#chaacoonnee

You wake up to the smell of coffee.

For a moment, you're disoriented—your neck aches, you're still in last night's clothes, and there's a blanket over you that definitely wasn't there when you passed out on the couch.

Then it all comes flooding back: the club. Tara. The truth serum. 

Sylus.

You push the memories away with a groan, eyelids heavy, head pounding like a drum as sunlight stabs through the blinds. Your body protests every movement, but you eventually drag yourself upright, spotting a note on the coffee table in Zayne's precise handwriting:

Early surgery. Coffee's ready. There's ibuprofen next to the pot. Drink water. Text me when you're awake. 

You shuffle to the kitchen, pour yourself a mug of coffee, and down the ibuprofen with a full glass of water. Your phone shows three missed texts from Zayne, all sent between 6 and 7 AM:

Zayne: Hydrate. Actual water, not just coffee. I'll know if you don't.

Zayne: And don't spend all day on the couch. At least stretch. Your body will thank you.

Zayne: We should talk when I get home. About last night.

That last one makes your heart drop.

You're still staring at it when a new message appears:

Unknown Number: Morning, sweetie. How's the hangover treating you?

Unknown Number: I imagine by now you've been given strict instructions to stay away from me and my club.

Unknown Number: Are you going to listen?

Unknown Number: Please say no.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You should block the number. Should delete the messages. 

You haven’t been warned, not yet. But you already know what’s coming. Know you should be good and do exactly what Zayne would want, because he's never steered you wrong before.

Instead, you save the contact.

Sylus.

You reply before you can overthink it:

You: how did you even get my number?

Sylus: I said I'd find you, didn't I?

He did. Right before he left. 

You thought it was just a line. A smooth exit. You didn't think he actually meant—

Sylus: Did you really think I was going to let you disappear?

Sylus: Your friend was generous enough to assist me. The excitable one. 

Damn you, Tara.

You: i’m going to murder her

Sylus: Please don’t. I like her.

Sylus: Now answer the question.

Sylus: Am I alone in this?

You reread those five words once. Twice. The same ones he asked last night before everything got interrupted. The ones you never got to answer because someone pulled him away.

You: you know you're not

Sylus: I know what I saw last night. What I felt.

Sylus: But I want to hear you say it.

You could tease him, could make him work for it. But something about the way he’s honest with you makes you want to give that back to him. 

Besides, there's no point in playing coy through text when your body already gave you away last night.

You: i can still feel your hands on me. 

You: does that count?

His response comes quickly.

Sylus: That's an answer worth waiting for.

Sylus: Now tell me when I can put them on you again.

You stare at the message, heart racing. Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with another text from Zayne:

Zayne: Did you take the ibuprofen?

You: yes, sir

Zayne: I’m serious. Did you eat anything?

You: not yet

Zayne: There are eggs in the fridge. Make yourself something. You need protein.

Zayne: Text me a photo when you've eaten.

You roll your eyes, but feel something warm in your chest anyway. He’s bossy and overprotective sometimes, but he cares. He always cares.

You crack two eggs into the pan, watching them sizzle. Your mind keeps drifting back to last night—to the club, to the heat of the dance floor, to hands on your waist and breath on your neck. You shake your head, using all of your energy to focus on the simple task in front of you.

The eggs are perfectly scrambled—the way Zayne taught you. You plate them, snap a photo, and send it.

Within seconds, he sends back a single thumbs-up emoji and:

Zayne: Good. I'll be home around 7. We'll talk then.

The “we'll talk then” sits heavy in your stomach. You push the eggs around your plate, your appetite suddenly gone. You manage a few bites before giving up. 

A shower. You need a shower.

You stand under the spray for longer than necessary, letting the hot water beat against your shoulders, trying to wash away the previous night. But it clings to you—the memory of dancing, of being pressed against someone who looked at you like you were the only person in the room. The way his hands felt. The way your body responded.

The realization hits you with startling clarity: you want to go back. You want to see him again, want to feel that alive again, consequences be damned. You've spent so long being careful, being good, staying within the clean lines Zayne has drawn for you. And last night—last night you felt like yourself for the first time in years.

The question isn't whether you're willing to risk it. The question is how long you'll be able to resist before you stop caring about the risk at all.

You get out of the shower, wrap yourself in a towel, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. There's a faint mark on your neck, just beneath the curve of your jaw. It's not dramatic, not deep or obvious. Just a hint of pressure left behind, something you’d have to be looking for to notice. A shadow of a bruise shaped by lips and teeth and want.

Your fingers drift to it before you can stop yourself.

The touch sends a flash of sensation through you: the memory of his mouth on your skin, the scrape of teeth, the way you'd tilted your head back to give him better access without even thinking about it.

Shit.

You press your fingers against the mark, watching your skin change color under the pressure before releasing it.

You shouldn't like this. Shouldn't like having evidence of last night marked on your skin. Shouldn’t like knowing that every time you look in the mirror today, you'll see it. Remember who gave it to you.

You shouldn’t. But every part of your body hums at the thought of belonging to someone like him.

Your phone buzzes from where you left it on the bathroom counter.

Sylus: Tell me. Are you going to let your doctor talk you out of seeing me again?

The mention of Zayne sends guilt spiking through you. You glance at the time. 8:46 AM. He'll be in surgery for hours. Won't be home until tonight.

When you'll have to explain last night. When he'll probably lecture you about being safe. About making smart choices. About staying away from men who run clubs in the N109 Zone and get under your skin in all the right ways.

You: i don't know yet

Sylus: That's not a no.

You: it's not a yes. 

Sylus: I can work with that. For now.

You set your phone down, needing a second to step back. You should be worried about tonight's conversation with Zayne. Should be thinking about how to explain the club, the dancing, the way you came home at 3 AM smelling like smoke and vodka and another man’s cologne.

Yet all you can think about is the weight of Sylus's hands on your waist. The confidence in his voice. The way he looked at you like you were something worth having.

