“Only when I mean them.”
She presses her palm flat against my chest, right over my heartbeat, as if testing the truth of it. For a long moment, we just stay there, breathing together, the night stretching long and quiet around us.
Her lashes lower, and I feel her body start to sink heavier into mine. I graze my thumb over her cheek to keep her with me. “And I’ve meant every word.”
She hums and drifts off to sleep.
The city is still asleepwhen I wake.
Early morning light seeps through the edges of the blackout curtains. Her bare back is to me, her hair a tangle of dark waves against the pillow, one leg kicked out from under the sheets like she owns the bed—and fuck, after last night, she might as well.
The woman lying next to me isn’t just beautiful, she’s unique. She's carved her name somewhere under my ribs, in the quiet part of me I don’t let anyone touch.
I sit up, careful not to wake her, and think back over last night.
There’s scratches down my chest from her nails. Faint bruising on my hip where she pinned me with her thighs. I fought sleep as long as I could just to stare at her skin in the dim light of the room. To memorize it.
I lean back against the headboard, hands laced behind my head, and let the moment settle. No expectations. No Syndicate bullshit. Just her.
A phone vibrates faintly. Not mine. She stirs.
Her lashes flutter, and when her eyes blink open, I watch hazy warmth sharpen into recognition. The exact second she remembers where she is—and who she’s with.
She shifts to sit up, pulling the sheet across her chest like armor, even though I’ve already seen every inch of her. “What time is it?”
“Just past six.”
Her mouth presses into a line as her gaze sweeps the room, looking for her dress. I hate how quickly the night drains out of the air.
“You don’t have to rush,” I say, softer than I intend. “We’ve got time.”
She pauses, the sheet gathered at her collarbone, and shakes her head gently. “If I stay any longer, I won’t want to leave.”
The ache that cuts through me is sharp, brutal in its honesty.
“Are you regretting last night?” I ask.
Her eyes finally lift to mine, and for a heartbeat, I brace for a lie. But she shakes her head. “No. Not for a second.”
I want to reach for her. To pull her back down, bury myself in her warmth, and forget that the outside world exists. But her posture has shifted—like a door closing, quietly but firmly.
I climb out of bed and pull on my boxers while she slips into her dress. She doesn’t ask me to zip it, and that small distance stings worse than I expect.
Her heels wait by the door. Her clutch. Her practiced grace, layered like armor over the girl who laughed in my arms just hours ago.
“Can I call you a car?” I ask.
“No need. I walked here.” A quick smirk, like she knows exactly how much that detail will haunt me. “Don’t worry—it’s not far.”
Of course she did.
I beat her to the door, palm flat against it before she can reach the handle. She stills beside me.
“You don’t have to go,” I say. “We could…order coffee. Breakfast. Something.”
Silence.
Then her hand finds mine. “This was perfect. Exactly what I needed. But I don’t do repeats. I don’t do breakfast.” Her voice is gentle, final. “It’s better this way.”
