Watching You Burn In Regret novel Chapter 68

Kiss.

The word landed softly, but Seren's back tensed instinctively.

Strangely, she didn't feel revulsion or resistance—just a wave of nervousness she couldn't quite name.

Her fingers curled, unconsciously digging into her palm.

"Mrs. Crestwell, just turn your face a little to the left."

Lennon's voice brushed against her ear—low, smooth, carrying a gentle authority that unsettled her in ways she hadn't expected.

Seren lifted her gaze. Lennon's eyes were soft, the corners crinkled in a way that felt like an invitation to a secret. There was something impossibly warm in his look, something that drew her in.

Before she realized it, she obeyed, tilting her face as he'd asked.

She sensed rather than saw Lennon lean in. The heat of his lips brushed her right cheek, feather-light.

Time seemed to slow, stretching out between the two of them. He was close enough that his breath, warm and steady, filled the space beneath her nose.

The air itself felt charged, as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them. Where his skin met hers, it was like the gentle touch of spring wind—so subtle, yet it sent a ripple of electricity racing over her skin and deep into her chest, making her shiver.

Her heart thudded wildly. Her breaths came uneven, each one tangled up in the last.

Seren kept her eyes down, missing the storm of restraint flickering in Lennon's gaze. He held himself back, letting his lips only brush her cheek, quick and soft.

A camera flash popped, and just like that, Lennon stepped away, every bit the gentleman.

The photographer clicked away, directing them into the next pose.

From that moment on, Seren could hardly focus. Her mind was a blur, her body moving only as Lennon guided her, gently, almost imperceptibly, whenever she hesitated or faltered.

It wasn't until the shoot was over and the photographer's assistant handed her a cup of warm water that she finally began to come back to herself.

She drank, the warmth settling her nerves and restoring her composure, though her cheeks still burned.

They'd only shared a roof for a few days. The awkward politeness of strangers had faded, replaced by a tentative familiarity—but there was still a distance between them.

Every time they returned to Rippling Gardens, she would hurry upstairs to the safety of her room almost without thinking. She'd grown used to keeping herself tucked away in her own space, where she could feel safe and self-contained.

It was only because the photographer mentioned it that Seren glanced at the photos with new eyes. She noticed the way she was looking at Lennon—an invisible thread seemed to pull between them, delicate and lingering, full of longing.

And Lennon's gaze, even through the lens, was unmistakably tender.

A realization dawned on her: she did have feelings for Lennon. Small, tentative, barely sprouted feelings, but real.

Somewhere along the way, without her noticing, they'd taken root in her heart, quietly growing, sometimes poking their heads up just enough for her to catch a glimpse.

And Lennon? Did he feel the same?

Seren wasn't sure. She thought of the way he treated her—so gentle, so thoughtful. But maybe, she reasoned, that was just Lennon being responsible, fulfilling his role as a husband.