You get dressed, pull your hair back, try to have a normal day. Try to be the person Zayne expects you to be. But when you catch your reflection in the mirror, you can still see it. The mark on your neck. The flush in your cheeks. The girl looking back at you who's starting to realize she wants things she's not supposed to want.

And, for the first time, you don't want to look away.

You hear the familiar jingle of his keys outside the door at 6:57 PM.

You've been sitting on the couch pretending to read the same page of your book for the last twenty minutes, hyper-aware of every passing second. You spent most of the day recovering: sleeping off the hangover, responding to Sylus’s texts, trying not to think about the conversation you have been dreading all day.

The door opens, and Zayne steps through, still in his dress shirt and slacks, tie loosened. He looks exhausted—surgery days always drain him. But he’s carrying two bags of takeout, and you recognize the logo immediately.

Your favorite Thai place. The one across town that’s become his quiet way of apologizing. 

“I brought dinner,” he says simply, setting the bags on the counter. “Red curry, pad see ew. Extra vegetables.”

It’s just takeout. Just broccoli and carrots. But your heart aches anyway, knowing he’ll spend half the night picking around every last vegetable without a single complaint.

“You didn't have to—”

“I wanted to.” He starts unpacking the containers. “Long day?”

“I survived. Barely.” You close your book, setting it aside. “How was surgery?”

“Successful. Complicated, but successful.” He pulls out plates, serves the food your usual way—extra peanuts on the side with lime wedges. “Come eat. You must be hungry.”

You are. You move to the table, and the normalcy of it makes your chest tight. This is what you do—you eat dinner together, talk about your days, exist in this careful, comfortable routine you’ve built over the years.

Except tonight feels different. Weighted.

You both eat in silence for a few minutes. He’s tired—you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he moves more slowly than usual. But he’s here, with your favorite food, making sure you eat.

“So,” you say finally, once the silence has grown too heavy. “Exciting day at the hospital?”

“The usual.” He takes a sip of water. “Yours?”

“Extremely successful day of doing absolutely nothing.” You spear a piece of broccoli. “I did stretch, by the way. And, yes, I’ll admit it. You were right. It helped.” 

The corner of his mouth twitches in an almost-smile. “I'm always right about these things.”

“Don't get cocky.”

“I'm a doctor. It comes with the territory.” He's studying you now, that assessing look in his eyes. “You seem...energized. Usually takes you longer to bounce back after a late night.”

Because I've been texting someone who makes me feel alive. Because I can't stop thinking about how free I felt last night. Because for once I feel like something other than your responsibility.

“Just got lucky, I guess.” You shrug, aiming for casual.

More silence follows. You push noodles around your plate.

“Zayne—”

“About last night—”

You both speak at the same time.

“You first,” he says.

You take a breath. “I wanted to say thank you. For the coffee. And the ibuprofen. And the blanket that mysteriously appeared in the middle of the night. And not being mad about me coming home so late.”

“I wasn't mad.” He sets his fork down carefully. “You're young. You're going to go to clubs. I was concerned, maybe. But not mad.”

The rationality of it throws you for a loop. You'd been braced for a stern talking to, already conjuring up a list of bratty comebacks in your mind. 

“That's it? No lecture about responsibility or safety or—”

“Do you need a lecture?” He glances over with one eyebrow raised. “Did something happen that I should be concerned about?”

“No. Nothing bad. Just normal club stuff. Dancing, drinking.” You're testing him, waiting for his reaction.

He’s quiet for a long moment, studying his plate. “Did you have fun? Really?”

The question surprises you. “Yes. I did.”

“Good. That’s—good.” But he doesn't sound like it’s good. You can see it in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. “And Tara? She stayed with you?”

“Most of the night. She ditched me for a bit to dance with someone, but I was fine.” You watch his face carefully. “I wasn't alone the whole time, anyway. The owner came over and introduced himself.”

Zayne goes very still. The kind of still that reminds you he's a surgeon—steady hands, controlled breathing, not a movement wasted.

“The owner.”

“Yeah. Sylus. He was—” You search for the right word. “Interesting. Nice, actually. We ended up talking for a while.”

When Zayne looks up, his expression is perfectly controlled. Which is how you know he's not calm at all.

“Sylus.” He says the name like he's tasted something bitter.

Your blood goes cold. There’s no way he means that Sylus. What business could a clean-cut cardiologist possibly have with a rogue nightclub owner, anyway? 

“You know him?” you ask carefully.

“I know of him.” He picks up his fork again, but doesn't eat. “What did he want with you?”

“Want? Nothing. We just talked.” Lie. You're getting defensive now, and you're not sure why. “He noticed I hadn’t taken the truth serum and was curious why—”

“Truth serum.” His voice goes flat. “He gave you truth serum?”

“It's the whole concept of the club. Everyone takes it. Voluntarily. It's supposed to be fun—”

“Did you take it?”

“No. I told him I wasn't interested.”

“Good.” The tension in his shoulders eases by the smallest fraction. “Don't. Ever.”

“Zayne—”

“I mean it. Promise me you won't take anything Sylus gives you.”

You blink at the intensity in his voice. “Why? What's wrong with—”

“Promise me.”

“Okay, okay. I promise.” You take a bite of the noodles, chewing slowly. “But why do you care so much? It's just some club gimmick—”

“Because you don’t know what’s actually in it. Because Sylus isn’t someone you should trust. Because—” He stops himself with a clenched jaw.

“Because what?”

He's quiet for a long moment, and you think he might actually give you a compelling reason. 

He doesn’t.

“Just trust me on this. Please.”

This is the reaction you'd expected earlier. But it’s not about you going to a club, not about staying out late or coming home tipsy. It’s about Sylus.

“How do you know him?” you ask carefully. “You said you know 'of' him. What does that mean?”

“Our paths have crossed.” His tone makes it clear that's all you're getting. “What else did he say to you?”

