BTT Chapter 7: Reality Served: Broken Breakfast Bliss
The afternoon mist floated through the Fontana air like a quiet blessing, softening the world around us as we sat on her patio sharing breakfast.
It felt as if the heavens themselves had grown jealous — raining lightly in the wake of the wet, thunderous storm we made together the night before.
Iluzhah lounged across from me, semi-nude, wrapped only in a loosely draped throw that clung to her curves like it worshipped them. Out here in the mountains, with her nearest neighbor seven miles away, modesty had no power.
Our breakfast was simple — green tea and a bowl of fresh grapes and strawberries — but feeding her felt like indulging in the delicacies of Eden.
She’d lift a grape to my lips, deliberately slow, her eyes locked into mine with that mischievous softness she’d mastered.
Then I’d return the gesture, dragging my thumb along her bottom lip before slipping a strawberry inside.
Each touch sparked another memory of her body under mine the night before.
Conversation with Iluzhah was always a privilege.
She wasn’t just beautiful — she was brilliant, layered, magnetic.
The kind of woman whose thoughts had weight, and whose silence had intention.
I watched her against the backdrop of the mountains — their peaks majestic, ancient, timeless — yet even they paled beside her.
I laughed to myself at the thought:
Mountains were beautiful from afar, but Iluzhah… Iluzhah was breathtaking near and far.
But the easy warmth of the moment shifted when she spoke again — her voice steady, almost too steady.
“You know… there’s a huge possibility we’ll never see each other again.”
The words hit me before I could prepare.
I froze, unsure if it was a joke, a question, or fate spoken out loud.
My voice cracked slightly.
“What do you mean, my warrior goddess?”
She sighed, looking down at the tea swirling in her cup.
“We’re two time zones apart. My job is demanding this time of year. My kids and grandkids need more of me. And business is picking up now that I’ve been marketing more.”
The grape I had just put in my mouth slid down my throat whole.
My heart went with it.
Everything inside me collapsed at once — appetite, breath, hope.
Her logic was flawless.
But logic doesn’t bleed.
My soul did.
The part of me that loved her — loved her purely — rejoiced that her life was blooming.
But the selfish part of me, the man who wanted to occupy her mornings and her nights, felt crushed that her happiness didn’t include me.
Being breathless after sex was bliss.
Being breathless after this felt like drowning.
Suddenly I felt like I was every problem to her solutions, every complication in her perfectly balanced world.
Emotion whispered that she was pushing me out.
Truth whispered that she was simply stating reality.
My vision blurred as tears collected, hot and heavy.
I reached for a grape, holding it between us like a fragile truth.
My voice was low, trembling, but honest.
“Look at these grapes,” I said softly.
“We can eat them as they are… raw, sweet, untouched.”
“Or we can dry them out, let time change them, and enjoy them as raisins.”
“Or…”
I paused, letting her eyes meet mine — truly meet mine.
“…we can take our time and turn them into wine.”
The air around us stilled.
“It all depends on the patience we have,” I continued, my thumb brushing a tear from my cheek.
“And what kind of result we want.”
I placed the grape in her palm.
“It’s our choice, Iluzhah… how we enjoy our grapes.”
She didn’t speak at first.
Instead, she reached out, tracing her finger slowly along my jawline — soft, deliberate, intimate — then leaned forward until her forehead rested against mine.
Her breath mingled with mine.
Her eyes locked into my soul.
Her voice dropped to a whisper, dripping with a blend of desire, pain, and truth.
“Then tell me…”
Her lips brushed mine without kissing.
“…which version of us do you want to taste?”
