A shiver runs through me as the mixture of sensations becomes almost too much to bear. I try to focus on anything but what I'm doing—the taste of roses on my tongue, the faint ripple of water brushing against porcelain—but it's no use.
My vision goes hazy as my climax approaches.
My hand moves faster, pressure building... spiraling.
And a starburst of pleasure explodes behind my eyelids when I finally come, hips jerking forward as my voice breaks the silence once again.
As I push myself up from the tub and reach for a towel, I catch sight of myself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, damp skin, hair a tangled mess.
Heat rushes to my face all over again.
God, what did I just do?
The embarrassment prickles under my skin, but... I can't deny it.
I needed that.Desperately.
I towel off, slip into my pajamas—if you can even call them that. An oversized pale-pink crewneck sweatshirt that practically swallows me whole and soft cotton shorts that barely peek from underneath. It's cozy, warm, and exactly what my post-bath self needs.
I'm just about to crawl into bed when a low knock echoes from my balcony door.
My entire body goes rigid.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. 12:39 a.m.
Oh, hell no.
Every true-crime podcast I've ever half-listened to starts replaying in my head. Who the hell knocks on a balcony door at almost one in the morning? A burglar? A stalker? A serial killer with excellent upper-body strength?
My pulse skyrockets. I freeze, mentally mapping out my escape route—run to Mom and Dad's room, call the police, grab a lamp for self-defense—because it's 2025, and women whochecksuspicious noises don't make it to the sequel.
Another knock.
"Caroline?"
I nearly scream—until I recognize the voice.
Zach.
Of course it's Zach.
My knees go weak with relief, my heart still doing Olympic-level gymnastics in my chest. Not a criminal. Just a six-foot-three human chaos magnet.
The relief morphs into confusion almost instantly.
What's he even doing out there? It's the middle of the night. He was supposed to be dead asleep.
I march toward the balcony, part the heavy curtain and there he is—standing outside in the dim porch light.
He's wearing a soft heather-gray sweatsuit, hoodie pulled up just enough to shadow his jaw. Not a single trace of exhaustion on his face—just that boyish grin that looks way too awake for this hour.
Seriously, does he run on adrenaline and stubbornness alone?
Brows drawn tight, I unlock the door and swing it open, the cool night air rushing in.
"What are you doing here this late, Zach?"
He scratches the back of his neck, that sheepish grin tugging at his lips.
