the rest drifted out of sight, swallowed by the dark.

The following day, after breakfast and packing, Isaac stood at the doorway, a small bag in hand. It was time to leave.

He glanced toward Vivian, who lingered in the living room, leaning against the wall with a wistful smile.

“Thank you for welcoming me so warmly, Vian,” Isaac said softly, letting his eyes linger on her face one last time.

Vivian returned a faint, tender smile. “Ah… I should be the one saying that, Ikey. Thank you for going through the trouble of bringing the painting here yourself. You really have to go…? Or… will we see each other again?”

Her question hung in the air, delicate and uncertain.

Isaac paused. His smile faded slightly as he drew in a measured breath before speaking, each word careful, steady. “Vian… I hope you’re not waiting for a call from me. Or hoping for another meeting after this. We both know… what happened last night shouldn’t have.”

Vivian lowered her gaze, quiet for a moment, before stepping closer.

“I took advantage of you… I’m sorry—”

Before Isaac could continue, her finger pressed gently against his lips.

“You don’t need to apologize,” she whispered. “I asked for it. And you… didn’t refuse.”

A small, warmer smile spread across Isaac’s face this time. Not regret, only a quiet honesty. Vivian returned it, though a haze lingered in her eyes.

“May you always be happy, Ikey… Thank you so much,” she murmured, pulling him into an embrace.

Isaac hugged her back with sincerity, leaning close to murmur in her ear. “You too, Vian. There are still many good men out there… men who deserve to love you properly. I hope you find happiness that is whole.”

Vivian nodded softly. But just as Isaac began to turn away, she drew a breath and spoke with a playful, coaxing tone. “Give me your last kiss, Ikey… would you? Please?”

Isaac looked at her, then at his watch, and inwardly groaned. If she asks for a kiss every five minutes, I might never leave.

He sighed quietly, a confession only to himself. Oh, Ike, you bloody wanker. Still, you went and enjoyed the forbidden pleasure you thought you’d resist.

Without another word, he bent down and pressed a brief, gentle kiss to her lips, a single token of farewell.

Vivian closed her eyes for a moment, as if treasuring the memory, and then smiled softly.

And with that, Isaac stepped out into the day, walking forward without a glance back.

7 – Post Final Boss

In the VIP hangar at Vangkok airport, Isaac’s private jet stood ready for takeoff. The engines hummed to life, a low, resonant buzz that echoed through the cavernous space. A flight attendant moved carefully through the cabin, checking snack trays, replacing crystal glasses, making sure every detail gleamed with flawless precision.

Steve lingered beneath the jet’s wing, arms folded, glancing at his watch while inhaling the chill of the hangar, tinged with the sharp scent of jet fuel. The pilot approached and fell into step beside him.

“We’ve been here nearly twenty-four hours,” the pilot remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Your boss usually never spends more than four hours on a layover. What’s going on?”

Steve’s lips curved into a casual smirk. “Vangkok, bro,” he said, brief and deliberate. “Final boss.”

From behind, a technician called out teasingly, “Looks like this one’s the hardest to resist.”

The pilot nodded solemnly, as if witnessing a sacred rite. “Must’ve been a battle all night. Fully armed. Two-way. No pit stops.”

Another crew member joined in the banter, “Box, box, box this lap, mate!”

The pilot shot back immediately, “No box this time, mate! Too close!”

Steve almost laughed aloud, hand covering his mouth to stifle it.

The flight attendant passed with a stock list in hand, rolling her eyes at them. “Hush. You’re all grown men, yet gossip like women.” A faint smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

Minutes later, a black sedan glided into the hangar, stopping a short distance away. Silence fell instantly.

Isaac stepped out slowly from the back seat, draped in a long gray coat and dark sunglasses. His movements were calm, almost eerily so. His face bore a subtle flush. Hair tousled in that effortless, accidental way that somehow made him magnetic, as if he had just awoken after a deep sleep among the clouds.

The crew froze, reflexively snapping into statue mode. Eyes flicked to cables, clipboards, iPads—anything to appear busy. Yet beneath the pretense, grins were quietly held back, coordinated like wedding staff watching the bride descend the hotel staircase.

Steve followed Isaac as he approached the jet’s stairs, offering a brief, casual smile. “How’s the layover?”

