Page 217 of DATE
He froze for a moment, and his heart began to yearn for more.
Hug me, won't you?
It was as if she could hear his desire, like a siren drawn to his longing.
But she didn’t hug him. Instead, she slowly leaned down, bringing her face closer to his.
Hedy...
He was stunned, not daring to move, quietly waiting for everything to unfold.
The kiss was cold yet pure, so beautiful it made him want to sigh.
Instinctively, Da Vinci reached out to hold her waist, lowering his eyes and exchanging that kiss again.
He had never had such contact with her before, yet this kiss was deep and lingering.
The agitation in his heart flared up again, like a beast that could not be calmed.
He wanted more. He wanted to hold her tighter, kiss her long lashes, her cheek, everything about her...
The feeling of holding her soft body in his arms was like holding a cloud.
He felt her shallow breath, the softness of her lips, and his breath began to quicken, filled with pleasure.
He wanted to hold her hand, but he couldn’t find it.
Just then, an untimely knock on the door sounded from afar.
"Mr. Da Vinci," the servant asked, "What would you like to have for breakfast this morning?"
He snapped back to reality, suddenly realizing that the sun had risen.
There was nothing beside his bed. That kiss had never happened.
She still hadn’t come back.
"Mr. Da Vinci?" The servant seemed a little concerned and knocked again. "You didn’t eat anything yesterday afternoon or evening. Surely you’d like some oatmeal today?"
The man buried his face in the pillow and let out a long, mournful groan.
When Atalante finally finished his business in the West and reunited with his pregnant wife before coming back to find Hedy, he discovered Da Vinci in his absent-minded state.
The boy had already started to be referred to as Sarai by the servants—probably because Da Vinci hadn’t been paying much attention to him lately. The boy had broken several bowls and wine bottles, which made the doorman show clear signs of irritation whenever he mentioned him.
Atalante didn’t care why the boy was acting so pitiful; he simply called Da Vinci into the studio.
"What's wrong with you, Leonardo?" he asked.
The artist tried to act like everything was fine. "I’m healthy. There’s nothing wrong."
"Really?" The boy scoffed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You’re just one step away from standing in the theater, hugging a pillar, and singing an aria. How long has it been since you last cleaned out your paint boxes? You just use them up and never clean them."
Da Vinci wanted to deny it, but he was also a little annoyed.
Because she had left, he had no one to be angry with, and so he had bottled everything up silently for days.
"Hedy had to leave for something. She’ll be back," he muttered.