“Nothing much. Asked about why I wasn't drinking the serum.” You pause, debating how much you should share. You know you shouldn’t be pushing this, but you can’t seem to stop the words from coming out. “He asked if I’d come back.”

His jaw flexes. “And what did you tell him?”

“I said maybe.” 

You do want to go back, because it was exciting. Because someone looked at you like you were interesting instead of fragile. Because for one night you weren't Dr. Zayne's patient or liability—you were just you. 

“Why? Would that be so bad?”

“Yes.” The word comes out hard. “It would be ‘so bad.’”

You cross your arms, shifting in your chair to face him fully. “Because...?”

“Because that man—” He stops, visibly trying to control himself. “Because men like Sylus, they see something they want and they take it. They don't care about consequences. About who gets hurt. They don't think about the effects of their actions. They just take, and take, and take.”

“And you're so different?” Your words come out sharper than intended.

“Yes.” His eyes meet yours with a fire you’re not used to seeing. “I am. I think about the consequences of my actions. About who could get hurt. About whether acting on something would hurt someone. About whether it's worth destroying everything for one moment of—” He stops.

Your pulse quickens. “One moment of what, Zayne?”

“I have case files to review.” He stands abruptly, gathering his plate even though he's barely eaten half. “Thank you for eating with me.”

“Why won't you just talk to me?” The frustration cracks through your voice.

“Because some conversations don’t have good outcomes.” He sets his plate in the sink harder than he means to. “And I'm trying to protect us both from that.”

“I don't want protection.” You stand too, facing him across the table. “I want honesty.”

“Then you want something I can't give you tonight.” His voice is final. He turns away, already halfway to his office. “Goodnight.”

“It's barely eight o'clock.”

He stops in the doorway, but doesn't turn around. “Goodnight.”

He disappears into his office. The door closes behind him with a soft click, which might as well have been a slam.

You stand there in the kitchen, surrounded by the remains of your favorite takeout that you can't even taste anymore, watching him walk away. Again.

The injustice of it burns in your chest. He gets to ask questions, gets to warn you away from people, gets to almost say important things then retreat behind his walls. And you're just supposed to—what? Accept it? Be grateful he cares enough to worry?

Your phone vibrates in your pocket with new messages.

Sylus: Thinking about you.

Sylus: Specifically about the way your body fit so perfectly against mine when we danced.

Sylus: Tell me you're thinking about it too.

You glance at Zayne's closed office door. At the distance he just put between you. At all the things he won't say, won’t admit, won’t let himself feel.

Your fingers move across the screen, and there's something almost defiant in the way you type.

You: maybe. 

Sylus: Maybe, she says. Like she didn't whimper so sweetly when I rolled my hips.

Sylus: Like she wasn’t holding onto my shoulders so tight I thought she'd leave marks.

Sylus: Like she wasn't five seconds away from letting me taste her right there on the dance floor.

You smile despite it all, because Sylus doesn't hide. Doesn't hold back. Says exactly what he means and doesn't apologize for it to anyone.

You: big talk from someone who had to leave before anything actually happened

You: all theory, no proof…

Sylus: You’re right. All theory. 

Sylus: So let me gather some evidence. Tomorrow night. 

You met him less than 24 hours ago. And now he’s asking to see you again like it’s inevitable. Like you’re already his to convince. No slow build, no hiding behind professionalism or boundaries or what’s appropriate. Just—I want you. Come see me. Let me prove it.

You: that sounds like a bad idea.

Sylus: Probably. The best things usually are.

Sylus: Come to the club. Let me show you I'm not all talk.

It should scare you. Should send you running.

Instead, it makes you feel alive.

You glance at Zayne’s door again. Still closed. Still locked. Still keeping you at arm's length while somehow expecting you to stay.

You: keep dreaming.

Sylus: Oh, I plan to. You left me with plenty to work with last night.

Sylus: You’ll come when you’re ready. I’ll be there when you do.

Sylus: Sweet dreams to you too, kitten. Of me, preferably.

You fall asleep smiling.

Not because it’s safe. Not because it’s smart.

But because maybe safe and smart were never what you needed in the first place.

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, the word 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.

The week starts innocently enough.

A text from Sylus here and there. Good morning messages that make you check your phone before you’re fully awake. Observations about his day, questions about yours. Back-and-forth conversation that makes the day feel less monotonous. Casual. Friendly.

Until it’s not.

By Wednesday, you’re texting constantly. Zayne notices at breakfast. He notices everything about you—your elevated heart rate before you even feel anxious, the slight limp after a hard training session, the way you pick at your food when something’s bothering you.

And now, the way you keep glancing at your phone.

You’ve positioned it face-down on the table, but you’re hyper-aware of every buzz against the surface.

Buzz.

You take a sip of your coffee, keeping your eyes on your place.

Buzz.

You reach for the jam, smoothing it across your toast way too carefully, like putting all of your energy into your breakfast will stop your heart from pounding and your phone from vibrating. 

Zayne looks up from his tablet. “You can check that.”

“It’s fine. Just Tara.”

“Tara.” His eyes monitor you with the same look he gives when he's evaluating symptoms. “She’s been texting you frequently.” 

“She’s...chatty.” The lie sits wrong in your throat, but you force casualness into your voice. “You know how she is.”

He’s quiet for a moment, returning his attention to his tablet. You can feel him still watching you peripherally. “I have a long shift today. Emergency consult, then a difficult surgery. I’ll be late.”

Another late night. Another dinner alone. You’ve stopped being surprised.

“Okay.”

“There's leftover soup in the fridge. The one you like.” He stands, gathering his keys, his badge, his wallet. “Heat it properly this time. Don’t just eat it cold because you're too impatient.”

You can’t help but smile. “I’ll heat it.”

“And if you go out—” He pauses, lacing up his shoes by the door. “Let me know where you are.”