Isaac lifted his sunglasses, meeting Steve’s gaze for a heartbeat. One second. Two. Then he answered, voice low, deliberate, each word weighted with meaning. “Warm conditions. Fully equipped.”

Steve nodded, expression saying plainly: oh, fully equipped, indeed.

“Well then,” he said, glancing toward the stairway, “ready to take off to the last country?”

Isaac exhaled, beginning his ascent, murmuring under his breath, “The last… before I’m judged by conscience and memory.”

Steve followed, grinning knowingly. “You look… at peace now. Or did you just hand it all over to God last night?”

Isaac’s gaze cut sharply, silent, and Steve raised his hands in mock surrender, half-joking, half-pleading. “Hey. It’s fine. Sometimes… even a private jet needs a longer parking time.”

Isaac shook his head lightly, stepping into the cabin without another word. No answer followed. But as he settled into his seat, the corner of his lips twitched into a nearly imperceptible smile. Not relief. Exhaustion. The faint trace of life clawing free from the ruins of the night.

38,000 feet above the sea.
He sat by the window, shoulders slouched in silence. The cabin lights were dimmed, yet he still wore his sunglasses. Outside, the sky was clear—nothing compared to the glare inside: his own reflection on the glass. Flat. But shattered.

Isaac drew a long breath and closed his eyes for a moment. Still ringing. Still burning. Still raw.
This wasn’t about the blanket. His body had settled—too settled. But his mind was a battlefield after the smoke cleared. His pulse might have calmed, but his soul? Hollow. Like broken glass scattered on marble—silent, but capable of cutting deep.

Across the aisle, Steve was typing relentlessly. Too absorbed for a leisurely flight. Isaac had suspected something. He’d been right.

“What time did you leave the room yesterday?” Steve asked, voice lazy, indifferent. “The pilot had time to read two chapters of The Art of War.”

Isaac swallowed. “I didn’t check the time.”

Steve nodded, still pretending to work. “Yeah… I mean, in a war zone, you usually don’t.”

Isaac kept his gaze on the window. “You want me to reassign you to another jet, Steve?”

Steve didn’t flinch. “You want me to paint a mural in this one? Big letters: Vivian Was Here.”

Isaac turned, eyes sharp—but he lost anyway. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.

Steve scored the point. “Finally. He smiles.”

Isaac sighed, rubbing his face with both hands as he removed the sunglasses. “You think this makes me feel better?” he muttered. “It doesn’t. My body’s just reacting. My soul crawled into some trench at the bottom of the ocean. My head’s… a corrupted hard drive. Lagging. Crashing. Files from ten years ago opened without permission—damaged, all of them.”

Steve closed his laptop and studied him—this time without the jokes. “At least now you know. You’re still alive.”

Isaac didn’t reply.
He stared at the blue sky outside, but something in his expression shifted—not confusion, not relief. More like… disgust. At himself.

Something inside him twisted violently. He held his breath, then let it out through clenched teeth. For a second, he looked like he might throw up, but couldn’t. Only bitterness filled his mouth. A bitterness that came not from Vivian, not from the body he had held last night, but from himself.

His mind refused to accept it.
Refused to acknowledge what had happened.

He tried to reconstruct the hours from yesterday evening to that morning, hoping for a loophole—some angle that would let him defend himself. But there was none. No defense. No excuse that could justify the fact that he had broken his own principles.

“I’m not Fez,” he used to say, again and again, like a mantra. “I’ll never be like him.”

Now, that vow felt like a foolish joke spat on in the dark. Because last night… he wasn’t just like Fez. He surpassed him.

Fez may have been pathetic, but at least he’d never pretended to be pure. Isaac, meanwhile—Isaac had worn a mask of moral restraint, only to tear it off himself beneath dim lights and warm breath that blurred every boundary.

He shut his eyes, trying to quiet the storm in his head. But his whole body stayed rigid.
Still.
Yet in that stillness, thousands of alarms screamed.

Frustration.
Shame.
Shock.

He barely recognized himself.
The man sitting in this cabin wasn’t the Isaac he knew. Not the calm, controlled Isaac who understood limits. The Isaac he’d been proud of—the one who guarded the line between desire and dignity—had been overthrown. By one night. One stupid, irreversible decision.

What remained now was emptiness. Cold, echoing emptiness.
He looked down at his own hands, as if hoping he could scrub the sin from his skin. But it wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.

