I stare at the microwave, watching a plate of cheap chicken nuggets spin in slow, depressing circles.
The apartment is too quiet.
No Chiara singing off-key in the shower. No one hogging the remote.
It’s been eight days this time.
And something feels different.
Usually, she comes back—for clean clothes, a nap, maybe just to steal the last of the cereal. At the very least, she calls.
But aside from a random text this morning asking me to take her shift, she hasn’t checked in.
Not once.
No matter how hard I try to ignore the knot of worry in my stomach, it just keeps tightening.
The microwave beeps. I take out the plate and move to the tiny kitchen table.
Six hours at the drugstore last night, nine more on my feet at the café today—and this is what I’ve got to show for it: a sad little dinner.
I arrange the nuggets beside a handful of baby carrots.
The cheapest illusion of nutrition.
My shoulders ache. The soles of my feet throb.
I should shower, but even that feels like too much right now.
“Where the hell are you, Chiara?” I mutter, picking up my phone again. Still nothing. No new texts. No calls.
I bite into a nugget.
Still cold in the middle. I don’t bother microwaving it again.
Chiara’s disappearing acts have gotten more frequent lately.
She vanishes, then comes back with bloodshot eyes and a bullshit excuse.
But she always comes back.
For something. A change of clothes. Money from our emergency stash. A nap in her own bed.
Not this time.
This time feels heavier, like when we were kids and she’d hide from foster parents who got too mean. Except we’re not kids anymore.
And the things Chiara runs from now—those are hers.
I know about some of her debts.
Not all.
But enough to keep me up at night.
She borrows from one shark to pay off another, barely keeping ahead of the interest.
I’ve bailed her out twice, emptied my savings both times.
I promised myself—never again.
But promises get slippery when it’s your twin.
Especially when the people she owes can come looking for you instead.
I push a carrot around my plate.
Where does all the money go?
Not clothes. Nothing new ever shows up.
Not drugs—I’d know.
Not a car—she’s too broke for that.
I should talk to her.
Maybe if I understood where it was going, I could help. Keep her from spiraling.
I’ll talk to her.
When she comes back.
I’m halfway through my pathetic dinner when a knock rattles the door.
My heart skips a beat from the force of it.
Hard. Aggressive.
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.
Who the hell knocks like that at this hour?
Before I can stand, the knocking turns into pounding.
Then—
CRACK.
The door bursts open, the hinges splintering straight from the frame.
“What the—?”
I scream, but the rest of the words die in my throat as I stumble back, pressing myself into a corner.
Like putting a few feet between us will make any of this less terrifying.
Three men crowd into our tiny apartment.
I don’t recognize any of them.
“Time’s up, Chiara,” the bigger one says.
My heart stutters.
They think I’m her.
We’re identical, but Chiara wears more makeup and dresses flashier. Today, with my hair down and wearing one of her old T-shirts and jeans, the mistake is easy to make.
I should correct them. I should tell them I’m Aria, not Chiara. But the words stick in my throat because whatever they want from my sister, it can’t be good. And if they can’t find her…
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
The thin one laughs, a harsh sound that makes my skin crawl. “Playing dumb won’t help. D’Angelo wants his money. All of it. Today.”
The big one steps closer, towering over me. “Ten grand,” he says. “Plus interest.”
The number hits me like a slap.
Ten thousand dollars? Chiara owes that much?
My mind reels, struggling to process it.
“I don’t have ten thousand dollars,” I say—true whether I’m Aria or Chiara.
The hulk of a man pulls out a knife, letting the blade catch the light.
“Then we got a problem, don’t we?”
“Look, I have some cash. About three hundred. You can take it. Tell D’Angelo I’ll get the rest.”
“Three hundred?” the big guy laughs. “That doesn’t even cover last week’s interest.”
While we talk, the other starts methodically tearing the apartment apart—dumping drawers, flipping cushions, emptying cabinets.
“Stop it!” I yell, lunging toward him—until the big one grabs my arm and presses a knife to my cheek, murmuring, “This doesn’t have to get ugly. Just give us what we’re owed.”
“I told you, I don’t have it!”
The thin one grabs my purse from the counter and dumps it out. Wallet, keys, lip balm, receipts—all cascade onto the floor. He rifles through my wallet, takes the forty dollars inside.
“Please,” I sob through my tears. “I can get the money. I just need time.”
