Chapter Text
You wait until you hear Zayne's bedroom door close.
Ten PM. He's always in bed by ten when he has early rounds the next morning. Creature of habit, your Zayne—not that he's yours…
That's the problem, isn't it?
You give it another fifteen minutes to be safe, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, before you finally move. You've already changed into a simple black dress that Tara helped you pick out, one that’s just short enough to make you feel dangerous. You spent a little extra time on your hair and makeup, hiding away in the bathroom with the door closed so Zayne wouldn’t catch on.
Your heels are in your hand as you tiptoe down the hallway. The apartment is quiet except for the ambient noise of the city outside. You're almost to the front door when—
“Going somewhere?”
You freeze.
Zayne is leaning against the wall near the kitchen, still in his work clothes, arms crossed. His hazel-green eyes are unreadable behind his glasses.
You clutch your heels behind your back like a child caught with candy. “I…thought you went to bed.”
“I did. Then I heard you moving around.” He tilts his head, eyes tracing every detail—your carefully done hair, the dress that clings to curves your oversized sweaters usually hide, the shoes hidden behind your back—before settling on your face. “Want to try that again? Where are you going?”
You could lie. You've always been good at lying. But something about the way he's looking at you makes the truth spill out instead: “Out.”
“Out where?”
You crouch to put your shoes on, hoping the movement hides your face. “Just…out. With Tara.”
“Out where,” he repeats once more, slower this time, like a challenge. And you have no doubt he’ll wait all night for your answer.
You don’t have all night, though. Tara is waiting for you outside in the rideshare, and you can hear your phone buzzing relentlessly with her messages from inside your purse.
So you look up at him defiantly, one heel half-fastened. “Obsidian.”
Something flashes in his eyes, gone before you can register the emotion. “No.”
“I'm not asking permission.”
“And I'm not giving it.” He pushes off the wall, and suddenly he's towering right above you. “You’re not going there.”
You rise to your feet, pulling yourself to your full height—even if it barely reaches his collarbone in these heels. “I’m an adult, Zayne. I can make my own decisions.”
“Then make better ones.” There’s no anger in his tone, just that infuriating calm that makes you want to scream. “Before I make one for you.”
You look away, frustration simmering behind your ribs. “It’s just dancing with friends! You can’t just keep me locked up here like some—”
“Like someone under my care? Someone whose safety is my responsibility?” His voice is cold and clinical, the same one he uses when he’s trying to distance himself from his emotions. “How unreasonable of me.”
Responsibility. That’s all you’ll ever be to him, right?
You've been telling yourself for months that it means nothing—his constant checking in, the way he's always somewhere nearby, the concern that floods his features when you do something risky. Convincing yourself he’s just a kind man, a good doctor, because believing he felt even a fraction of what you felt for him would mean hoping for something you’re not allowed to have.
Tonight is supposed to be the night you finally move on. A night where you’ll drink and dance and flirt with men who can flirt back without complications. One where Zayne wasn’t in the room, or in your head, or in your way. Tara was going to make sure of that.
But his voice slices right through the fantasy.
“Do you understand what Obsidian is?” he asks pointedly. “Do you know owns it?”
You don't. That's the thing. Tara had explained it to you in passing—an invitation-only club, accessible only if you know the right people. She'd smiled mysteriously and said she knew a guy that knew a guy that could get you two in. It sounded thrilling. Dangerous. Like exactly the kind of thing you're not supposed to do.
Which is exactly what makes it irresistible.
“It's just a club,” you say, but you're not entirely sure you believe that, either. The way Zayne's saying it—the way his hands curl into fists at his sides—suggests otherwise.
“It's not just anything.” He steps back abruptly, running a hand through his hair. When he looks at you again, there's something raw in his expression, something he usually keeps locked away. “There are people there who—” He stops himself, then starts again. “You're not going.”
“You can’t stop me,” you say, and you hate how young you sound. How small. “I'm going out with Tara. We're going to a club. People do that, Zayne. Normal people do that all the time.”
“You're not normal people.”
He catches the sting of his own words and closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head in a flood of instant regret. “That's not what I meant.”
But you know exactly what he meant. That you’re fragile. Broken. Something to be managed, not trusted. Watched, not let go. His duty, not his choice.
Tara's still waiting. Your phone buzzes again with her seventh text in five minutes: We're going to be late!!!
With shaking hands, you text her that you’re on your way, grab your purse, and head for the door. Just before you reach it, Zayne speaks.
