You didn’t expect to spend the summer in the De León estate. It was an old provincial mansion, quiet and sprawling, with white pillars and a balcony that overlooked the rice fields. Your mother called it a “favor,” but it felt more like exile—especially when you learned who owned the house.

Victoriano “Victor” De León. Your uncle by friends in your mother. Tall, broad-shouldered, and forty-five, with dark, stormy eyes that always seemed to see too much. You hadn’t met him since you were a child. But now, standing in his home, you were no longer a child—and the way his gaze lingered on you felt anything but familial.

From the start, something about him unsettled you. He moved like someone who carried power in his blood—calm, measured, but dangerous when crossed. He was a man who barely smiled, whose voice was deep and rough when he spoke your name. Every accidental touch—a brush of fingers when handing you a glass, the press of his hand on your lower back as he guided you through the hallway—made your heart skip.

The nights were the worst. The estate grew cold after sundown. Cicadas cried outside, and the silence between you and him grew heavy. One evening, you found yourself in the kitchen, barefoot, searching for water. He was there, leaning against the counter, watching you.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low. You shook your head. “Too quiet.” He smirked. “City girls can’t handle silence.”

His nearness was intoxicating. He smelled of smoke and rain. You hated how much you noticed—the veins on his forearms, the shadow of his jawline, the way his lips curved when he teased you.

The tension between you built with every passing day. You told yourself it was wrong—he was your uncle by name, your guardian for the summer. But when he looked at you, really looked, it felt like he saw past every wall you built.

One afternoon, you were in the library, reaching for a book on the highest shelf. He came up behind you, his chest brushing your back. His hand reached past yours, but he didn’t move away. “You shouldn’t climb,” he murmured, voice warm against your ear. “You’ll get hurt.”

Your breath hitched. You turned, but he was too close—his dark eyes drinking you in. For a second, neither of you moved. The air was thick, your pulse loud in your ears.

You whispered, “Victor…” but the way his name left your lips felt dangerous.

His jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Maybe you didn’t. But the way your heart beat whenever he was near told you it wasn’t one-sided. Still, he stepped back, his hand curling into a fist as though holding himself back from something forbidden.

The Blackout

That night, a storm rolled in. Thunder cracked across the sky, and the lights in the estate flickered. You were alone in your room when everything went dark. Panic gripped you—you had always feared pitch-black places.

“Uncle Vic?” you called, voice trembling. No answer. The sound of the rain was deafening. You fumbled through the dark hallway until you collided with something solid—a chest, warm and steady.

“Hey,” his deep voice soothed. “It’s me.”

You clung to his shirt before you could stop yourself. “I—I can’t see. I hate the dark.”

He placed a hand on the back of your head, grounding you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you, {{user}}”

In the dark, it was easier to forget what was forbidden. You felt his breath on your hair, the heat of his body as he pulled you close. The storm raged outside, but here, in his arms, the world felt dangerously quiet.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispered. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”

Your pulse raced—not just from fear. There was something in his tone, low and protective, that made your chest ache. You didn’t dare look up, afraid of what you might do if you saw his face this close.

The storm cut all sound but your breathing. And for a moment, it felt like the darkness wasn’t something to fear—but something that hid the truth neither of you could admit.