“Time’s up,” the big guy repeats, his hand reaching for my throat.
And then—a sound.
The door slams open.
A man steps inside like he owns the room—calm, lethal, eyes locked on them.
“Touch her again, and you’re dead.”
Charcoal suit, eyes like loaded weapons, and a face so devastating it belongs on the cover of a crime novel.
It’s him.
The man from the café. The one who saved my ass earlier today. And now—again.
I should be afraid.
Should wonder how he found me. Why he’s here.
But the way he looks at my attackers—like he’s already burying them in his mind—tells me everything I need to know.
He’s not here to join them.
He’s here to end them.
And right now? I don’t give a damn about the questions screaming in my head.
He came for me—and that’s enough.
Whatever brought him here, I just need him to finish it and get these bastards out of my apartment.
The air shifts the second he steps fully into the room.
Something electric. Dangerous. Final.
No one moves. Not for a breath.
Then chaos explodes.
The big guy turns, reaching inside his jacket for a weapon.
But the stranger moves faster. Inhumanly fast.
There’s a dull thud, and before I can blink, the man’s on the ground, gasping for air.
A brutal punch. He wheezes, curling in on himself.
The stranger steps over the one still clutching his ribs, unbothered, like it was nothing.
“That was me being polite.”
His voice is quiet. Deadly. And it sends a shiver right down my spine.
The second one lunges, knife raised.
The stranger ducks, steps in, and laughs—actually laughs—as he sweeps the guy’s legs out with a vicious kick.
The man crashes down, hard. The knife skitters across the floor.
In a blink, the stranger pins him with a knee to the back, twists his arm up behind him until there’s a scream and a crack—dislocated. Maybe worse.
Then the third grabs me, pressing cold steel to my throat.
“Don’t move,” he hisses into my ear, but his voice shakes.
The stranger doesn’t even blink. “You picked the wrong woman.”
His voice is deep, steady—like he’s ordering coffee, not standing over two men writhing on the floor.
“Back off, or I’ll cut her!” my assailant shouts.
The stranger tilts his head slightly. “Move, and you die.”
“This isn’t your problem,” the man stammers.
The dark-eyed man smiles, cold and unforgiving.
“This has everything to do with me.”
The stranger points a gun right behind me, right at him, and shoots.
“Oh my God,” I gasp—half from the shock of how close the bullet came, half from the relief that they’re finally down. When I look back, I see him on the ground, writhing, blood soaking through his thigh. The shot was deliberate. A warning, not an execution.
I stumble backward, my legs hitting the edge of the table. My dinner crashes to the floor, shattering. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Three men just burst into my apartment—and now all three are down. Groaning. Injured.
The stranger kneels beside the one who tried to run and grabs him by the hair, yanking his head back.
“Tell D’Angelo that Chiara is under my protection now,” he says, voice low and razor-sharp. “Tell him what happens when he sends his dogs after what’s mine. Now all three of you—get the hell out before I change my mind.”
No one hesitates.
The bleeding man scrambles up, nearly falling over himself to reach the door. The other two follow fast, limping and stumbling, desperate to escape. Within seconds, they’re gone—leaving only blood, silence, and the wreckage behind.
I pressed a shaking hand to my chest, my heartbeat erratic.
The stranger turns to me, and I press myself against the wall. He could hurt me too—just as easily as he hurt them. But something in his eyes changes when he looks at me—softens, almost imperceptibly.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
I shake my head, unable to form words.
“You should have come to me,” he says quietly. “When you needed money. Not D’Angelo.”
He thinks I’m Chiara. Should I correct him? Would that make things better—or worse? My mind’s racing too fast to know the answer.
“I—” I start, but nothing follows. I should tell him I don’t know who he is, that I couldn’t have gone to him because I have no fucking clue what’s going on.
He steps closer, so close that I can smell his cologne. It smells expensive, like out of one of those bottles that cost hundreds of dollars. Despite the carnage he caused, there’s no blood on his suit, somehow. No trace of the chaos he just left behind.
“You’re safe now,” he says.
I look around me—scattered furniture, blood on the floor—and then at him. At the gun he’s tucking back into his jacket.
Safe is not the word I would use.
But when he reaches out a hand, when his dark eyes meet mine, I don’t pull away.