“If you walk out that door—”
You pause, hand on the doorknob, and look back. “What? You'll what, Zayne?”
He looks at you like he wants to say a thousand things. Instead, he says: “Just...be careful."
The concern in his voice makes your chest ache. But you're committed now. Committed and enraged and maybe a little bit spiteful.
“Always am.”
You slip out before he can say anything else, before you lose your nerve.
You don't see him standing at the window twenty minutes later, watching the street, his phone in his hand with Obsidian’s location pulled up. Don’t see the way he stares at the dot on the map like he could will it back. Like if he thinks hard enough, you’ll turn around.
Don't see him text his assistant to clear his morning schedule, just in case you need him.
Don’t see him sit in the dark with the lights off, tracing every worst-case scenario and still choosing not to intervene.
Don’t see the way he clenches his jaw, breathes slow, and reminds himself over and over: She’s not yours.
Because convincing himself you’re safer out there than in his arms is the only way he’ll sleep tonight.
The line outside Obsidian stretches down the block, but Tara bypasses it entirely, dragging you toward a side entrance where a woman with red hair and calculating eyes guards the door.
“Names,” she says dully.
“Tara, plus one.” Tara's practically vibrating with excitement. “We're on the list.”
The woman consults a tablet, then nods in confirmation. She produces two small vials filled with iridescent liquid that seems to shift colors in the light.
“House rules,” the bouncer says, her tone bored from repetition. She leads you down a dark, narrow hallway lit with strips of red light. “Everyone drinks. No exceptions. Effects last approximately two hours. You'll find yourself compelled toward honesty. Don't bother trying to fight it—it only makes the headache worse.”
Your stomach drops. “Wait, what—”
“It's completely safe,” she continues without breaking stride. “Approved by the Health Department, minimal side effects. Think of it as...social lubrication.”
“This is insane,” you hiss at Tara.
But she’s already uncorked her vial, throwing it back like a shot. She grins at you, eyes already turning glassy. “Come on! It's part of the experience! Everyone's on the same playing field—no games, no lies, just pure honesty.”
“Tara—”
The bouncer leads you to the club’s threshold—it’s exactly what you expect and somehow more, all red velvet and dark wood and crystal chandeliers. Prismatic light flashes across bodies moving to a heavy bass that you feel in your bones. Private booths line the upper level, their occupants hidden in alluring shadow.
“Don't be boring.” Tara leans in, flaunting her now-empty test tube like a trophy. “Besides, maybe you'll finally admit some things you've been avoiding.”
You look at the vial in your hand. At Tara's expectant face. At the bouncer’s impassive stare.
Then you bring the vial to your lips, tilt your head back—and let the liquid sit against your closed throat. You fake a swallow, suppress a gag at the chemical taste on your tongue, and quickly wipe your mouth. The moment the bouncer looks away, you duck your head and discreetly spit it into a napkin you grab from a nearby table.
Her eyes narrow slightly, but she steps aside. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.”
All around you, people are talking. Laughing. Confessing. The truth serum creates an atmosphere of reckless intimacy, where beautiful strangers share secrets like trading cards.
“This is AMAZING,” Tara shouts over the music. Her pupils are fully dilated now, and there's a wild edge to her smile. “I feel so—so free! Like I could say anything! Everything!”
“Maybe don't say everything,” you caution. Her enthusiasm makes you feel painfully sober.
“Why not? Everyone else is!” She grabs your arm, pulling the two of you deeper into the space. “Oh my god, I have to tell you—I bought those shoes you complimented last week at full price but told you they were on sale because I didn't want you to think I was fiscally irresponsible!” She's on a roll now, the words tumbling out. “And I've been secretly watching Lust Island without you, even though we promised we'd watch it together!”
“You monster.”
“I KNOW!” She looks genuinely distressed for a moment, then distracted by something across the room. “Ooh, there's a photo booth! I'm going to go take pictures and tell the camera all my feelings about my mother's dating choices!”
Before you can stop her, she's disappeared into the crowd. Leaving you very, very alone.
You edge toward the bar, trying to look purposeful. The bartender—a bald man with elaborate neck tattoos and a row of thin, gold earrings—slides a drink toward you without asking.
“Vodka, triple sec, lemon, sugar.” As if sensing your hesitation, he supplies the ingredients before you even ask. “And no truth serum, if that’s what you’re worried about. That would be redundant.”
You give the bartender an appreciative nod before taking a tentative sip. It's good. Dangerously good.
“You're handling it better than most.”