“I'm not going anywhere. I have training this afternoon,” you tell him, and the words are finally honest. “After that, my only plans involve the couch, bad TV, and an unhealthy amount of chocolate chip ice cream.”

“There’s no such thing.” You can hear the grin in his voice, and with it, a flicker of ease. Like your answer let him breathe again. “Sounds like a solid evening.”

“I’m a woman of simple pleasures.”

He’s quiet for a moment, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. 

“I worry less when you’re home.” He says it simply, like it’s a fact. Like worrying about you could never not be an option. “Though you somehow manage to find trouble even here.”

“That was one time!” You scoff, sticking your tongue out at him playfully. “And the kitchen fire was barely a fire.”

“It required a fire extinguisher. That qualifies as a fire,” he corrects, but there's the ghost of a smile on his lips. It fades as his eyes cut to where your phone still lies on the table, then drag back to your face, studying you intently. 

You force yourself not to look at it. To keep your attention on him.

“Text me when you’re done with training,” his words sound detached now, like he's already pulled back behind the wall. “Let me know you’re alright.”

You nod. “I will.”

He pauses at the door, keys in hand. “And—thank you. For having breakfast with me.”

The words catch you off guard. “We have breakfast together all the time.”

“I know. But—” He stops. “I appreciate it. That’s all.”

There’s something underneath it. Something unspoken. But before you can ask, he’s already heading out.

“Take care today,” he says quietly. “And don’t work too hard.”

“Same to you.”

You let your coffee grow cold after he leaves, pick at your food a little while longer. 

When your phone buzzes again, you reach for it.

Sylus: Ignoring me already? I'm wounded.

Sylus: Your doctor is watching you, isn't he? I can tell.

It's silly, this whole thing—hiding your phone like you're some lovesick teenager sneaking around after curfew. You usually hate feeling too young, too inexperienced. But something about Sylus makes you feel giddy. Daring. Alive.

You: how can you possibly tell?

Sylus: Because you're not responding. And you want to. I can feel it.

You: that's presumptuous

Sylus: It’s observant. 

Sylus: What are you doing today?

You: nothing exciting. errands. training. boring things.

Sylus: Tell me about it anyway. I want to know.

And somehow...you do. You text him throughout the day between drills and lectures. He asks about your training—not just surface-level things, but questions born out of genuine curiosity. Asks if you got hurt during sparring (yes, bruised ribs). Asks if you won (also yes, by a long shot). He tells you he’s not surprised.

He responds with observations about the club, about dealing with suppliers, about the mundane aspects of running a business that shouldn't be interesting but somehow are when he tells you about them.

It’s nothing. Just two people killing time. That’s what you keep telling yourself, anyway.

And yet—for the fourth night in a row, here you are again. Curled up under the covers with the lights off, phone in hand, smiling like an idiot every time it buzzes.

Sylus: Still thinking about me?

You: bold assumption

Sylus: Not an assumption. A hope.

You: well aren’t you sweet.

Sylus: I’m many things. Sweet isn’t usually one of them. But you seem to bring out interesting things in me.

You: like what?

Sylus: Honesty. Impatience. An alarming lack of focus.

You: poor baby :(

Sylus: You’re cruel. I like that about you.

You: i have many likable qualities.

Sylus: Tell me three.

It’s such a simple request, but it stops you cold. People ask about your health, your training progress, your career goals. People don’t ask what you think is good about yourself. Especially not someone who might actually care.

You: seriously?

Sylus: Seriously. Three things about yourself that you think are likable. Go. I want to know if your list matches mine.

You: you have a list?

Sylus: I've had one since about five minutes after you walked into my club. 

Sylus: So. Three things. Tell me.

You: this feels like a trap.

Sylus: It's not. I'm genuinely curious what you think of yourself.

It shouldn’t matter what he thinks. But you’re not used to someone trying to peel back the layers. And definitely not used to liking the attention this much.

You: fine. i'm...persistent. I don't give up on things easily.

Sylus: I can tell. That’s a rare thing. What else?

You: i'm honest. sometimes to a fault.

Sylus: That’s not a flaw. Not with me. Now one more.

You: i’m...i don't know. this is weird.

Sylus: Finish the list. 

You type slowly, each word a little harder than the last. You could say something easy, something that doesn’t matter. But you don’t want to give him the version of you that hides.

You: i don’t hold onto people easily. but once i do…i don’t really let go

The three little dots appear immediately.

Sylus: Then hold on. I’ll make it worth your while.

You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Sylus: Now do you want to hear my list?

You: should I be worried?

Sylus: Probably. 

Sylus: First: You're brave. You came to my club, faked taking the serum, and didn't back down when I called you out on it. That takes courage.

You: or stupidity

Sylus: You’re not stupid. Don’t insult my taste.

Sylus: Which brings me to #2: You're sharp. Quick. You see through bullshit immediately and you're not afraid to call it out. I watched you shut down three different guys at the bar before I even came over. You were quite impressive.

You blink at your phone. He was watching you before he approached? You didn't even notice him until he was right there.

Sylus: Third: You're reactive. Not just physically, though that's...memorable. But emotionally. You’re passionate. You feel things. You don't hide it even when you probably should.

You stare at the screen, your heart doing something complicated at the way he seems to see straight through you.

You: well, if we're making lists...

Sylus: Oh? Do share.

You hesitate for a moment. Because this feels different than listing things about yourself. This feels like admitting something. Like showing your hand. 

But he showed you his. It's only fair.

You: you're direct. no games. i appreciate that more than you know.

Sylus: I wouldn’t waste your time with anything less than the truth. 

Sylus: Keep going.

You: you're confident without being arrogant. or maybe you're both, but you make it work somehow.

Sylus: I'll take it.

Your fingers still mid-sentence. This one feels harder to say. More revealing.

You: and…you make me feel seen. not like something fragile or in need of protection. just...like i’m interesting exactly as i am.

The three dots appear and disappear several times. When his response finally comes, it's simpler than you expect.

