The phone comes away from my ear, the red icon tapped without ceremony. The screen goes black.
Silence rushes back in—empty. Clean.
The phone lands on the bed, bouncing once before settling into the pillows. Standing in the middle of the room, my chest expands. A deep breath fills lungs that haven’t felt this unrestricted in years.
Officially poor. Officially free.
The weight that’s been crushing my spine for twenty-two years is gone. My attention shifts to the door, then to the empty space where my future used to be.
“Good riddance,” I say to the room.
The silence in the room feels like a blank canvas. I'm still standing in the middle of the floor, breathing air that doesn't taste like obligation, when the knock comes. It's three sharp raps.
Zoë.
I walk over and pull the door open. Zoë is standing there, framed in the hallway light, and the sight of her hits me like a punch to the solar plexus. She's wearing that scrap of black fabric she calls a skirt and a jacket that's barely doing its job. The boots stop my heart. Black leather, thigh-high, leaving a strip of bare skin that makes my mouth water.
"Rough day?" she asks, her voice cool, but her eyes are burning.
"Best day of my life," I say, stepping back to let her in.
Zoë walks past me, the scent of her perfume—something sharp and floral—cutting through the stale dorm air. She spots the phone on the bed, discarded like a weapon after a kill.
Turning to face me, her hands slide into the pockets of her jacket.
"He called," she says.
"Yeah."
"And?"
"And I told him to keep his money."
A slow smile spreads across her face. It's predatory. "Good."
The last of the tension in my chest shatters. I cross the room in two strides, crowding her.
"I don't have anything left," I tell her, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against me. "No trust. No lawyers. No name."
"I know," she says, her hands sliding up my chest, fingernails scraping through the fabric of my t-shirt. "You have me."
The words go straight to my cock.
I claim her mouth, kissing her like I'm starving. It's teeth and tongue and desperation. I taste her, inhale her, trying to get enough of her to fill the hollow spaces where my father's voice used to be. She kisses me back just as hard, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer, deeper.
We stumble toward the bed, a tangle of limbs and urgency. I strip off my jacket, letting it fall to the floor. She shrugs out of hers, the leather hitting the ground with a soft thud. My shirt follows, then hers. The air is cool against my skin, but I'm burning up.
I push her onto the mattress. She bounces slightly, her hair fanning out across the duvet. I kick off my shoes and shuck my jeans and boxers in one rough motion, standing naked before her, my cock jutting out, thick and heavy.
She sits up, reaching for the zipper of her skirt. I bat her hands away.
"Let me," I growl.
The clasp gives way under my fingers as the zipper slides down, the fabric peeling off her legs. She lifts her hips to help me, and the skirt gets tossed aside. Zoë is wearing nothing but the boots now. I’ve been fixated on this image for weeks—the sharp contrast of her soft, pale skin against the aggressive black leather.
My gaze drags over her, taking it in: the way the leather hugs her calves, the sharp stiletto heel, the strip of thigh exposed above the cuff. My hand reaches for her ankle, intending to pull the boot off, then stills.
"Leave them," I say, my voice dropping an octave. "I want to see you in them."