The voice at your back is deep and smooth, with an edge of amusement that sends a shiver down your spine.
You turn, and the world narrows.
The man leaning against the bar is devastating in a way that feels almost unfair. Silver hair, red eyes—actually red, not brown or hazel in the right light, but red like rubies, like warning signs, like danger. He's dressed in all black, expensive and perfectly tailored, carrying himself with the kind of ease that comes from owning everything around you—like nothing could surprise him anymore.
Except, maybe, you.
“I'm sorry?” you manage.
“The serum.” His eyes track your face with unnerving intensity. “In my club, most first-timers are spilling their deepest secrets within five minutes. You've been here twenty, and I haven't heard a single confession.”
Your gaze is unflinching, but your pulse betrays you. “Maybe I don't have any secrets.”
“Everyone has secrets.” He gestures to the bartender, who immediately produces another drink. “The question is why you're not sharing yours.”
You watch his fingers trail lazy patterns through the condensation on the glass. Something about it feels intimate in a way that makes you suddenly very aware of how close he's standing.
You quickly force your eyes away. “I'm just...private.”
“Private.” He tastes the word like wine. “In a club specifically designed to eliminate privacy. Interesting choice.”
You take a longer sip of your drink, using it as a shield. “I'm here with my friend—”
“Who has conveniently disappeared.” He tilts his head, studying you closely. “Leaving you alone with a stranger. Either she's a terrible friend, or an excellent wingwoman.”
Before you can respond, there's a commotion behind you. You turn to find Tara stumbling over, her hair slightly mussed, makeup smudged, with the biggest smile you've ever seen.
“THERE YOU ARE!” She crashes into you, then notices the silver-haired man. Her eyes go comically wide. “Oh. Oh wow. You’re the hot club owner! You're really hot. Like, objectively. I'm not even into men usually, but you're making me reconsider some things.”
“Tara,” you say through gritted teeth.
“What? It's TRUE. I literally can't lie right now, and he's—” She gestures vaguely at all of him. “You know. Him.”
The man's smile widens, genuinely amused now. “I appreciate the honesty.”
“Tara, maybe we should—”
“Oh my GOD. Did she tell you?” Tara's eyes light up with revelation. She turns to the man, swaying slightly on her heels. “She has this situation. A whole mess of a situation with her doctor. Well, doctor-slash-guardian. It's very tragic and romantic and she won't do anything about it.”
You want to die. Actually cease existing. “Tara, I will literally pay you to stop talking—”
“You can't pay me, I'm on truth serum! I have to tell the truth!” She grabs the man's arm conspiratorially. “Okay, so there's this doctor, right? Super hot, super smart, super emotionally unavailable. And she's been in love with him for like, three years—she lives with him, for God’s sake. But he's all 'professional boundaries' and 'tragic backstory' and won't make a move even though they have this insane chemistry—”
“TARA.”
“—and she just lets it happen! Just pines and pines and does nothing!” Tara throws her hands up. “It's exhausting to watch, really. I keep telling her to just tell Daddy Doctor how she feels but she's all 'it's complicated' and 'I’m his patient' and—”
“Okay!” You physically turn Tara toward the dance floor. “You need to go dance. Right now. Go find someone to dance with.”
“But I haven’t even told him about the—”
“Yes, you are. Go. Dance. Now.”
Tara pouts, but allows herself to be redirected toward the mass of bodies. You watch until she's safely absorbed into the crowd, then slowly turn back to face the silver-haired stranger, who is looking at you with such focused interest that you feel pinned in place.
“You sound like trouble,” he says, and his smile is wicked. “Daddy Doctor, was it? And three years of pent-up fantasy? Tell me more.”
“My friend is high on your drugs—”
“Willingly. Consensually. With full disclosure.” He doesn’t blink. “I'm very particular about consent.”
There's something in the way he says it that makes heat curl in your stomach. You force your eyes away.
“—and she doesn't know when to stop talking.” You down the rest of your drink in one go. “So can we please pretend the last five minutes didn't happen?”
“Where's the fun in that?” He leans closer, and you catch his scent—something expensive with an edge of smoke that makes your head swim. After finishing his own drink, he sets the empty glass beside yours. “You know, you're far more interesting than I expected.”
You tilt your chin up defiantly. The height difference is obscene, and your brain’s doing filthy things with it. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It's an observation.” He leans an elbow on the bar, close enough that his sleeve brushes your wrist. “You come to a club devoted to honesty, fake taking the truth serum, and apparently have a forbidden crush situation at home. You're a walking contradiction.”