Sylus: You are interesting. Exactly as you are.

Sylus: And for the record, you're anything but fragile. Anyone who treats you like you are is a fool.

Your throat tightens. He doesn’t know about Zayne—not specifically. Doesn’t know who you live with or how carefully you're monitored or why. But somehow he sees it anyway. Sees the ways you’re treated like something delicate. Something that might break.

You: you pay a lot of attention.

Sylus: Only to things worth paying attention to.

Sylus: Let me pay more attention. Let me learn the rest. At my club. 

Sylus: This whole pen pal situation is charming, truly. But it’s getting in the way of all the things I want to do to you that require significantly less distance between us.

You have to pull the covers over your face for a second. This is so dumb. So dangerous. So fast.

You type, then delete. Then type again.

You: i don’t know…that sounds an awful lot like a date.

Sylus: That's because it is one. I thought I was being obvious.

Sylus: And what don't you know? Whether you want to see me? Or whether you're allowed to?

The question hits too close. You blink at the screen, unsure how to answer. 

As if he can sense your unease, he texts first:

Sylus: Let me make this simple for you.

Sylus: I'll send a car. And a dress, if you'd like.

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you. It’s absurd. Over the top. And wildly, stupidly effective.

You: you don't need to send me anything.

Sylus: I want to. Let me.

You: what if it doesn’t fit?

Sylus: It will. Trust me. I have excellent visual memory.

You: that’s not creepy at all.

Sylus: Call it what you want. I prefer detail-oriented.

Sylus: So, while I'm at it—any other details I should be aware of? Music preferences? Strong feelings about wine? Turn-ons I should know about?

You: classical is good. no sweet wines. and you're not getting the third one that easily.

You think about watching people at the club—how loose they were on the serum, how unguarded. You faked it last time for a reason. The idea of saying things without your usual filter, of not being able to control what comes out…it’s not exactly appealing.

You: there is one thing…

Sylus: Anything. I’m listening. Closely.

You: no truth serum, right?

Sylus: Not unless you want it. But I don’t think we need it.

You: why not?

Sylus: Because you're already honest with me. And I plan to be honest with you.

Sylus: The serum is optional. Always.

Something in your chest gets lighter.

You: okay

Sylus: Okay you believe me? Or okay you'll come see me?

You: okay i believe you.

Sylus: I’ll allow it. For now.

Sylus: Now, do you prefer long or short?

You: hm?

Sylus: The dress. Long or short? I'm trying to picture you in both and I need you to narrow it down for me before I order one of each.

You: you're not ordering two dresses.

Sylus: Not if you tell me which one you prefer. So. Long or short?

You: ...short

Sylus: Color preference?

You: you're really doing this, huh?

Sylus: I'm really doing this. And I’m savoring every minute of it. Color?

You: i like darker colors

Sylus: Perfect. I can work with that.

Sylus: The offer stands whenever you’re ready. Though for what it's worth, I hope it's soon.

You stare at the words, and you can’t help but start imagining it. A short dress in deep green or midnight blue, something that fits right, makes you feel confident. Walking into the club wearing something he picked out for you. The way his crimson eyes would light up the second he saw you.

If he knew the way your stomach just flipped, he’d never let you live it down.

You: we’ll see. maybe i’m busy.

Sylus: You're not. But your attempt at playing hard to get is admirable.

You: you’re full of yourself.

Sylus: I’m optimistic.

Sylus: Goodnight, sweetie.

You: goodnight, sylus

You set your phone down, heart racing. You've been seen by Zayne for three years—monitored, cared for, watched over. But this is different. Sylus sees you and doesn't immediately try to protect you from yourself.

He just…wants you. Not to fix. Not to save. Just to have.

And you’re not sure when that stopped sounding like a bad idea.

You’ve been texting back and forth for a few days now. It's constant. Addictive. Every time your phone buzzes, you hope it's him. 

Sylus: I dreamt about you last night.

The text comes at 8 AM on Thursday. You're eating breakfast, alone. Zayne left early for work.

Your mouth goes dry.

You: fine. i’ll bite. what kind of dream?

Sylus: The kind where you were wearing that black dress you had on the night we met. And I was slowly taking it off you.

You nearly drop your phone. The two of you have been flirting, sure. But this? This is new territory. 

You: oh wow

Sylus: Too much? I can be good if you want me to be.

You: i didn't say that

Sylus: Dangerous girl. What are you wearing right now?

You look down at your makeup-stained t-shirt and mismatched socks. You’ve been nothing but honest with him, and see no use in starting to lie now.

You: pajamas…not cute ones.

Sylus: I’ll be the judge of that. Send me a picture.

You: absolutely not

Sylus: Worth a try. 

Sylus: And for what it's worth, I think you'd look good in anything. Or nothing.

You: subtle.

Sylus: Subtle has never been in my vocabulary, sweetie. 

Sylus: I want you. I've wanted you since you walked into my club. And if I have to pry you out of your doctor’s perfectly sanitized hands to prove it, I will.

The conversation shifts back to safer territory, but there’s a new charge underneath everything now. An awareness that wasn’t quite there before.

And he doesn't stop asking.

Every day, sometimes multiple times a day, he finds new ways to invite you back.

Sylus: Come to Obsidian tonight. I’m prepared to plead my case. 

Sylus: And I'm very good at using my mouth to get what I want.

You: i'm sure you are. but no.

Sylus: You're killing me here.

You: good. rejection builds character.

Sylus: I have plenty of character. What I don't have is you in my club.

You: you’ll survive

Sylus: You're cruel. Has anyone ever told you that?

You: actually, yeah. this guy i've been texting won't stop complaining about it.

Sylus: He sounds like a masochist. Probably has his hand halfway down his pants just thinking about the word ‘no’ coming out of your mouth.

You: oh my god

Sylus: And he’s right. You’re cruel and beautiful and I want to see you. Soon. 

