He still knows my body.
Still knows exactly where to touch, how to look at me, how to unravel me until I forget what I came armed with. He made me feel wanted. Desired. Like a woman, not a wound.
“Ugh.”
I shove my face into the pillow, muffling the sound, squeezing my eyes shut as if I can force the thoughts out along with the air in my lungs.
Sleep.
I just need sleep.
It comes, but it doesn’t stay.
When my eyes open again, the room is still dark. The clock on the nightstand glows 4:02 a.m. My body is restless, humming, awake in a way my mind hates. I know instantly there’s no going back to sleep.
I dreamed of Sebastian.
The kind of dream that leaves heat pooling low in my belly, the kind that makes me press my thighs together as consciousness returns. I curse softly under my breath and roll onto my side, staring at nothing.
Idiot.
Weak.
I push myself out of bed before I can spiral, grabbing my robe and tying the sash tighter around my waist. My throat feels dry. Water. I need water. Something cold. Something real.
The living room is dim and quiet when I step out, the city lights bleeding faintly through the windows. I take two steps forward and hear the elevator beep.
Soft. Controlled.
I freeze.
My gaze snaps to it, pulse ticking faster. The sound echoes in my head, dragging a memory with it. Yesterday morning. Sebastian. Standing right there. His fingers moving with practiced ease as he entered a code and floor number, something that looked private.
I don’t know where it leads.
But I know it’s not meant for me.
The thought should stop me. It doesn’t. Curiosity coils through me, sharp and insistent, drowning out the need for water, for sleep, for sense.
It won’t hurt to know.
I turn away from the kitchen and walk toward the elevator, bare feet silent against the floor. My reflection staresback at me from the mirrored doors—hair loose, eyes too bright, something dangerous waking behind them.
I key in the code.
Then the number.
For half a second, nothing happens.
Then the doors slide open.
My breath catches as I step inside.
Whatever Sebastian is hiding, I’m about to find it.
The elevator doors slide open into a studio.
The smell hits me first—oil paint, charcoal, turpentine. Familiar. Intimate. The kind of scent that seeps into your clothes and refuses to leave. Light pours in through tall windows, pale and quiet, catching dust motes that drift in the air like suspended memories. Canvases line the walls—some blank, some half-finished, some turned inward like they’re ashamed of what they hold.