You narrow your eyes. “And you're making a lot of assumptions for someone who just met me.”
“Am I?” He gestures to the bartender for another round. “So you did take the serum?”
Damn him. “I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to. The fake swallow was decent—most people wouldn't think of it. But you spit it into a napkin three seconds later.” He clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Sloppy, really.”
You shrug. “Maybe I'm just boring.”
“Not a chance, sweetie.” He laughs once, soft and skeptical. "But we're past pretending now, aren't we? You came here to avoid being honest. To maintain control while everyone else loses theirs. I can respect that.”
He nudges your drink toward you with a single finger, not breaking eye contact.
“The question is, what are you hiding from?”
You deflect. “You didn't take it, either.”
He pauses, just for a moment. Then his smile widens, and he raises his glass like you’ve just passed some unspoken test. “Touché.”
“So what are you hiding from?”
“Who says I'm hiding from anything?” His voice is light, almost teasing, and you know he’s deflecting, too. “Maybe I just don't like being forced to tell the truth.”
“That's convenient.”
He sips his drink unhurriedly. The way he watches you over the rim makes your heart race. “It's practical.”
You study him with narrow eyes. “Then why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn't.” He says it simply, no hesitation. “I’m a stranger who runs a club that drugs people for entertainment. Trusting me would be careless.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“Talking. Dancing, if you say yes. Neither of which requires trust. Just interest.” He leans back slightly, swirling the drink in his glass without taking his eyes off you. “And I, for one, am very interested.”
The honesty of it catches you off guard.
“Dance with me,” he says. He extends a hand. An offer.
You just stare at it.
You should say no. You should say no. But the excitement flares anyway, irrational and instant and thrilling.
“That's direct.”
“I don't see the point in being anything else.” His eyes hold a challenge, daring you to look away. His hand hasn’t moved.
“I don’t even know your name.” It’s a last-ditch excuse, barely hanging on to the edge of your resolve.
“Sylus.” He smiles like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Owner of this establishment. Purveyor of honesty. And, apparently, collector of interesting problems.”
You look at his hand. At the rings glinting on his fingers. At the way he's looking at you like you're the most fascinating thing he's encountered in a very long time.
You should run away. You should grab Tara and get out of this place with its truth serums and annoyingly beautiful and discerning strangers. Should go home and forget this entire evening ever happened.
Instead, you slide your hand into his.
He looks down at your joined hands, then at you. He doesn’t smile, not exactly. But something shifts in his expression, like satisfaction settling into his bones.
When you don’t give him your name in return, he raises a brow. “And you are…?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
His gaze darkens with something unmistakably entertained.
“Mmm. Trouble.” He's already moving you toward the floor, glancing back with something pleased in his expression. “I think you and I are going to get along very well.”
Once you’ve found a spot on the dance floor, his hands find your waist immediately, pulling you into the rhythm. The music is pulsing, bodies pressed together everywhere, but he moves with absolute confidence.
“So,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear over the music. “Tell me about this doctor of yours.”
“Why would I do that?” you ask, guarded. But you don’t pull away.
“Because I'm intrigued.” His thumb traces a small circle on your hip. “Three years is a long time to wait for someone to make a move.”
You came here to avoid every thought of Zayne.
But Sylus looks at you like he already knows, and worse—like he cares. Like he might even understand.
Which is exactly why you shove the thoughts down deeper.
“Maybe I'm not waiting. Maybe I'm just living my life.”
“In his apartment. Under his roof. Following his rules.” He doesn’t take the bait. “Very independent of you.”
You glare up at him, but it only seems to amuse him further.
“You think you have me all figured out.”
“Not yet. But I plan to.” The certainty in his voice makes your pulse stutter. “I think you came here to be seen. To be wanted. And I think your doctor's an idiot for making you come somewhere else to find it.”
It’s accurate. So accurate it puts you on the defensive. You snap too quickly, too sharply. “He’s not an idiot.”
“No?” He leans down. His voice is too close, too calm. “Then what would you call a man who keeps something like you on a leash for three goddamn years and never dares to pull it?”
You open your mouth, but he doesn’t stop.
“Someone who has your loyalty, your attention, your want—and pretends not to notice? Who lets you walk out the door dressed like this”—his gaze drags down your body, slow and appreciative—“and doesn't come after you?”