He makes you feel powerful. Wanted. Like your resistance is something he enjoys rather than something he's trying to break through.

He makes surrender feel like a game. One you’re starting to lose on purpose. 

You: soon.

On Friday, you're doing laundry.

It’s a mundane kind of task that usually bores you to tears. But today you're feeling...good. Training went well this morning—you finally nailed that technique you’ve been struggling with. The sun is streaming through the windows. Your playlist is hitting all the right songs without skips.

You’re folding Zayne’s clothes, separating his shirts from yours, when you pull out the white button-down. The soft one. The one you’ve been stealing for months now because it’s absurdly comfortable.

On impulse, you slip it on over your tank top and shorts. It’s enormous on you, hem brushing the tops of your thighs, sleeves falling past your hands. You roll them up, leaving a few buttons undone at the top.

You catch your reflection in the hallway mirror and pause.

You look...pretty. 

The shirt is swallowing your frame, your hair is pulled up messily, sunlight streams in behind you. There’s something about it—the casual intimacy of wearing someone else’s clothes, of being comfortable in your own space.

It’s too intimate to think about for too long. 

So you don’t.

You lift your phone and snap a photo. Nothing suggestive—just you in the shirt, a small smile you didn’t mean to make, laundry basket visible in the background. Casual. Unexciting. 

You pull up Sylus’s contact and type a caption. Short enough to pretend you don’t care, sharp enough to hide how much you do:

You: don’t get used to this

You hit send before your courage can evaporate, and immediately return to sorting underwear like it’s the most fascinating thing on the planet.

Your phone stays quiet for a few minutes. You assume he’s busy—he’s always busy during the day, running the club, dealing with business matters he patiently explains to you that you still don’t fully understand.

Then it rings.

Your heart skips a beat.

He’s never called before. 

It’s always been texts, back and forth, safe behind screens. A call is different. A call is real. 

You stare at his name on the screen, frozen. It rings again. Again. 

Your hands are shaking slightly when you finally answer.

“Hi.”

“You.” 

The word comes out rough. Accusatory. Like you’ve committed a crime and he’s caught you red-handed.

His voice sounds different over the phone—deeper, more intimate somehow. Strained in a way that sends heat straight through you, wraps around you in a way his texts can’t.

Your stomach flips. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Do you have any idea—” He pauses to take a breath that sounds unsteady. “I was in a meeting. Important people. Money on the table. And I looked at my phone and saw you in that shirt and I—”

He cuts off, and you hear the sound of footsteps, fast and uneven.

“And you…?”

“And I got hard. Immediately. Sitting across from three suppliers trying to negotiate contracts.” You hear a door close, a lock click. “Had to sit there for thirty seconds trying to focus on inventory numbers while all I could think about was those perfect fucking legs. How much of them I could see. How that shirt barely covers you. How easy it would be to slide my hands up and—” 

He stops himself, like he’s physically pulling himself back from the edge.

“Had to come up with some bullshit excuse to lock myself in my office before I nearly ruined my pants like some teenage boy who’s never seen a pair of legs before.”

The image does something sinful to you: his cock straining against his slacks. Having to hide how affected he is from important people during a meeting. Needing to excuse himself because he just couldn’t take it anymore. 

All because of you.

You will your voice to stay neutral, forcing your attention back to the shirt you’re folding even as your thighs press together involuntarily. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“It is absolutely a you problem.” He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Talk to me. Please. I need to think about anything else, or I'm going to start making poor decisions.”

“Mmm,” you hum. “What kind of poor decisions?”

“The kind where I cancel everything and drive over there just to see if you’re wearing anything underneath.” His voice drops deeper. “Are you? Fuck—don’t answer that.”

You can hear it—the way he’s spiraling. The way the question slipped out before he could stop it.

You bite your lip, loving this a little too much. Loving the way you’ve made smooth, confident Sylus lose his composure. 

“That shirt is enormous on you, by the way,” he says, clearly trying to redirect to safer territory. 

Your voice drips with sarcasm. “Wow, nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Whose is it?” His tone changes, loses some of that playful edge.

Your pulse quickens. You pull the shirt tighter around yourself. “Does it matter?”

“To my ego? Possibly. To my curiosity? Absolutely.” There's a pause. You hear wood creaking as he shifts in his chair. “Hold on. Let me guess. Daddy Doctor’s?”

That humiliating nickname makes your face heat. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Just a shirt. Of course.” He’s clearly not convinced. Actually, he sounds—amused? Intrigued? “So does your doctor have any idea that you steal his clothes and send photos to strange men you meet at clubs?”

“Just one photo,” you clarify, “to one strange man.”

“That’s a no, then.” There’s something warm in his voice now. “So he doesn’t know you’re doing his laundry right now. Wearing his shirt. Looking like you belong in his space. In his life.”

“It’s not—”

“And he certainly doesn’t know you’re thinking about him touching you when you put it on.”

Heat crawls up your neck. “I never said I did that.”

“You didn't have to.” His tone is almost affectionate. “I remember how you felt against me at the club. How you moved under my hands. How you responded to every touch like you’d been starving for it.” He pauses for a beat. “You don’t pull away from touch. You lean into it. Melt into it. Like you’ve been waiting your whole life for someone to actually reach for you.”

Your cheeks burn because he’s right. He’s absolutely right.

You do want to be touched. You do think about Zayne in ways you probably shouldn’t. And you are talking to Sylus right now while wearing Zayne’s shirt, which says something about you that you’re not ready to examine.

“It’s not like that—”

“No?” he says, not quite teasing, not quite challenging. Just…assessing you. “Then tell me. What do you think about when you wear his shirts?”

Your grip on your phone tightens. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out what I’m competing with. And because I’m genuinely curious what goes on in that head of yours.”

The word ‘competing’ catches you off guard. Competing. Like it’s one or the other. Like you have to choose. But you don't want to choose. You want—

“Honestly?” you say quietly.

“Always.”

“I think about both of you.”

