The warm night air is still. I step out, bakery box in one hand, roses in the other, skeleton mask tucked into my back pocket.
She doesn’t need the blindfold tonight. I won’t put her in the dark.
She needs light, clarity, and control.
So I’ll give it to her. I’ll wear the mask so she doesn’t have to wear the blindfold.
Something made her uneasy, and I won’t be another shadow in the dark. Not tonight.
The engine thrums beneath me as I slip through the quieter streets, routes only locals know, the ones that avoid traffic. Wet pavement gleams under scattered lights. Red signals bleed through the dark.
It’s not far.
Her street is still when I ease to a stop. Dim porch lights. Drawn curtains. That late-night hush that settles over everything.
I don’t move like a ghost tonight. No dodging cameras or calculated approach.
The knob turns beneath my hand. I step inside and ease the door shut behind me.
I slip the mask on. A predator’s face, worn for the girl who craves the hunt.
I don’t lock the front door out of fear. I lock it because I already know I’m staying overnight.
The house is quiet. Still. Only the kitchen light glows. Low and soft above the stove, casting long shadows down the hall.
I set the pastries on the counter beside the roses, propping the note against the box.
She’ll find my gifts in the morning.
Every step down the hall winds me tighter. I reach her door, and my hand hovers for a moment.
It’s quiet inside, that charged silence before something shatters. And fuck, I’m ready to splinter into a thousand jagged pieces.
The door glides open on silent hinges. Only a smooth swing as I enter, every breath in me going still.
She’s kneeling in the center of the bed, back straight, hands resting on her thighs.
Her lingerie is pale pink, the color of innocence. It clings to every curve like a second skin. The neckline is low enough to tempt but high enough to tease. A matching blindfold covers her eyes.
Her dark hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, baring her neck.
She doesn’t speak or flinch. Just breathes—slow, steady, and composed—like she’s not afraid. Like she’s ready.
She waits—soft, trusting, and open. It knocks the air out of me, the way she gives herself over with no hesitation or fear.
She’s not a game tonight, not a conquest. She’s something fragile.
I close the distance. It’s only a few steps, but they seem long. The mattress dips as I climb onto the bed, moving forward until I’m right behind her.
My arms slide around her waist, firm but gentle, pulling her back into me. She radiates a calm thrum I crave.
She’s blindfolded and facing forward. I bury my face in her hair and breathe her in—vanilla, cherry, and something floral underneath it. Jasmine, maybe. Or whatever temptation smells like when it’s wrapped in warm skin.
She sighs, soft and content against my chest. And I stay like that for a moment. Holding her, breathing her in, letting her scent thread through every jagged, fractured piece of me.
“Why did you stay away from me so long?”
I lean in, my breath brushing the shell of her ear. “I held back because I didn’t want to push too far, too fast. You’ve been under a lot of pressure at work. I see it.”