The truth of it hits somewhere low and aching. You think of Zayne standing in the kitchen—how he reached for you, how he tried to keep you from leaving. The way his voice went stern, how he said your name like it meant something. He didn’t let you go easily. But still, he let you go.
And maybe that’s what cuts the deepest.
Because some part of you, buried and stubborn, wanted him to fight harder. To stop you. To make it impossible to leave.
But he didn’t.
And now here you are, in someone else's arms, being seen like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Sylus looks at you like it’s obvious, like wanting you was never any question. Like desire isn’t something that has to be earned.
You clear your throat, willing your voice to stay neutral. “He has his reasons.”
“I’m sure he does. Very good, very professional reasons.” His mouth is close to your ear now, so close you can feel the heat of his breath. “But you didn't get dressed like this for him. You came here hoping someone else would want you instead.”
“Maybe,” you half-admit, voice unsteady. “I don't know what I'm doing.”
“Yes, you do.” His hand slips lower, pulling you in closer until there's no space left between your hips. “You're testing something. Seeing if you can get a reaction out of him. Or maybe just seeing if anyone else will look at you the way you want him to.”
“Tell me,” his voice drops impossibly lower, “how’s that working out for you, sweetie?”
You should be offended. You should pull away.
“You're kind of an asshole,” you find yourself saying instead.
“Careful.” His laugh is genuine, vibrating where his chest presses against yours. “You’re starting to like it.”
The song shifts to something slower, more sensual. Your arms slide up around his neck without thinking, and his hands settle lower on your waist in response.
“But you came to my club to escape that situation.” His hand slides up your spine slowly. “Not pick it apart with a stranger.”
You don’t mean to lean into his touch, don’t mean to close your eyes. But your body moves like muscle memory you didn’t know you had. “Then what should we talk about?”
“Nothing.” He turns you suddenly, your back to his chest, one hand spanning your waist while the other guides your hip to move with his. “Just dance with me.”
You let yourself sink into it—the heat of him against your back, the way he moves you with confidence. It’s easy. Uncomplicated. Everything your situation with Zayne isn’t.
When his hand drifts up your side slowly, your head falls back against his shoulder without meaning to.
“That's it,” he says against your ear, and you feel the words more than hear them. “Stop thinking. Just feel.”
His fingers trace from your hip up to your ribs, back down. Testing. Learning what makes your breath catch.
When you shiver, he notices immediately.
“Cold?” His breath is warm on your neck.
“No.”
“Good.” He turns you back around to face him, pulling you close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. “Responsive, then.”
Your hands clutch at his shoulders like instinct. You've been so hungry for this, for someone to touch you like they actually want to, like you're not something fragile. Three empty years—and now, you’re grinding against him like you’re starving. You should be ashamed of yourself. But Sylus is right there with you, eating up every motion you give him like he’s just as famished.
“You’re putting on quite the show, kitten,” he murmurs, like it’s a compliment, not a concern. He doesn’t so much as glance at the people around you. His focus is entirely on you.
The nickname sends heat straight between your thighs. “So?”
“So nothing. Just making sure you know.” One hand slides higher on your back, the other keeps you pressed low against his hips. “But something tells me you like being watched, don’t you?”
He rolls his hips and you gasp—a small, involuntary sound that makes his eyes darken.
“Maybe I’m tired of being good,” you breathe. You hardly recognize your own voice.
“Are you?” The way he says it isn’t a question. He grips your hip, holding you against him as he rolls his hips once more, harder this time. The friction makes you whimper, and his smile is absolutely lethal. “Mmm, I suppose you are.”
“How many women have you done this with?” You’re deflecting, trying to regain some ground. “How many girls come to your club and get this whole routine?”
He looks surprised, maybe even offended. “Routine?”
"This.” Your gaze flicks to his hands on you. The way he moves, how easily he commands attention—it’s hard not to assume he’s done this before. “All of this. I'm sure it works well for you.”
“You think I do this often.”
“Don't you? You own a club. I'm sure there's no shortage of—”
He cuts you off before you can finish.
“I don't touch guests.” He says it flatly. Seriously. Like you’ve struck something close to a line. “Ever. I watch from upstairs. I manage the business. I don't get involved.”
“Then why—”
He presses his forehead to yours, and, for a moment, you think he might close the distance entirely.
“Because you fascinate me. You walked in here and caught my attention and now—now I need to know everything. What you’re running from. What you’re hiding behind those walls. What other pretty sounds you make when I touch you here—”
His fingers find the bare skin between the dip of your dress and the top of your thigh. He drags his knuckles just under the hem, the touch maddeningly light. You bite your lip hard to keep from gasping again.
