I wake up to softness. The kind that makes my body sink in, weightless, like I’m floating. For a moment, I’m not sure if I’m even awake or still trapped in some kind of dream. My lashes flutter open, the light in the room dim but soft, casting gentle shadows along the ceiling. The bed is massive beneath me, the sheets cool against my skin, the scent unfamiliar—clean, Nice, nothing like the cheap detergent I’m used to.
I sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. There’s something… strange. Something off.
Clouds.
Where the hell am I?
My breath catches.
Through the expansive glass windows stretching from floor to ceiling, I can see nothing but white mist swirling outside. For a second, I wonder if I’m dead, if everything that happened yesterday finally broke me, and I woke up somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
I push the covers off and stand, bare feet touching the cold floor. The sight in front of me is surreal. I could reach out and touch the cloud. The clouds are thick, foggy, moving lazily, curling at the edges like they might drift inside if given the chance.
Then it hits me.
My mother, the rain, my right hearing aid that went down that hole, the bus stop.
Shit, I followed Alexander home.
I squeeze my eyes shut, exhaling sharply. I should never have come here. I should have gone back to my apartment, alone, where I belong.
Shaking my head, I turn away from the windows and head straight to the bathroom. My clothes. My shoes. I had left them on the floor last night, soaked and dripping. But as I enter the bathroom, I can’t find them.
Did he take them?
Just as I’m about to leave the bathroom, I catch a reflection of myself, my hair is a disheveled mess, and there are bags under my eyes. With a sigh, I take the sealed brush from the top of the bathroom sink and brush quickly, wash my face, then run a hand through my hair.
I walk back to the room and pick up my phone from the nightstand. Great, it’s off, even my hearing aid.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to leave the bedroom, my bare feet brushing against the cold floor. Each step feels like trespassing. The space outside is no less overwhelming—high ceilings stretch above me, light spilling in from floor-to-ceiling windows that paint the room in soft shades of morning. Everything is open, sleek, and almost painfully expensive. Minimalist, but rich in ways I can’t name. It smells faintly of him.
Alexander.
The air itself feels heavier because of him, like the walls have memorized his presence. I keep walking, hands twitching at my sides, chest tight. The penthouse is too quiet, too big. A place I don’t think I belong. A place someone like me shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe in.
And then I see him.
He stands behind the black marble counter of the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hand. He’s shirtless, his broad shoulders catching the pale light that filters through the windows. Muscles shift under his skin as he lifts the cup to his lips. His left arm is covered in a sleeve of ink, with dark lines crawling down to his wrist, while his right arm only bears a double black band, thick and stark against his skin. His hair is tousled, a few strands falling over his forehead, he looks like he just rolled out of bed, and yet he doesn’t look tired. like something out of a dream. His skin catches the morning light in a way that makes me think—ridiculously—that it’s glowing.
My throat tightens. I can’t look away.
He’s the most intimidatingly handsome man I’ve ever seen. And he’s staring right at me. Those piercing blue eyes pin me in place, sharp and unrelenting, as if he’s been waiting for me to step out. His silence is loud, louder than the faint ticking in my head. He studies me, gaze slow, deliberate, unreadable.
Then his lips move.
“Good morning.”
I don’t have my hearing aids in, but I don’t need them. His lips are easy to read, the words smooth, effortless.
I don’t respond.
My body is frozen, my pulse loud against my ribs. I feel so small standing in the middle of this place that belongs to him. Luxurious. Quiet. Untouchable. Just like him.
He tilts his head slightly, still watching me. Waiting.
My fingers knot in the hem of the shirt I’m wearing, trying to ground myself. I should say something. Anything. But the words catch in my throat, tangled with nerves, fear… and something else I don’t know how to name. Finally, he exhales, low, steady, and taps a notebook lying on the counter. My eyes flick to it instantly.
“There’s a book and a pen here, Lucas.”
