I had no right to want this.
I swallowed hard, my eyes flicking to the half-melted milkshakes on the bedside table—a reminder of the night before, of everything we had given into.
And then, like a slow-spreading poison, the dread started in my stomach.
It worked its way upward, wrapping tight around my ribs, making it hard to breathe.
Because I knew how this ended.
I always knew.
Technically, I could let myself have more—break my one-night rule, see what this thing with Brooks could be.
But it would end in hurt.
It always did.
My brother’s shit, my family’s never-ending cycle of destruction, my life that I had worked too damn hard to control—none of it was made for happy endings.
And if anyone deserved one, it was him.
I refused to let my life touch his.
I carefully slid out from under his arm, rolling onto my feet before my panic could drown me completely.
The air in the room was too thick, my skin too hot, a leftover reminder of the night before. I needed a shower.
I needed a second to pull myself back together.
I made my way to the bathroom, starting the water scalding hot, my hands shaking slightly as I wiped off the remnants of last night’s makeup.
I avoided my own reflection. I focused on the things I had to do today. Study. Work. Ignore the ache in my chest.
It worked for about two minutes.
Then the weight of saying goodbye slammed into me, hard and unforgiving, pressing against my ribs until I could barely breathe.
I let the water pound against my face, hoping it would wash the feeling away.
Then I felt the curtain move. I knew he was there before he even spoke. His presence was too big, too consuming. And then, that voice.
Sleep-filled, rough, low.
"May I join you?"
The words were simple, but the way he said them—deep, slow, almost reverent—sent shivers down my spine.
I turned toward him as he stepped in, the steam curling around his broad, naked frame, water sliding over his chest, his abs, his strong hands as he reached for me.
He cupped my face, tilted my chin up, and kissed me like he already knew I was trying to pull away.
Like he wouldn’t let me.
He pressed me back against the tile, the warmth of his body melting into mine, his hands sliding down my hips, gripping me tight. I tilted my head back, deepening the kiss, drinking in the way he tasted—like sleep and warmth and something addicting.
His cock pressed against my stomach, hard and already demanding, and a desperate sound left my throat before I could stop it.
"Christ, Michelle."
