Steal His Innocence - Completed

CHAPTER 22: Change

ASHER'S POV

"Are you okay?" I asked, and I hated how obvious my worry sounded.

She was trying so hard to act normal—sitting too straight, moving too fast, laughing at nothing. The version of Viana I'm used to is loud and fearless, like she doesn't care what anyone thinks. This one... this one kept avoiding my eyes as if my gaze had weight.

I shouldn't look at her like this. Like she's something fragile. She'd hate that.

But something is wrong.

And the worst part is, I know why.

Because earlier, standing outside her door, I heard her. Not everything—just enough. Enough to understand that the chaos in her voice wasn't an ordinary tantrum. It was a confession she didn't mean anyone to witness.

The doorbell rang.

Buzz.

A small mercy.

"I'll go get our dinner," I said quickly, stepping away from her bedroom door before she could read my face.

Pizza boxes. Paper bags. The simple smell of food filling her place. I set everything on the table with hands that didn't feel steady. I kept replaying her voice in my head.

Bakit gusto kita?

She said it like it was an accusation.

I'm not her type. I know that. I don't have the look she usually gravitates toward—confident men, loud men, men who already know how to own a room. I'm the kind of guy who disappears into a crowd and prefers it that way.

But she likes me.

Or at least... she's starting to.

And now that I know, I can't pretend my jealousy doesn't exist. I can't pretend my chest doesn't tighten when other men stare at her. I can't pretend I'm not thinking about her even when I try to focus on something else.

Still, I can't confess.

Not while she's confused. Not while she's still fighting the idea of liking a "nerd" as if it's something shameful.

She finally stepped out and sat across from me at the table. Her hair was slightly messy, cheeks still a little flushed, and she kept busying her hands—fixing her sleeves, smoothing her shorts, tapping her nails on the edge of the plate.

I reached out and took her hand.

It was instinct. Gentle. Like I was checking if she was real.

Her fingers were small. Soft.

"Is there something wrong?" I asked quietly.

Her entire face went red in an instant. She pulled her hand back as if it burned. "Wala, ano ka ba. Kumain na tayo."

She didn't look at me.

But I saw the way her throat moved when she swallowed, like she had to push down more than just words.

We ate in silence for a few minutes. I kept stealing glances when she wasn't looking—her lashes, her mouth, the way she chewed when she was thinking. I wanted to reach across the table and pull her into a hug, tell her she didn't have to figure everything out tonight.

But that would be too much.

After dinner, she stayed on the sofa while I washed the dishes. The clinking of plates and running water should've been calming, but my mind kept circling the same ugly thought:

I don't want her to be embarrassed of me.

I don't want her to feel like she's "downgrading" by liking someone like me.