How she looked with my cum painted all over her tits and neck.
How she smiled at me when I asked her not to wipe it off.
Such trust... such vulnerability... I waited my whole life for a girl like Jasmine, even without knowing it. And when I had her...
I rap my knuckles again. Harder. More insistent.
All I hear is silence. Like a fool, I even scan the door for the same post-it again. But Jasmine isn’t Sophie. She doesn’t run away from confrontations or conflict. She stands and fights and steals your very soul.
I twist the knob, step inside. “Jasmine?” My voice is rough, swallowed by the quiet.
Nothing.
The room is dark and empty. The faint scent of her—vanilla and shampoo, warm skin—hangs in the air. My gaze drops to the bed, and my stomach lurches when I see the sheets untouched. A variety of throw pillows stare up at me in solemnity.
She’s... gone?
The idea of her leaving me—of waking up tomorrow without the prospect of seeing her bright smile in the kitchen—splinters pain through me. By the time I step back out into the corridor, my chest is heaving.
For a heartbeat, I just stand there, drenched clothes clinging to me.
My fingers crumple Sophie’s note as I yank it from my pocket, scanning the messy scrawl again under the low hallway light.
Sorry Dad… spending the night at Uncle Zayn’s… talk to J…
Nothing about Jasmine leaving. Nothing.
“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving a hand through my wet hair. Where would she go? Did my storming out push her that far?
No. Jasmine isn’t reckless or impulsive. She wouldn’t vanish in the middle of the night without a word. She knows what that would do to Sophie. What that would do to me.
I need to change out of these wet clothes. Charge my phone. Call her. My pulse hammers in my ears as I push into my room—and freeze.
The low glow from the nightlight paints the bed in a soft circle of gold. And there, curled in the middle of my sheets, clutching one of my shirts like it’s a lifeline, is Jasmine.
Her black dress clings to every curve. With her dark hair fanning across my pillows, she looks like a goddess dropped into my stark white bed.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. Relief floods me so fast it’s dizzying, a tidal surge that nearly knocks me off my feet. I move toward her on unsteady legs, every sound in the room muffled under the thud of my heart.
Then I see them. Tracks of tears glistening on her cheeks.
My chest caves in. My brave, bold girl never cries but clearly, she did tonight.
Fresh guilt spears me. All I want in this moment is to fall to my knees and beg her to forgive me for ever making her cry.
I neither walk away and change out of my wet clothes nor I slide into the bed. I don’t think I’m capable of doing the former—the fear that this is all a nightmare and she might disappear from my bed if I look away is… potent, rooting me to the spot.
The second—I stop myself from sliding in beside her with the skin of my teeth. I know what will happen if I do. She will be warm and soft in my rough hands, full of need and surrender that will undo all my good intentions.
In the deepest, quietest corner of my heart, I believe that Jasmine wants more than the intense chemistry that plays out between us. That she wants more, with me. And for once, I can’t let our attraction—as intense and mind-blowing as it is–to muddle the issue.
“Mr. Grayson?” A small, sleep-mussed voice comes from the bed.
My heart twitches at the hesitation in her voice.
“Oh, you’re drenched. And you look angry,” she says, pushing up on the bed into a sitting position.
Then, as if I’m watching a slow replay, a stillness comes over her. As if she just remembers what happened earlier.
