Seattle breathes in shades of gray. Rain streaks down my window in crooked lines, blurring the buildings outside into shapes I don’t try to name. The sidewalks below shine like wet stone, slick and dark, reflecting the occasional flash of headlights. Somewhere, a bus sighs to a stop. I don’t look.

It’s been raining since morning. Probably will continue all night too. That kind of cold that seeps in through the walls, no matter how high I turn up the radiator. The whole apartment feels damp around the edges, like it’s slowly being swallowed.

The shower helps.

I stand under the spray with my hands against the tile, elbows locked, forehead nearly touching the wall. The water’s hot enough to sting, and I need that. Need it to soften the knots in my shoulders, to chase the chill from my skin, to drown out the low hum that’s lived somewhere behind my ribs ever since I came back from the cabin.

The air is thick with steam. I can barely see the mirror from here, but I know it’s fogged over, warped. I like it that way. Easier not to look too closely. Easier not to see the things that don’t quite feel like mine anymore.

Water runs down my back in rivulets. Over my thighs. Between my breasts. My skin drinks the heat and still asks for more.

The ache is always there now. Dull but deep. Like something settled into me and stretched out. It doesn't hurt, exactly. It just is.

The radiator clanks. Pipes groan in the walls.

I stay still.

Let it all wash over me. Let it stay on the surface, for now.

The water’s scalding now, but I don’t move. I let it trace every inch of me, let it fill my ears until the world goes quiet. Just the drumbeat of rain beyond the glass and the hiss of the showerhead above.

I tell myself I’m here to loosen sore muscles. To warm up. To forget.

But my hand is already between my thighs.

I don’t remember when it moved there. Or deciding anything at all.

It’s been like this since I came back from the cabin.

At first, I thought it was stress. That hollow feeling in my chest. That slow-thrum heat in my core, rising up like a fever every time I closed my eyes. I thought it would pass. I thought I’d be able to name it. But the longer I waited, the clearer it became…

I brought something back with me.

Not in my bag. Not in my blood. Not anything I can see in the mirror. But I feel it. Coiled beneath the surface. Curling around my breath. Feeding.

Not on my body.

Not exactly.

It feeds on the other things. My want. My shame. The way my breath stutters when I give in. The way my fingers hesitate right before they don’t.

When I touch myself now, it answers.

And I don’t mean in whispers or words. It answers in sensation. In a pull, deep and dark and wet, like the tide tugging under my skin. My thoughts scatter. My limbs go slack. Sometimes I forget where I am. Sometimes I black out in the middle of cumming and wake up on the floor, or the couch, or curled up in the corner with my pulse hammering behind my eyes.

I should be scared.

At first, I was.

But now…

God help me, I crave it.

The loss of control. The way my hands stop being mine. The way it builds, tight and dizzy, until my own body turns traitor and spills itself open for something I can’t name.

Even now, I don’t mean to move. But my thighs are tense. My hips are shifting. My fingers are working in slow, practiced circles, and it’s not me, not just me, doing the moving.

The water pounds harder. Or maybe that’s my heart.

I brace one hand against the tile. My breath falters. My knees tremble.

And then, everything narrows.

Like a deep pressure rising from below.

Like something ancient and slick pressing up against the edges of my skin, eager, greedy.

I’m close.

Too close.

And I know if I let go, I won’t be alone inside my head when I cum.

It always starts like this now, innocent, mindless. The steam, the warmth, the rhythm of water on skin. But somewhere between rinsing my shoulders and closing my eyes, I slip under again. That quiet pull, not downward but inward. Something else takes the wheel. A breath escapes my lips, heavy and open, and suddenly I’m no longer alone in myself.

Fingers slide deeper, circling like they know me better than I do. They move with hunger, with skill. Not my hunger. Not my skill.

It wants me soft. Willing. It wants me to break myself open for it.

And I do.

I tumble over the edge like I’ve been shoved. My knees hit the shower tiles hard, bare skin meeting slick porcelain. The sound echoes, but I hardly hear it. The orgasm crashes through me, sharp and hollow. My mouth opens in a soundless cry, head tilted back, the water cascading down my face.

In that exact second, my fingers still pulsing inside, I hit the faucet lever by accident. The water switches from hot to cold in an instant.

I don’t flinch.

The cold hits like glass, like the sky collapsing. It hammers against my scalp, runs down my neck, and carves its way between my breasts. I shiver, but it’s not fear. Not pain. My body clenches, inside and out. My skin prickles, nipples tight and flushed pink. I feel every nerve lit up.

And inside, deeper than the bone, deeper than thought, something is smiling

It’s pleased.

I kneel there under the frigid stream, hands loose in my lap, heartbeat slow but strong. My body hums, raw and tender, like something peeled back. My thoughts flicker in and out. It doesn’t feel like shame anymore. It feels like a ritual.

Like an offering.

--- 🐺 ---

I drag myself off the tiles slowly, still soaked, still shivering— though not from the cold. My legs feel hollow, like I’ve emptied something essential. I towel off without really drying, just enough to stop dripping. My skin’s flushed in places, pale in others. My reflection in the foggy mirror looks distant. Drenched. Hollow-eyed. A little haunted.

The apartment’s dim and silent when I emerge. Everything here feels like it's waiting for something. Watching. I can’t stay. Not tonight.

I throw on the warmest jeans I own\, threadbare at the knees, soft from wear. A thick gray sweater that hits mid-thigh, it smells faintly of lemongrass detergent. My old olive rain jacket over the top. Sneakers, wet ones, from before, but they’ll do. I leave my hair loose. No point trying to fix it. It’s already damp again from the steam, and I know the rain’s going to undo whatever effort I make, anyway.