I should be terrified. I should be calling the police or running for the door. Instead, I’m noticing the width of his shoulders under that expensive suit, the curve of his mouth, the intensity in his eyes. For the first time in my exhausting, responsibility-filled life, I want to be someone else.
I want to be her. I want to be Chiara—reckless, wanted, untouchable. The girl who gets protected. The one he’d destroy the world for. Just for tonight.
“Chiara,” he says again, his voice lower this time, worry softening his eyes. “You’re trembling.”
He reaches out a little farther—just enough to let me know he’s there, if I need him.
I take his hand, warm and steady, while my fingers shake like hell.
My whole life has been about doing the right thing. Double shifts. Paid bills. Playing it safe while my sister burns the world down.
And for what?
So I can come home to a shitty apartment, cheap microwaved chicken, and get a knife to the throat for my efforts?
No one’s ever stepped in for me.
Not when foster parents locked us in closets.
Not when I dragged myself through double shifts with pneumonia.
Not when Chiara’s chaos became my responsibility.
But now—he did.
“Thank you,” I whisper. And somehow, despite everything… I mean it.
His dark eyes search mine, and I can’t help but wonder—what does he see in me to make him watch over me like some kind of guardian angel?
Or maybe it’s not me he sees at all. Maybe it’s Chiara.
Has he met her? He knows her name. Knows she’s in deep.
Does it matter?
He’s gently caressing my hand now, and I’m already forgetting the blood on the floor, the broken furniture, the way everything spiraled. Forgetting the debt. Forgetting that my sister’s nowhere to be found.
The heat from his fingers sinks into me, makes everything blur—like I’m floating in this thick, heady fog where all I can think about is his hands on my skin. I want him to tear off my clothes and press me up against the wall. I want him to make me forget my name—Aria, Chiara, whoever the hell I’m supposed to be.
The thought should scare me.
I don’t bring strange men home.
I don’t have one-night stands.
Especially not with dangerous men who just wrecked three intruders like it was nothing.
But he’s standing so close now, and I notice the flecks of brown in his green eyes, the crinkles at the corners like worn leather. He’s older—maybe ten years older. I’ve never been with someone like him.
His thumb traces slow, hypnotic circles on my wrist, each one sending sparks up my arm.
“What happens now?” I ask, my voice barely above a breath.
He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair from my face.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he says. “I’ll take care of it. And I’ll get your door fixed, too.”
Before I do something stupid, I think—running would’ve been the smart choice.
But when he reaches out, his fingers tracing the spot where the knife had been—
I stay.
Fear should take over.
Instead, the heat of his touch consumes me.
I should have stopped it, turned away when his fingers skim my arm, tracing the bruises left behind by the men who tried to take me.
I should have pulled back when his hand slid up, cupping the side of my neck, his thumb brushing the rapid pulse at my throat.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
Because for the first time in forever, I feel safe.
Not because the world isn’t dangerous.
He is even more dangerous.
But I’m not afraid of him.
I’m afraid of how much I want him.
His fingers linger on my cheek, and I lean into the touch without meaning to. We’re inches apart now. I can see the stubble on his jaw, a tiny scar near his temple, the way his pupils dilate as they lock onto my lips.
I can’t pretend anymore. He’s too close. Too dangerous. And I want to fall apart in his hands.
My lips part instinctively. The tension crackles between us. His chest heaves—he’s fighting not to lose it.
I don’t think. I just act. My hands grab the lapels of his jacket, pulling him toward me as I rise onto my tiptoes. Our lips crash, and the shock in his breath makes me want to take it deeper, darker.
For a second, he doesn’t move. Then he devours me.
One hand tangles in my hair, the other grips my lower back, pulling me into him until I feel every hard inch of his body pressed against mine.
His tongue slides against my lips in a silent command, and I open to him, greedy for more.
My fingers thread through his hair. He drags his mouth down my neck, and I shudder when his teeth sink into the curve of it. My body arches against his—instinctive, demanding.
“Fuck,” I breathe, and he grins—just a little—before his tongue invades my mouth like he owns it, like he’s been starving.
His hands slide to my waist, squeezing tight—so tight my toes curl—then he starts walking me back until my spine hits the wall and his body cages me in.
I can feel him, hard against my stomach, and the rush of heat that follows pools low between my legs.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps against my lips.
I can’t. Instead, I whisper, “Don’t.”
And he doesn’t.
