Bruma stirred the pot of steaming lentil soup on the old gas stove in her isolated cottage, the rhythmic clink of the spoon against the metal a small comfort against the weight of her isolation. The kitchen was dim, lit only by the flickering flame and the pale morning light filtering through the dusty windows, carrying the faint scent of pine from the woods beyond. She knocked three times on the wooden countertop, a ritual to ward off the bad luck she felt brewing inside her, her mind already racing with thoughts of her family—Juliette's sharp words from their last phone call, Niles' distant silence, and little Mary's innocent laughter that made her heart ache. At twenty-one, Bruma was the black sheep, her unpredictable outbursts and self-sacrificing nature pushing her further into this self-imposed exile, yet she couldn't shake the fierce love that drove her. As the soup bubbled, she glanced at the clock, knowing she had to leave for the office soon, where the big project awaited like a storm cloud on the horizon.

Dressed in her usual nondescript blouse and skirt, she locked the door behind her and trudged down the winding path to her car, the cool autumn air brushing against her skin like an unwelcome touch. The drive to the office was a blur of trees and empty roads, her fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel, but her thoughts kept drifting to Mora, the one person who made her feel less alone. Mora, with her empathetic eyes and persistent optimism, had slipped into Bruma's life like a warm current, challenging her barriers with gentle prods. Last night, after a rare visit, Mora's hands had explored Bruma's body with a tenderness that melted her defenses—Mora's fingers tracing the curve of Bruma's breasts, eliciting a gasp as they circled her hardening nipples, the sensation electric against her skin. Bruma's pussy had throbbed with anticipation as Mora's lips found hers, their kiss deepening into something raw and urgent, Mora's thigh pressing between Bruma's legs, grinding slowly until waves of pleasure built, her clit swelling under the friction. It was a rare moment of connection, Mora's emotional intelligence weaving through the physical act, making Bruma feel seen and desired, even as doubts about the project gnawed at her.

At the office, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of insects as Bruma settled at her desk, the familiar hum of keyboards and murmured conversations failing to drown out her anxiety. Her rival, Zara, leaned against the cubicle wall, their sharp eyes appraising her with that trademark competitive edge, the air thick with unspoken tension. Zara's voice cut through the noise, crisp and unyielding, announcing the project's details—collaborating on a high-stakes presentation that could define their careers. Bruma's heart raced, not just from the pressure, but from the memory of Mora's touch lingering on her skin, a secret fire that made her body ache for more, even as she forced herself to focus on the task ahead.

The Big Project