He doesn’t bother trying to contain the low groan that escapes from somewhere deep inside him. 

“Both.” He repeats the word slowly, testing it. “Explain that to me.”

You don’t know why you say it. Why you’re telling him this now, in the middle of folding laundry. Maybe because he asked. Maybe because he actually wants to know. Maybe because you’re tired of keeping it all locked inside.

“I put it on because it's his. Because it’s comfortable and familiar.” Your voice drops to barely a whisper. “And I imagine him noticing. Actually seeing me instead of just monitoring me. Looking at me like I’m more than just his responsibility.”

“And what does he do? In these imaginations?”

Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it through the phone.

“He loses control. Just for a moment. All of the restraint he’s been holding onto just—breaks. And he touches me like he actually wants to. Like he can’t help himself.”

“Fuck.” He’s breathing harder now, the sound humming through you like static. “And me? Where do I fit in?”

“I looked in the mirror and thought about you. About how you’d react.”

“The answer is I lost my damn mind.” He takes an unsteady breath. “Have I not made myself clear? I want you so much I can’t think straight. I keep picturing what those legs would feel like wrapped around my waist. How tightly those thighs would—” He stops suddenly. You imagine him tipping his head back, running a hand down his face. “But that's not what you're really asking, is it?”

You don’t answer.

“You want to know if I’m bothered.” He says it so sincerely. “That you want him too.”

You swallow hard. “...Yes.”

“I’m not. I’m the opposite of bothered.”

“Which is?”

“Fascinated. Obsessed. Turned on beyond reason.” He takes a breath. “You want to know what my fantasy is? Watching you get everything you want. Everything you deserve. Seeing you touched the way you’ve been imagining. Being the one to give that to you.” Sylus's voice drops lower. “Both of us giving that to you.”

“Sylus—” His name comes out breathless, needier than you mean for it to.

There’s a low, strangled sound on the other end of the line. A groan, maybe. Or a curse. “You were supposed to help calm me down, sweetie. Not make me fantasize about dragging you under my desk.”

Your hand drifts down without thinking, fingers brushing the hem of Zayne’s shirt, and you can practically feel it: the way he’d sound if you showed up at his office like this, bare-legged and wanting. His chair swiveling as you drop to your knees, pretending you’re there to apologize. The way he'd look at you like he always knew exactly how this would end.

You should probably let it go. Should play nice.

You’re not feeling nice.

“Well, you did say this was my problem...” Your fingers slip under your shorts, and your skin feels too hot, too sensitive even through the fabric of your underwear. “...so maybe I should help fix it.”

“Indulge me. I’m all ears.” You can almost hear him lean back in his chair, processing that. “What’s your expertly crafted solution to the mess you made?”

“If I were there right now—” Your fingers trace slow circles over your underwear, barely a touch. “I could kneel between your legs, under your desk. Help you...relax.”

“Relax.” He sounds darkly amused. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“What would you call it?”

“Let’s see. You, on your knees, under my desk. My hand in your hair, guiding you how I want you. You, looking up at me with those wide, eager eyes while you take every inch of my cock in your mouth like you’ve been dying to prove to me just how helpful you can be.” 

There’s a pause. A long one. When he finally speaks again, his voice is thick with desire. “No, sweetie, I don’t think relaxing is the word that comes to mind.”

Your whole body feels like it’s buzzing. You press your thighs together, then apart again, restless. Aching. Your free hand grips the fabric of Zayne’s shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

You press your fingers just slightly where you need them most, and you can’t help the small sound that escapes.

“Are you—” You hear fabric rustle, like he's leaning forward. “Kitten. Are you touching yourself right now?”

“I—”

The front door opens.

You freeze, hand jerking away like you’ve been burned.

“Sweetie?” Sylus says. “You still there?”

You don’t answer—just shove the phone into the laundry basket, covering it haphazardly with clothes. Your hands are shaking as you grab the throw blanket from the back of the couch, pulling it over your bare legs. You snatch up a pair of pants and try to look casual. Normal. Like you’re just folding laundry.

Zayne appears in the doorway.

“I thought you were at work,” you say, voice higher than normal.

“Needed to grab some files from my office.” His eyes scan you—the slight tremble in your hands, the sweat on your brow, the color staining your cheeks—and you watch his expression shift. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine. Just—doing laundry.”

“You’re flushed. And your respiration—” His hand comes up to your forehead on instinct, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, hand hovering. “Sorry. May I?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. 

The back of his hand presses against your forehead, clinical and careful. “You feel warm.”

“I'm fine, really—”

“Humor me.” He's already moving toward his medical bag. “This will only take a minute.”

You’re acutely conscious of everything: your flushed face. Your elevated heart rate. The wet heat gathering between your thighs. Your phone inside the laundry basket.

Zayne returns with the thermometer.

“Open your mouth,” he says gently.

The word sends an inappropriate flash through you. After what you were just saying to Sylus. After the image of being on your knees, mouth open—

You part your lips, face burning, and he slides the thermometer under your tongue. His fingers are cautious, and you’re painfully aware of Sylus listening to all of this. Of what Zayne would think if he knew what you were just doing. What you were just saying.

The wait is eternal. His eyes are focused on you with genuine concern. The thermometer under your tongue—hard, intrusive, nothing like what you were imagining moments ago but somehow making you think of it anyway. 

It beeps.

“Slightly elevated.” Zayne frowns, checking it again. His knuckle brushes your lower lip as he removes it, and the intimacy of the gesture makes your breath catch. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

He can’t read you, and it’s bothering him. You never hide things from him. Nothing like this.

“I’m fine,” you manage. “Just—warm. From doing laundry.”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong?” His voice is quiet. “If you needed something. Anything. If you—” He stops himself with a shake of his head. “You’d tell me?”

The guilt crashes over you like a wave. Because no, you wouldn’t tell him. You haven’t told him. You’re sitting here in his shirt, lying to his face, with another man listening on the phone three feet away.