The deepest wound wasn’t Vivian.
Wasn’t the sex.
Wasn’t even the guilt toward Fez, long dead.

It was the raw, humiliating realization that inside him—beneath all the principles and all the discipline—there had always been a piece of Fez. A piece buried. Controlled. But never truly gone.

Last night, something in him broke loose. A part of himself he had kept starved for years—buried beneath the polished facade of the nicest guy—slipped through a single crack, one fragile moment, and rose with a force he hadn’t known it possessed. It wasn’t just wild; it was feral, merciless, a creature that had been waiting in the dark for the smallest invitation. And when it surfaced, it didn’t simply influence him—it seized him, completely and without hesitation.

Isaac had still been Isaac, technically. But there had also been something else wearing his skin, something he had denied for years, something he feared more than he would ever admit. Now, with everything over and irretrievable, he was left staring inward at that other face—his face—and facing the truth he had spent a lifetime refusing to acknowledge: he could be depraved. He could be that kind of bastard. And that single realization was enough to fracture everything he thought he knew about himself.

The jet cut through the clear morning sky, steady and unbothered. Inside the cabin, nothing stirred. But in Isaac’s mind, the storm still raged, wild and relentless, refusing to quiet down.

Guezon City, Vilipina.

Isaac stood before a two-storey colonial-modern house. His fingers trembled faintly as he pressed a breath deep into his chest.

This is the last one, he told himself. 

After this, his promises to Fez would finally be done. The last portrait. The last face.

God, please let the woman in this house be calmer than the others. Please… just this once, don’t throw another hormonal landmine at me. Last night with Vivian nearly drove me insane every time I replay it. Damn it. Why do women that beautiful even exist? And why am I so weak?

He rang the doorbell. Its shrill chime cut sharply through the air.

A moment later, the door swung open to reveal a young woman with a blank face and skeptical eyes. But when her gaze landed on Isaac, she broke into a thin, knowing smirk.

“So you came,” she muttered, turning away as if the sight of him exhausted her.

“...Miss Velasco?” Isaac asked carefully.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Unsure that’s my name? Come in.”

Isaac swallowed and stepped inside, following Alexis Velasco.

The living room was a riot of cigarette haze, guitar amps, and trailing cables. Four other women lounged around—one with an electric guitar, another behind a keyboard, the other two by the drums and a mixer.

Their style was casual, almost careless, yet they were—somehow—striking. Intriguing. Wild in a way entirely different from any woman Isaac had met before.

They watched him move, sharp-eyed—like he was target practice for the afternoon.

“Uh—hi,” he managed, offering a stiff smile.

Alexis dropped onto the sofa and flicked a glance at her bandmates. “Guys, this is the one I told you about.”

Then to Isaac: “Isaac, these are my bandmates. We were rehearsing.”

“Wow—sorry, I didn’t know I was interrupting your practice,” Isaac replied.

“Fez 2.0,” muttered the short-haired blonde, taking a drag from her cigarette. “No wonder you fell for him back then, Lex. This one’s… something.”

Alexis snorted, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “Yeah. That was my idiot era.”

Isaac’s discomfort deepened. He stood rigid, awkward, still clutching the painting he’d brought.

“Relax, Isaac. Sit. Dump that cursed painting in the corner. We’ll talk first,” Alexis said, placing the beer on the table in front of him.

“Thank you,” he murmured. He set the portrait down by an amplifier and slid into the nearest chair—tense, coiled.

Great. Ambushed by five women. All gorgeous. All sharp-tongued. God, what did I do to deserve this…

“You know, Isaac?” Alexis said, voice flat. “If that man—Fez—were still alive and standing here right now… I’d have knocked him out cold.”

“You really resent him that much?” Isaac asked, still trying to be polite.

“HOW COULD SHE NOT?!” shouted the girl at the drums. “He chased Alex like crazy, then once he got her—he dumped her like used tissue!”

“Stoning him feels too gentle,” added the keyboardist. “Should’ve thrown an amplifier at him.”

“Not stones, not an amp,” said the blonde with a wicked grin. “That glass ashtray on the porch, bro. Best tool for cracking open a dumb man’s skull.”

“Hey, hey,” Alexis raised a hand. “I get first rights to beat him up. You girls can just enjoy the gore.”