“—Or here.”
His hand trails up your side, teasing the edge of your breast before settling at the base of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. The music pulses around you but all you can focus on is him—the heat of his body, the way he's looking at you like you're something he wants to consume. You can't think straight, can't form words beyond—
“Sylus—”
“I know.” His hand tightens in your hair, tilting your head back gently. His mouth is so close to yours you can feel his breath, the tension suffocating. “I want to learn all of it. Every reaction. Every secret. I want to know every piece of you.”
His hand at your lower back presses your bodies impossibly closer, until you're not sure where you end and he begins.
“Tell me I’m not alone in this.” The sincerity in his words threatens to break you open. “Tell me this isn’t just tonight.”
Your lips part. The answer is there, but—
“Boss.”
The interruption hits like a splash of cold water.
A woman appears beside you—the same one from the door. Her expression is carefully neutral, but there's urgency underneath. “We have a situation. VIP section.”
Sylus doesn't move for a long moment, his eyes still locked on yours.
“Handle it,” he says without looking at her.
“You need to handle it.” Her tone makes it clear this isn't optional.
His jaw flexes once, hard. He drags his gaze down your face like he’s memorizing the exact way your lips part when you're breathless, the flush that follows everywhere his hands have been. It's disarming, how easily he sees you. How badly you want to be seen.
When he finally lets you go, it’s slow. His hand slides from your hair, trails down your jaw, lingers a second too long at your waist. “Don't go anywhere.”
“That sounds like an order.” You fight a grin, but it still slips through.
“It’s a suggestion. A strong one.” He steps back, and you immediately feel the loss of his warmth. “I’ll be back. Soon.”
“And if I leave?”
His smile is promising. “Then I'll find you anyway.”
He turns and disappears into the crowd, the woman following close behind.
You stand there for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe. Your heart is racing. Your skin feels too hot. You're acutely aware of where his hands were, where his breath touched your neck, your ear, your mouth.
You should stay. He told you to stay. And God help you, you want to.
But that's exactly why you need to leave.
You don't do this. You don't let men you just met put their hands on you like that. You're the girl who waits three years for someone who won't make a move. Careful. Cautious.
Not—whatever that was.
You need Tara. Need to get out of here and figure out what the hell you're doing.
You search the crowd frantically and find her sprawled in a booth, coming down from the truth serum high.
“Did I embarrass you?” she asks, words slightly slurred.
“Catastrophically.”
“Good.” Tara sits up, eyes sparkling despite her obvious exhaustion. “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you seduce the hottest man in the building—God, I trained you well.”
You scoff. “I didn’t seduce him.”
“Oh, sure,” she says as she fans herself, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just a totally friendly dry-humping session in the middle of a crowded club. Happens to me all the time.”
“You saw nothing!” You hit her arm playfully. “You were high on truth serum—”
“Which means I'm telling the truth!” She flops back against the velvet. “This is AMAZING. You've got a sexy doctor yearning for you at home and a sexy criminal—he's definitely a criminal, right?—who is trying to get in your pants here. You're living a romance novel.”
“He's not a criminal—”
“Babe. He runs a club where people take drugs for fun. That’s gotta be, at the very least, criminal-adjacent.” She waves a hand. “But like, hot criminal. Morally grey. The kind with a traumatic past that makes you want to fix him.”
You rub a hand down your face and sigh, gesturing to the exit. “French fries,” you say, like it’s a sacred promise. “I’ll buy you a large. Extra crispy.”
That gets her attention.
She perks up immediately. “And ketchup?”
You shoot her a dry look over your shoulder. “Do I look like a psychopath?”
“Sold.” She scrambles to grab her purse. “But you still owe me the dirty details when I’m sober.”
The rideshare home is quiet. Tara falls asleep against the window within minutes, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the passing city lights.
You can still feel him. The ghost of his hands on your waist, in your hair. The heat of his body pressed against yours. The way he looked at you like you were something rare, something he needed to understand.
Tell me this isn't just tonight.
You never answered him. The words were right there—yes, God, yes—but you didn't get the chance. Or maybe you did, and you were too scared to take it.
Tell me I'm not alone in this.
He'd asked like he genuinely didn't know. Like he was uncertain for the first time all night. And you'd just stood there, lips parted, unable to form the words.
But you know the answer now, sitting in the dark of this car.
No. He wasn't alone in it.
Not even close.