LUCAS
The warmth of the car seeps into my bones, thawing the cold that had settled deep in me. My right hearing aid, shoved back into my ears the moment I stepped inside, hums faintly—waterlogged, glitching, like a broken radio stuck between stations. The soft vibration of the engine thrums through the seat, steady and low, and it feels dangerously close to a lullaby. My clothes cling to my skin, damp and heavy, but the leather beneath me is firm, heated, coaxing my body into surrender. My eyelids drag downward with every blink, the blurred streaks of city lights outside the window smearing together like watercolor gone wrong.
I should stay awake. I know that. I don’t know this man. Not really. I don’t know where he is taking me, or even how he found me. Every rational thought should scream at me to sit up, to stay sharp, to demand answers. But nothing in me listens. I’m too numb, too hollow. And the strangest thing is I’m not afraid.
Alexander hasn’t spoken since those words: Come with me. His hands rest easily on the wheel, long fingers flexing with a patience that feels practiced, dangerous. His face is calm, too calm. A silence that belongs to someone who isn’t just comfortable with it, but who chooses it. The wipers swipe across the windshield in a steady rhythm, and for once, the muffledhum in my left ear feels like mercy. The world is muted. Soft. Distant. Like I’m floating just outside of myself.
When the car slows, I jolt, thinking for a second he’s taken me out of the city entirely. But no—we’re still here. Only now, it’s another part of the city called the Hilton complex, which is a gated high-rise complex. The gate itself looks endless, black iron stretching high. Alexander rolls his window down a fraction, and the man stationed at the gate doesn’t even speak. Just a nod. The gates swing open.
We pass through, and the world on the other side doesn’t feel real. Perfectly trimmed gardens carved into shapes, fountains spilling water under golden lights. Each building glitters like a monument to wealth, untouchable, unreachable.
We glide into the base of the tallest Building, the car sinking into an underground garage, concrete gleaming under clinical lights. Alexander parks with practiced ease, the engine fading into silence. For a moment, I sit there, body sluggish, exhaustion pulling at every joint. Then his door clicks open. A second later, mine does too. He’s there, waiting. His gaze pins me, steady, expectant, as if he’s giving me the choice to resist.
I don’t.
I step out. My legs feel unsteady, as though the ground has shifted beneath me, and I trail after him, shivering despite the garage’s warmth. He walks with that same easy stride, like this world belongs to him. Maybe it does.
At the elevator, he presses his palm against a scanner, and the doors slide open with a polished chime. The space inside gleams, lined with mirrors that multiply our reflections until it feels like I’m trapped among ghosts of myself. My throat tightens. My chest feels too full.
The air grows heavier the moment we step inside. Trapped in this sleek box with him, I can feel the weight of his presence more clearly—calm, steady, unmoving. Like an anchor. Likea chain. Like Something holding me down, keeping me from floating away.
I should be curious. About the building. About him. About why the hell I’m even here. But curiosity feels like a luxury I can’t afford tonight. The weight of the day presses down so heavily that it dulls every edge in me, every thought reduced to static.
The elevator dings softly when we get to the ‘P’ floor, and when the doors slide open, he steps out. I do the same, but stop short because—Jesus Christ. This isn’t just an apartment. This is… everything. Floor-to-ceiling windows span the entire far wall. A floating staircase cuts up toward an upper level, elegant and impossible. Gray furniture is arranged in perfect symmetry, like no one’s ever sat on it. The air itself smells expensive, like clean lines, polished wood, and soft, golden light dripping from the ceiling. Cold. Modern. Controlled.
For a second, my brain can’t catch up. Then it hits me. This—this vast, untouchable space is his. Alexander’s. And I’m standing in it, dripping water on the floor like some stray that wandered in from the storm. I would’ve stared longer, maybe even let myself be impressed, but I can barely keep my head up. My body’s too heavy. My eyelids keep dragging.
Before I can think about what to do, his hand presses lightly against the small of my back. It’s not forceful, not rough, but it’s steady. Guiding. Too steady. It burns through the soaked fabric of my jacket, and my instinct is to flinch. I don’t. I’m too far gone to fight him.
He steers me down a hallway, pushes open a door, and I blink into a room that feels… different. Warmer. Cozier. Like it doesn’t quite belong in the same penthouse. A big bed draped in clean white sheets, lighting already dimmed to something soft. It looks like it’s waiting.
“Guest room,” he says. My right hearing aid picks it up faintly, but his voice is low enough that it almost feels like a secret.
I step inside. The warmth of the room is immediate, almost disarming. It smells like fresh linen, and for reasons I can’t name, that simple, clean scent hits me harder than the grandeur outside the room.
“There’s a towel in the bathroom,” he adds. His tone is flat, but not unkind. “Clothes too. They should fit.”
I glance back at him, half-expecting more. His eyes hold mine for a beat, unreadable, before he says, softer, “I’ll make you some tea. To warm you up.”
It sounds almost awkward, like the words don’t come naturally to him. Like comfort isn’t something he knows how to give, but he’s trying anyway. I want to say something, a thank you, maybe, but nothing comes out. My throat feels locked.
He doesn’t wait. He just steps back and closes the door, and suddenly it’s just me, dripping onto the immaculate floor. I move because if I don’t, I’ll collapse right here.
The bathroom is spotless, marble and glass gleaming under perfect light. The towel waiting on the rack is warm against my hands, and the folded clothes—a plain white t-shirt and black sweatpants are impossibly soft, like they’ve never been touched.
My hearing aid beeps faintly, warning me they’re dying. I pull it out, set it down, and peel off my wet clothes and converse. The fabric clings stubbornly to my skin, making me wince, like it doesn’t want to let me go. When I step into the shower and turn the dial, hot water crashes over me, almost scalding.
I let it burn. I let it pound against my back and wash everything away, the rain, the sweat, the grime, the day, the tears I hadn’t even realized had dried against my face. The body wash has a clean and comforting scent. For once, I don’t think. I can’t. I just let the heat strip me raw.
By the time I step out, the mirror is fogged, and the air feels thick, like it’s holding something unspoken. My hands tremble as I dry myself, not just from exhaustion but from something I can’t name. The clothes are loose, but warm. The fabric brushes against my skin like something decadent, something I shouldn’t be allowed to touch.
When I step back into the guest room, my body all but sighs for me. My eyes lock on the bed, it’s perfect, untouched, too clean, but all I can think is yes. I barely make it to the mattress before my knees give, and I sink into the sheets. They’re cool at first, then warming against me. I curl on my side, tugging the blanket up over my shoulder. It smells faintly crisp, expensive, like everything else in this place. And yet, under it, I find myself curling tighter, wrapping my arms around my chest like I can hold myself together.
The pillow cradles my head, soft in a way that almost hurts because it’s too much. Too kind. Too safe.
The last thing I register before everything blurs into blackness is the faint scent of mint tea, and the quiet, steady sense of another presence just beyond the door.
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