Isaac stiffened. Cold sweat slid down his back.

Why did this feel like a tribunal for Fez… And I was the living exhibit?

Alexis took a swig of her beer, then said lightly, “But now… there’s you. You look like him. And I don’t know why, but it makes my hands itch.”

Isaac cleared his throat. “I’m really here with good intentions. I only came to return your painting, Alex.”

“Just that?”

“Just that.”

“You sure?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Isaac frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Alexis leaned forward, studying him with a look that felt more like a challenge than a question. “Because you’re strange. Flying back and forth from the Vilipina to Eastland just to deliver a painting? Don’t you have anything better to do? You could’ve just mailed it. But you showed up in person. I know this pattern. Guys like this always want more than they claim. You didn’t just come to return the painting—you came to flirt with me, didn’t you? I can smell bad intentions a mile away. Twins share brain patterns. You’re just like him. Right?”

Isaac said nothing for a moment. He simply met her stare, steady and unblinking.

He knew this wasn’t over. And from the look in her eyes, forgiveness wasn’t going to be handed out easily.

One thing was clear—Alexis wasn’t the kind of woman who tumbled into affection. She was a wound that grew thorns, not a memory softened by tears.

He exhaled, then smiled faintly. “Ladies… it seems you’re overestimating yourselves.”

His gaze settled on Alexis, his voice calm, deliberate, but firm enough to shift the air.

“Think it through, Alex. Who’s to say your painting would be safe by post? Who can guarantee it wouldn’t be damaged, stolen, leaked online? One wrong hand on that package, and your entire history could be ruined. I wasn’t willing to gamble with that.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“Yes, I admit it. It’s ridiculous—crossing thousands of miles just to meet a woman I’d never even seen in person. But, Alex… before Fez was executed, he asked me to return that painting to you. I promised him I would. And a promise like that isn’t something I treat lightly. So I came here, as I said I would. Please don’t assume the worst of me. Truly—returning your painting is the only reason I’m here.”

Silence hung for a moment. Then, from the corner of the room, a girlish, teasing voice chimed in:

“Aww… such a cute guy,” one band member cooed, eyeing Alexis.

“What a pity,” the blonde tomboy added. “We honestly thought you came here to be our dinner special, Ike. Lauren even wore her sexy red lingerie just for you.”

Lauren didn’t deny it—she only rolled her eyes in exasperation.

Isaac flushed scarlet.

Alexis burst out laughing. “Relax, Ike. It’s your fault you’re good-looking. You’ve got too much sex appeal, too much politeness, and you actually have a heart—unlike your twin. And now you’re standing in a den full of women who haven’t had a decent man touch them in ages… Well, that’s just bad luck for you!” She laughed harder, patting her knee. “You look terrified. Okay, girls, ease up—he’s someone’s son.”

Isaac could only sigh, half amused, half resigned. At least their jokes were just that—jokes. Sharp, crude, and unsparing, but he could sense the shift. Suspicion was dissolving into something closer to respect.

Suddenly, Alexis rose to her feet. “Come on, Ike. Walk with me.”

Isaac blinked but followed her out to the back terrace.

The late-afternoon breeze ruffled her half-tied hair. She lit a cigarette, then offered it to him. “Want one?”

He smiled gently and shook his head. “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“Fez didn’t either,” she said with a sly grin. “He preferred being… smoked.”

Isaac choked on air, whipping his head toward her.

Oh God. This woman was dangerously straightforward.

Alexis laughed softly, then turned her eyes to the sky, suddenly distant. “I hate nostalgia. Especially the kind that tastes bitter. But unfortunately, my past is sitting in that painting. I can’t escape it. I’m forced to remember how stupid I once was.”

She exhaled a slow stream of smoke.

“Why did I ever agree to pose nude like that? Trying to look sensual, like some gallery-grade escort. But… Fez was incredible. Out of every man I’ve known, he was the only one who could strip my logic clean. His charm was insane… and his performance…” She shot Isaac a sideways glance, “…just as insane. No one’s matched him since.”

Isaac stared straight ahead, wisely silent.

Alexis turned her gaze toward him. “And you. You’ve seen the painting, haven’t you? So you know exactly what I look like without a stitch on.”

Isaac opened his mouth to answer, but she cut in, voice sharp.