His hands are everywhere—skimming my sides, cupping my breasts through my T-shirt, gripping my hips.
He shrugs off his jacket. I fumble with his tie and shirt buttons until he pulls the shirt off with a smirk, revealing a tanned, muscular chest scattered with scars.
Then suddenly, he’s on me—yanking my T-shirt over my head. His eyes darken the moment they land on my plain cotton bra.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look like sin.”
I almost laugh—because I’m not. I’m ordinary. But the way he looks at me makes me feel beautiful.
His hands slide down to cup my ass, and in one smooth motion, he lifts me off the ground. I wrap my legs around his waist, our kiss never breaking, still hot and urgent.
He carries me like I weigh nothing down the short hallway to my bedroom.
He tosses me onto the bed. I bounce once before he follows, crawling over me with predatory intent.
His hand wraps around my throat—not choking, just there, claiming—and the possessiveness in his eyes sets me on fire.
“You’re driving me insane. I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you.”
His hand slides beneath my back and unhooks my bra, exposing me completely. Then his mouth crashes down on my nipple—biting, sucking—brutal in a way that makes my back arch.
I gasp, not from pain, but from the way it sends heat shooting straight between my thighs.
His teeth graze the sensitive peak, just enough to sting, and then he pauses—watching me squirm beneath him.
“Say it,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “Tell me exactly how you want me.”
“Rough,” I whisper, breath hitching. “I want to ache when I think about you tomorrow.”
He doesn’t disappoint.
He moves to the other breast, sucking so hard I know I’ll be marked—and I want that. I want to wear the evidence of him.
My fingers dig into his back, nails raking trails into his skin.
“More,” I whisper.
He lets out a raw sound, low and desperate.
Then he raises his head and looks down at me like I’m a puzzle he intends to break apart piece by piece.
“If you want me to stop, say it now. Because I’m one second away from fucking devouring you.”
I try not to whimper at the pleasure his words pour over me.
“No,” I say, voice choked. “Don’t stop… please.”
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face, turning his beauty into something feral.
“I don’t believe in fate—but you walked into that café like you were delivered to me. Serving coffee like you hadn’t just started a war in my head.”
He leans in, voice low, thick with something darker.
“Do you even know what you do to me, Chiara? The things you put in my head… they’re not the kind a man can walk away from.”
He calls me Chiara again.
I should tell him—I’m not her. I’m Aria.
But the second I do, he’ll stop.
Stop telling me the things I make him feel.
Stop looking at me like I’ve wrecked his world.
And right now? I need that.
I need something that feels this good.
Chiara’s taken enough. She’s not taking this, too.
He unbuttons my jeans, slides the zipper down so agonizingly slow that my legs begin to tremble.
“I think about your mouth,” he murmurs, tugging the denim down my hips. “Your taste.”
The fabric hits the floor along with the rest of my sanity.
His mouth follows, trailing heat as he kisses his way down my body, each touch branding fire into my skin.
Then he grips my thighs and spreads them—wide.
So fucking wide I let out a whimper.
He slides the panties down and tosses them aside. His eyes devour me, and his hand moves between my thighs as he slides his fingers through my clit. His fingers, cold to the touch, cut me with pleasure, and I writhe beneath his touch.
“You’re soaked,” he says, his voice rough. “Absolutely soaked for me.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Touch me. Now.”
Let him wreck me. I want it all.
I don’t care if it’s a mistake. I don’t care if it breaks me.
Right now, I want the man whose stare shuts mouths and weakens knees to lose control all over me.
Do I want him? No—I crave him.
He’s fire and danger wrapped in control, and I want to burn.
He lowers his head, and the second his tongue makes contact with my clit, I fucking scream.
It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s filthy, wet, and possessive—his mouth on me like he’s starved for it. He licks me in long, greedy strokes, his tongue broad and heavy as it drags over the swollen bundle of nerves. My hips roll up uncontrollably, moaning like a goddamn porn star, but I don’t care. There’s no shame here—just raw, naked need.
Then his fingers slide into me—one, then two—and he fucks me with them, curling up hard to hit that impossible, perfect spot that makes my back arch off the bed.
“Fuck—right there,” I choke out, fists yanking at the sheets as his mouth sucks hard on my clit, obscene, wet sounds echoing in the room.
He groans low in his throat, like he loves how I taste, how I sound. And when he hums against my clit, that vibration makes my entire body seize.