“Of course,” you assure him with a small smile.

He studies you for another moment, like he knows something’s wrong but can't figure out what. Like he’s waiting for you to trust him enough to say it. 

But you don’t.

“Get some rest,” he says finally, voice flat in the way that means he’s pulling back. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

He stands, but pauses in the doorway. His eyes land on you once more—on the shirt you’re wearing. His white button-down.

“That’s mine, isn’t it?”

You go still. “I—yeah. Sorry, I can—”

“No. Keep it.” His voice is rough. “It looks better on you, anyway.”

Then he’s gone.

Your chest tightens. Because this is what you wanted, isn't it? For him to notice. To care. To see you wearing his things and react.

And he does notice. He does care.

Yet still chooses to keep his distance.

You wait. Count to ten. Twenty. Until you hear the front door close. Until you’re absolutely sure he’s gone.

Then you dig your phone out of the laundry basket with shaking hands.

“You’re still there?”

“You thought I’d hang up?” Sylus’s voice is wrecked. “And miss the most erotic doctor-patient interaction I’ve ever witnessed? Not a chance, sweetie.”

“That was—”

“Incredible. That was incredible.” He sounds almost awed. “Your doctor is very attentive. Does he always take your temperature orally? How very thorough of him.”

Your face burns. “Can we not—”

“Oh, we are absolutely discussing this. You were just getting started. And then he comes in with that thermometer and—” He groans. “I nearly came just listening to it.”

“Sylus—”

“Be honest. Were you thinking about him? About me? About what we were just doing?”

You close your eyes. “All of it. I was thinking about all of it.”

“Good girl," he says, soft and approving. “You deserve to want all of it. And you deserve to have all of it.”

Heat floods through you at the words, the silence stretching for a second too long.

And Sylus, of course, notices.

“Well, well,” he murmurs, low and satisfied. “Someone likes being praised.”

You scoff, but you’re shifting in place anyway, as if your body’s already chosen sides—traitorous and aching and far too eager to be told it’s good again. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t need to." You can hear the cocky grin in his voice. "Your breathing just told me everything I need to know."

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Save it, kitten. I’ll remember that for later.” He sounds insufferably smug. “Don't think for a second you're off the hook. This isn't over. Far from it. But right now, I need to go salvage this meeting, and you need to go finish your laundry. And sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep sending me photos. Anytime. Anything. Any reason." The teasing is gone, replaced by something more sincere. Like he would cherish whatever pictures you sent him, no matter how trivial. "I don't care if I'm in meetings or dealing with business or sleeping. I want to see you.”

“Even if it causes problems?”

“Especially then. I like the problems you cause.” He lets out a quiet laugh under his breath. “But I’ll be taking this photo with me. Fair warning. Might have to ‘step out for a call’ again just to look at it some more.”

Your heart beats faster. “Taking it where?”

“Everywhere. It's my phone background now.”

“Sylus—”

“What? You look good. I want to look at you. And frankly, I’m not sure how to change it back even if I wanted to.” He sounds almost proud of this. “Besides, now every time someone asks about my phone, I get to tell them about the beautiful woman who's driving me insane.”

“You’re not going to tell people about me.”

“I certainly am. Starting with my business partners this afternoon, when they ask why I had to leave so abruptly.”

You shouldn’t feel this way. It’s too much, too fast. It’s barely been a week. 

You clutch the phone a little tighter, like that’ll help you hold on. Like you’re afraid if you breathe wrong, this will all disappear—the voice in your ear, the feeling in your gut, the dizzy, giddy swirl of being wanted like this.

“Fine. But tell them I bite.”

His voice drops low with interest. “Do you, now?” 

“Only if you ask nicely.”

“Goddamn. Trouble, trouble, trouble.” But he sounds pleased. Impressed, even. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

You grin. “Just one reason?”

“Many reasons. All of which I’d be happy to list. In person. At Obsidian. This weekend.”

Your response comes effortlessly:

“Okay.”

The other line is silent for so long you worry he might have hung up. 

When his voice finally comes through, it’s careful. Surprised.

“Okay?” He pauses. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” you confirm. “Yes. I’ll come to the club.”

“You’re serious.”

“I'm serious.”

“What changed?”

You hesitate, just for a moment.

The answer catches in your throat—not because it isn’t true, but because it’s too true. Because it wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. The cold and quiet ache of being wanted and still not chosen day after day, year after year. The pull toward Sylus, hot and loud, that doesn’t ask you to shrink or behave or wait your turn, that doesn’t make you feel like too much.

“I’m tired of saying no to things I actually want.” The raw truth of the words makes your throat tight. The rest comes out quieter than you mean it to. “And I really want to see you, Sylus.”

You hear him stand abruptly, pace around his office like he’s plotting something. Or maybe just grounding himself.

“Fuck. Okay. Yes. Sunday? Sunday.” He sounds almost thrown, like he still expected resistance. “I’ll send a car at 8. And the dress. It’ll arrive tomorrow afternoon.”

“You already have a dress picked out?”

“I’ve had it picked out since Wednesday. I was just waiting for you to say yes.”

“Confident.”

“And apparently right to be.” You can hear the pleasure in it. Relief, even. “You have no idea how glad I am you said yes.”

“I think I might.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page.” He takes a breath. “I need to go. Before I say something that makes you change your mind.”

You lean back against the couch, a warm and terrifying feeling flooding your chest in the best way. This is real. This is actually happening.

"We’ll talk later," he says with certainty. "And thank you, truly. For saying yes. For the picture. For the conversation. For being exactly as much trouble as I hoped you’d be.” 

You can’t help but smile. “You’re welcome.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

He hangs up before you can respond.

You sit there on the couch, heart racing, still wearing Zayne’s shirt, thinking about Sylus thinking about you in it. About what it means that you said yes so easily when you’ve been saying no for days.

This is getting complicated.

And you're starting to think that’s the point.