I hate how my body reacts to him. How it turns traitor the moment he’s near. I barely know the man, if I’m honest, I don’t know him at all, but my body, my soul, responds as if it’s always known him. As if it’s been waiting.
I told Tate what I could. Not because I didn’t want to tell her more, but because I didn’t know how. How do you explain a pull that has no logic? A connection that makes no sense but feels inevitable?
She listened quietly, then told me Ryan was the safe choice. Steady. Predictable. Someone who wouldn’t ruin me.
Khai, she said, could be my reckoning.
Maybe he is.
Because even knowing that, knowing I should be scared, cautious, anything but curious, I still feel myself drawn to him. Like standing tooclose to the edge of something dangerous, knowing one wrong step could destroy me…
…and not stepping back would anyway.
By the time I reach the second floor of my apartment building, exhaustion has settled deep into my bones. Every step feels heavier than the last, my body lagging behind my thoughts. It’s been a long day, too long, and all I want is silence, heat, and sleep strong enough to erase it.
The building is quiet, wrapped in that late-night stillness where every door is shut and every life hidden away behind walls. Motion lights flicker on as I pass, casting brief pools of white across the hallway before slipping back into darkness. The new security cameras are still there too, small, discreet, tucked just out of obvious sight. Watching. Always watching.
I stop in front of my door and rest my forehead against the cool wood, exhaling slowly as I fumble through my bag. My fingers are clumsy, tired, desperate to find my keys. I just want to get inside. A hot shower. My bed. The world shut out.
Finally, metal brushes my fingertips. Relief.
I slide the key into the lock and twist, and that’s when I notice it. A faint smudge of red along the brass. Barely there. Easy to miss.
I frown, my exhaustion dulling the warning that should probably follow.Must’ve gotten some blood on it the other night,I tell myself, dismissing the thought as quickly as it comes.
The lock clicks.
And somewhere beneath my fatigue, something tightens, quiet, instinctive, as if my body knows a truth my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
I step into my apartment and let the door close softly behind me. Darkness greets me, thick, heavy, broken only by the faint glow of thekitchen appliances and the steady red standby light of the television in the living room. I don’t bother turning on the overhead lights. I’m too tired for brightness.
The deadbolt slides into place with a solidclick. Final.
I move farther inside, the open-plan space stretching out before me like a void. I drop my keys onto the kitchen counter; the sharp clatter echoes louder than it should in the empty apartment. The sound makes me exhale slowly, tension leaking from my shoulders as I head toward the living area.
My bag lands on one of the armchairs with a dull thud. I reach for the freestanding lamp beside it, fingers brushing the switch.
I flick it on.
And freeze.
A scream claws up my throat, raw and instinctive, but I swallow it down with effort, my heart slamming so hard it hurts.
Because he’s there.
Khai sits in the armchair by the window like he’s always belonged in it, slouched back, knees spread, long legs stretched out with infuriating ease. One arm props his head up, the other cradles a glass of clear liquid that catches the lamplight. His gaze lifts to meet mine, dark and unreadable, as if he’s been waiting.
Waiting forme.
“This vodka is shit,” he says quietly, his voice low enough to vibrate through the silence, almost too soft to hear.
Almost.
The room feels suddenly smaller. Warmer. Charged.
“What are you, how did you, why… what are you doing here?”
The questions tumble out of me, broken and breathless, tripping over each other as my pulse roars in my ears.