His hand clamps down on my thigh, spreading me even wider as I arch into his mouth, chasing more, needing more.
“That’s it,” he says, his lips brushing my slick skin. “Let go, Chiara. Come for me.”
Chiara. The name shouldn’t make my stomach tighten like this. It shouldn’t feel like a spark instead of a sting. But I’m too far gone to care. Too close.
He thrusts his fingers deeper, tongue flattening hard over my clit, and that’s it.
I shatter.
“Fuck, fuck—” I cry out, legs shaking violently as the orgasm slams into me like a freight train. I come so fucking hard, gasping like I’ve been drowning—and he’s the goddamn oxygen. My body shudders, thighs tightening around his head as I cry out, rocking against his mouth, lost in the wave of it.
But he doesn’t stop. He devours me, tongue flicking, fingers pounding until I’m crying, twitching, and babbling nonsense.
Only when I’m spent and shaking does he finally pull back, his mouth wet with me. He looks up like he just claimed something that was always his.
“You taste like fucking heaven,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “You’re a fucking dream between your legs, you know that?”
He crawls up my body, grabs my jaw, and kisses me deep—tongue plunging into my mouth like he’s claiming it, letting me taste myself on him.
And I moan into it, because fuck… nothing has ever felt this dirty.
Or this good.
I reach between us, fumbling with his belt, desperate to feel him. He doesn’t hesitate—shoving his pants and boxers down in one motion, and his cock springs free. My eyes widen at the sight of it—harder than I thought it would be.
He puts a finger under my chin, tilting my face up until our eyes meet.
“See what you do to me?” he asks, and then his eyes lower to his cock. My breath hitches at the sound of his voice, the confidence in it, the possessiveness of his touch.
My fingers curl around his cock, and I drag my hand down the thick length—once, then again—slow, deliberate, making him grunt low in my ear.
His hips jerk into my touch, his breath hot on my skin. “Fuck, Chiara,” he groans, and I shiver at the sound of my sister’s name again, but I don’t stop. I move up and down, flick my finger over the sensitive skin of his head, and he lurches toward me, as though he’s a beast and I’m for his taking. The next thing I know, I feel a wetness in my fingers and he reaches down and stills my movement with a firm grip on my wrist, wrenching my hand away from his cock.
His eyes lock into mine. “If you keep doing that, this will be over before it starts,” he growls.
He leans down to kiss me again, and I whimper as he bites into my lower lip. Slowly, his hand slides behind my neck, pulling me closer until his tongue is tracing slow circles on the roof of my mouth.
I’m so swept away by that kiss that I barely notice he’s positioning himself at my entrance. It’s only when the head of his cock nudges against my pussy that my breath catches—short, rapid inhales—and he pulls away from my lips.
His eyes search mine.
“Do you want to stop?” he asks.
I break into a small smile and whisper, “Fuck me already.”
He pushes in slowly—so slowly—filling the space within me, and oh god, that stretch. I try not to cry out from the pleasure, afraid of just how loud I might be.
Inch by inch, he fills every crevice, like my body was made for this—made for him—and has been starved for too long. My breath catches at the slight burn, the perfect fullness. When he’s fully seated inside me, he pauses, letting me adjust to his size.
“So fucking tight,” he growls in my ear. “Like you’ve never been fucked right. Say no one’s ever filled you like this.”
“No one,” I gasp. “Fuck—no one, not even close.”
He starts to move, long, deep thrusts that make me whimper with every drag inside me, my walls clenching tight around him.
Then he grabs my wrists, pinning me to the mattress with one hand.
His free hand trails down my side, gripping my ass and lifting my hips to meet his thrusts—grinding into me in a filthy rhythm that makes me see stars.
I’m lost in sensation—the drag of his cock inside me, the weight of his body over mine, the slick sound of our bodies meeting again and again.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters.
“Yes,” I pant.
He leans down, sucking one nipple into his mouth, wet and relentless, his teeth grazing it just enough to hurt.
I cry out, arching into him.
“Please,” I whimper.
He growls like an animal, then sits back on his heels, dragging me up with him until I’m straddling his thighs.
“Ride me,” he orders. “Rub that gorgeous little clit and show me how desperate you are.”
My hand snakes between us, fingers finding my clit. The dual stimulation is overwhelming—I’m climbing again, faster this time.
