But it did. And now, I don’t know what to do with that.
7
I don’t sleep much. I drift in and out, tangled in sheets and shame and the ghost of Will’s eyes on mine. Every time I close my eyes, I see that smirk. That stillness. That knowing. I don’t know what I expected. I mean, I did masturbate for him. But regret is a strange kind of hangover. It lingers in your bones.
When I finally doze off, it’s close to dawn. I wake up to soft sunlight bleeding through the edge of the curtain and the buzz of my phone against the nightstand.
Groggy, I fumble for it, expecting some early-morning meme from Tish or a calendar notification.
But it’s not either of those.
Will Flowers
You should close your curtains if you don’t want an audience.
My breath catches. Every nerve in my body lights up. There’s no greeting. No apology. Just that one line. Cool, controlled, and soaked in implication.
I stare at the screen, heartbeat thundering.
I wanted an audience.
I hit send. I don’t know if I’m more embarrassed or turned on right now. But, at least he knows I wanted him to watch.
I set the phone face down on the nightstand and stare at the wall for a long moment. My heart is still hammering from that message. Not fast exactly. Just deep. Like a slow drumbeat I can’t shake. I should feel ashamed. Humiliated, even. But instead, all I feel is seen.
I stand, pulling on a pair of shorts and an old ranch T-shirt, tying my hair up in a messy bun that still smells faintly of dry shampoo and regret. I brush my teeth on autopilot, ignoring the heat creeping into my cheeks every time I remember the way his gaze locked with mine.
In the small kitchen, I start the coffee pot and open the fridge like it might contain answers. It doesn’t. Just oat milk, half a lemon, and leftovers I’ll never eat. I crack two eggs into a pan, pretending I’m not half-expecting another message. Pretending I don’t keep glancing toward the window like maybe he’s out there again. Shirtless. Watching.
But when I peek out through the blinds, his apartment is dark. Good. Or disappointing. I don’t know anymore.
I eat standing up, staring at the counter, chewing without tasting, and trying to focus on anything but last night.
But everything reminds me of it.
The lace skirt draped over the arm of the couch.
The folded laptop.
The ache between my legs that hasn’t fully faded.
I wash my plate, wipe down the counter, and try to pretend that today is just another morning. But it’s not. Because something shifted last night. And no amount of eggs or coffee can undo it.
By late morning, I’ve managed to answer a few emails and convince myself I’m totally fine. Totally. I even make a to-do list and underline things. That’s how you know it’s serious.
Then there's a knock downstairs at the back door. Three sharp raps. I freeze. Not because I think it’s him. But because I’m not ready for anyone.
I open the door and see a delivery guy standing there, red-faced and sweating next to a long, heavy box that’s definitely larger than anything I remember ordering.
“You Phern Stone?”
“Yep.”
“Got a delivery for you. Where do you want it?”
I step outside, blinking at the box. It’s the new couch I ordered weeks ago and completely forgot about. Of course it shows up today.
“Uh, just inside is fine. Thanks.”