“How many paintings did you return, Ike?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “…So you know Fez didn’t paint only you?”

Alexis gave a short, cynical laugh. “Do I look stupid? I used to be. Not anymore. Fez was a multinational playboy. Every few months he’d be spotted with some actress, some model, some singer. Wherever there were hips and cleavage packaged nicely, that’s where he’d flutter off to. You think I was his only muse?”

Isaac inhaled slowly, eyes lifting to the sky now glowing orange.

“Come on,” Alexis said, her stare sharpening. “Tell me. How many women did he paint? You must know.”

Isaac drew in a long breath—one of many that day. “...Ten. Including you, Lex.”

“Huh?” Alexis’s brow arched. “Only ten? You sure?”

“That’s what Fez told me. And I’ve returned them all. Yours is the last,” Isaac said, his voice flat, almost weary.

Alexis clicked her tongue softly, shaking her head. “Something tells me it wasn’t just ten. But fine… at least it proves I wasn’t the only idiot who posed naked for him. I’ve got sisters in suffering.”

She exhaled, tapping ash into the breeze. “So you really went to each woman’s house? One by one? Just because you were worried what might happen if those paintings leaked?”

Isaac nodded. “Exactly. All ten of you are public figures. I couldn’t stomach the idea of those portraits ending up online—your lives and careers ruined because I didn’t take responsibility. I felt obligated. Morally. I didn’t want that guilt… especially when Fez entrusted them to me before he died.”

Alexis let out a short laugh. “Sweet. But you expect me to believe that’s your only motivation? Not even tempted to… sample a little from each woman you visited?”

Isaac’s jaw hardened. “I already explained—I came because it was Fez’s last request.”

“Sure, but you’re still a man, Ike. You like women, don’t you? You’ve seen the naked bodies of ten beautiful women, then visited them all in person. Feels like a missed opportunity not to collect the whole set.”

Isaac held himself steady, his voice turning colder.
“If I were allowed to burn those paintings, I would’ve done it. Better that than staring at their bodies and entertaining thoughts I shouldn’t. Or worse—touching them without the right to. I’m human, Lex. But I can control myself.”

Alexis went quiet for a moment, then her tone shifted, almost playful. “And for the tenth woman—me—you’re not interested?”

Isaac blinked, thrown.

“I mean, I’m not into you. No offense. Your face is way too similar to that bastard. But my friend inside—” she jerked her chin toward the house “—I think she fancies you. If you’re game, the upstairs room’s empty.”

Isaac stared at her, baffled. “Why are you offering me your friend? We don’t even know each other.”

“Who knows? Once-in-a-lifetime chance. But hey, if you’re not up for it, fine.”

Isaac inhaled again, almost laughing at the absurdity.

“I have a principle. I only sleep with a woman I’m actually in some kind of relationship with.”

And instantly, he wished he could swallow the words—because Vivian’s face and body flashed through his mind, burning-hot and undeniable. Hypocrisy twisted sharply in his chest.

Alexis raised a brow. “Oh… so you really are a good guy.”

Isaac managed a small smile. The kind that tasted bitter. Maybe ironic, knowing he wasn’t a good guy anymore.

Out of nowhere, Alexis shifted the topic. “Hey, that thing I saw on the news… is it true Holden Bannister’s carrying Fez’s baby?”

“Hollie already gave birth, actually.”

“Oh my God. So Fez… left a legacy. A boy?”

Isaac nodded. “His name’s Orlando. Beautiful kid. Handsome too.”

“Hm. Curious what he’ll look like when he grows up.”

“He’ll be fine. Hollie will raise him with so much love. And as his uncle, I’ll do my part too.”

Alexis studied him for a long moment. “I believe you will. You’ll be good for that child.”

Isaac met her gaze with a warm, genuine smile.

After a beat of quiet, Alexis let out a slow sigh, her voice softer.
“Well… thank you, Ike. You flew thousands of miles just to bring that painting back yourself. I’ll probably burn it later—no use keeping a reminder of my stupidity.”

She chuckled, though there was a thread of sadness in it.

“You’re a good man. If Fez had been even half as good as you… I probably would’ve married him.”

Isaac gave a small laugh. “In that case, I suppose my task here is done. Thank you for accepting it.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then smiled—truly, for the first time.

“Safe travels, Ike.”

“You take care, Lex.”