And then, just like that, the spark ignites. It spreads through me like wildfire.
I moan shamelessly, grinding down on him, my wetness soaking through, and he keeps ramming into me without mercy.
His fingers twist in my hair, yanking my head back so he can suck hard at my throat.
“Louder,” he snarls. “Let me fucking hear you.”
I’m beyond reason now.
“I’m gonna come. Fuck—I’m going to lose it!”
“You better,” he says, lifting his thigh to meet me as I ride him like an animal. His eyes trail down my body—from my eyes to where my breasts bounce for him. “Soak me, baby. Come all over me while I watch.”
“Oh my god,” I moan, closing my eyes as I dig my nails into his back. “I’m… I can’t… I—”
“You can,” he growls, “and you will.”
His voice hits me like a jolt—low, commanding, and it goes straight to my core.
He’s relentless, fucking me with brutal precision, that spot of pleasure swelling, brimming, nearly spilling over.
My fingers circle my clit in fast, desperate motion.
Then he picks up the pace. I moan louder, eyes squeezed shut, as his fingers dig into my waist, driving into me again and again. My legs start to tremble.
“That’s it,” he growls, voice thick with hunger. “Let fucking go.”
The world explodes into stars behind my eyelids as the orgasm rips through me—sharp, brutal, all-consuming.
I cry out something filthy, and he watches me like he owns me. Like he’s the reason I exist.
I collapse backward, still twitching with aftershocks, but he isn’t done.
He flips me onto my back, slides between my thighs again.
“Did I tell you you were done?” he says.
He brings his hand to my mouth, pressing two fingers to my lips.
I part them willingly, letting him slide in. I suck them deep, slow, wrapping my tongue around each one like I know exactly what he plans to do with them.
“Good girl,” he breathes.
Then he drags them out—slick and glistening—and pushes them between my legs.
He spreads me open, and then his mouth is on me.
Licking. Sucking. Fucking me with his tongue until I can’t think.
I scream again. I beg. I sob. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.
I’m shaking uncontrollably. My legs kick, and he pins them down with his arms, holding me in place, forcing me to take it all.
“You look so pretty falling apart,” he murmurs. “You’re mine now. You get that?”
I nod like a lunatic. “I’m yours. Please—”
And when I’m nothing but raw nerve and soaked sheets, he lifts my hips and slams into me again.
Deeper. Vicious. Like he owns every inch.
This is possession. This is dominance.
His cock pounds into me like he’s claiming territory, and when I come again, I swear I black out.
The world explodes behind my eyelids for the second time as the orgasm tears through me.
I scream as my body convulses around him, and then he groans, deep and guttural, his cock pulsing inside me as he lets go.
He collapses on top of me, his weight a comforting pressure.
His heart beats against mine—fast, steady.
As our breaths slow, he rolls off me and pulls me into his side, arms wrapping around me, holding me close.
And that’s when I realize: I still don’t know his name.
And he doesn’t know mine—not really. He thinks I’m my sister.
I should feel guilty.
I just had sex with a man who thinks I’m someone else.
But I don’t feel guilty.
I feel… free.
Nobody had ever looked at me like I was worth protecting.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I snuggle closer, allowing my heavy eyelids to close. The last thing I register is his arm tightening around me, his steady heartbeat beneath my ear.
I wake in the darkness, momentarily disoriented. A warm body is pressed against my back, an arm draped over my waist. The events of the night rush back—the men breaking in, the violence, the sex.
I should feel shame now, in the quiet darkness. But his arm tightens in his sleep, pulling me closer, and I let myself drift back to unconsciousness, postponing reality for a few more hours because just for one night, I feel safe.
When I wake again, light is streaming through the thin curtains. I reach across the bed, but my fingers find only cold sheets. I sit up, scanning the room. His clothes are gone. The only evidence he was ever here is the pleasant ache between my legs and the faint scent of his cologne on my pillow.
I press my face into it, inhaling deeply. Whoever he is—whatever he is to my sister—he’s gone. Vanished as completely as if he’d never existed.
I fall back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I let him ruin me. After what we shared, no other man will ever compare. And somehow, that feels worse than anything—knowing I’ll always be searching for that feeling again, that perfect escape, that moment of forgetting myself completely.
And I don’t even know his name—but I’ll never forget the way he made me feel.
