The apartment feels different now, too still, too quiet.
I switch off the light and make my way toward my bedroom, the echoes of the night following me down the hall, heavier than my exhaustion.
My bedroom greets me like a sanctuary, soft, familiar, mine. I kick off my heels the second the door closes, my feet aching, constricted, like they’ve been punished for daring to carry me through tonight. I don’t linger. I head straight for the bathroom, the need to shed the night almost urgent.
I peel the dress from my body slowly, exhaustion heavy in my limbs, and that’s when I see them.
Fingerprints.
Already darkening, already blooming into bruises along my hip. His fingertips. My breath catches as my own fingers trace the marks, reverent despite myself. They sit there on my skin like a signature. A warning. A claim.
Because that’s exactly what he did.
He claimed me. Publicly. Silently. A message whispered without words to anyone close enough to see, and it worked.
The realization ignites something hot and furious in my chest.
I tear the rest of my clothes off, scrub my makeup away, and step into the shower, cranking the water as hot as I can stand. Steam fills the room as I drag the loofah over my skin, harder than necessary, like I can scour him away if I try hard enough.
But I can’t.
Because he’s not just on my skin, he’s under it. Burrowed deep. Exactly where he wanted to be.
Images crash over me like a wave I can’t outrun, his grip, bruising and sure. His mouth on mine. The promise in his voice. And just like that, the rage fractures, warping into something far more dangerous.
Want.
The truth settles, heavy and undeniable. My body knows it, even if my mind refuses to cooperate.
I want Khai.
The admission scares me more than anything else tonight.
I stay under the water until it cools, until my skin is flushed and my thoughts are raw. When I finally step out, I pull on my favourite oversized t-shirt, the fabric soft and grounding. I brush my hair, my teeth, going through the motions like muscle memory might save me.
Then I crawl into bed, plunging the room into darkness before sliding beneath the covers.
But sleep doesn’t come easily.
Because no matter how tightly I close my eyes, I can still feel him.
I reach for my phone out of habit, needing a distraction, needingsomethingto quiet my mind. I check my notifications, scroll aimlessly, letting the glow of the screen blur my thoughts.
Then it appears.
A new event added to my calendar.
Tomorrow.
7:59 p.m.
Khai.
I bolt upright in bed like I’ve been shocked, clutching my phone as if it might disappear if I look away for too long. I stare at the screen, waiting for it to correct itself. To vanish. To prove I’m overtired and imagining things.
“What the fuck?” I whisper aloud. “How did you get into my personal planner?”
The question hangs uselessly in the air. Because if I’m honest with myself, this shouldn’t surprise me. He found me once. Found my space. Found his way under my skin with frightening ease.