By the time I step out into the street, the sky is bruised and low. That heavy Seattle gray. The kind that looks like it's pressing down on everything. Water slides off the awnings and rooftops in rhythmic trickles, gathering in glistening rivers along the curb.

The sidewalk shines like black glass under the streetlights. My sneakers splash in puddles that I don’t bother dodging. Rain needles my scalp, threads through my sweater, kisses the back of my neck like cold fingers. I don’t mind. The cold helps. Keeps me here. Real.

There’s something about walking in the rain that lets me forget how strange I’ve been feeling. Like maybe I’m just tired. Stressed. Just another college girl dragging herself out for caffeine and maybe some background noise. Not someone who…

I stop that thought before it finishes.

The Starbucks a few blocks away glows ahead: familiar green signage, golden light inside, steamed-up windows. I keep walking. Not faster. Just steady. The cold sinks in deeper with each step. But something about the wet and the gray and the noise of cars hissing past makes me feel more human.

Less like the thing I brought back with me.

The door gives a little resistance before swinging open, a gust of cold air and wet street noise sweeping in behind me. The scent hits first: roasted beans, burnt sugar, damp wool. Inside it hums with life. Low voices rise and fall like waves. Someone laughs too loud near the back. Fingers tap across laptop keys. Paper cups hiss beneath espresso spouts. A blender shrieks once, then stops. It’s warm here, in that over-circulated, caffeine-fueled kind of way.

I shake out my sleeves and step inside fully, tugging my damp hood down. My hair sticks to the back of my neck. The warmth clings to me like a second skin, tugging me in deeper.

Most of the seats are taken: couples curled around laptops, students with headphones and puffy jackets, a mom trying to keep her toddler entertained with vanilla milk and phone games. It’s a collective kind of shelter. No one talks to each other, but we’re all here for the same reason: to be somewhere not cold. Somewhere not alone.

I make my way to the counter, the soles of my sneakers squelching faintly on the wet tiles. The barista doesn’t look up right away, still fussing with the milk wand, but I know what I want. I always do.

“Grande oat milk flat white,” I say when she finally glances up, brushing a damp strand of hair out of my eyes. “Extra hot.”

She nods, taps it in without comment. I pay with a flick of my phone, then step aside.

I like the flat white. No syrup, no foam mountains, no sprinkles. Just enough milk to soften the bite. Still strong, though.

My name floats up with a casual call, muffled by milk steam and espresso hiss, and I slip through the crowd to collect the cup, warm and smooth in my hands. The heat seeps into my fingers like an apology for everything outside.

There are barely any free seats. Just one table along the back wall, two chairs, one of them already taken.

I hesitate, then drift toward it, glancing at the man without really looking. “Mind if I sit?”

He looks up from his laptop. Late thirties, maybe a little older. Wire-rimmed glasses that suit the gentle slope of his face. Hair that’s gone a little salt-and-pepper at the temples. He’s dressed in layers: sweater, soft-looking jeans, a wool coat slung over the chair. Comfortable. Clean. Past the hipster phase, but with the remnants of good taste.

“Go for it,” he says, offering a quick smile before turning back to the screen.

I settle in, cupping my drink, blowing on the first sip. The flat white’s perfect: bitterness tucked beneath a warm, silky layer. No foam. No fuss.

A few minutes pass like that. Silence between us, easy but aware. I catch him glancing over. Once, then again, just quick flicks of his eyes. And then:

“You always order that?” he asks, nodding toward my cup. His voice is calm, curious. “Or do you switch it up when the seasons change, like everyone else?”

I smile into my cup. “That sounded like judgment.”

“Only a little,” he says, mouth twitching. “You don’t strike me as a pumpkin spice girl.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

“Of course not. You’re… flat white with oat milk. Extra hot.” He gestures to the drink with mock solemnity. “The thinking woman’s caffeine.”

I laugh before I mean to. “And what about you? Let me guess— black coffee, no room for cream, always slightly annoyed it doesn’t taste like it used to.”

He winces, over-dramatic. “Close. But I’ve matured into cortados.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

There’s an ease to him. A groundedness. He talks the way people do when they aren’t trying to impress you, but still hope they do. I listen, and I smile, and I play along. But there’s something else happening beneath my skin.

Not nerves. Not really interest, either. Not in the usual way.

It’s hunger, maybe.

Something in him is pulling at me. Not just the banter or his voice or the easy lines near his eyes when he smiles. It’s deeper. Instinctive. A pressure that builds low in my chest, behind my ribs, and hums there like a second heartbeat.

He says his name is Noel. Like Christmas, he jokes, though he was born in April.

I laugh. “Issy,” I respond. “Like ‘easy’... which, I guess, we’ll see.”

I’m not really following every word. Instead, I’m watching the shape of his mouth. The flick of his fingers on the keys. The way his pulse jumps at his throat, steady but strong.

Something in me wants him closer.

Wants more.

And it doesn’t feel entirely mine.

The words were barely out of his mouth before I decided.

“The one with the blue curtains?” I asked, eyes narrowing.

 He nodded, almost sheepishly. “Yeah. Third floor.”

I didn’t give him time to second guess. I closed my hand over the top of his laptop, gently pushing it shut. He blinked at me. Flushed a little pink above the collar.

“Let’s go, then.”

He laughed: awkward, surprised, but he didn’t argue. I helped him slide the laptop into his bag, his fingers brushing mine, hesitant. Then I tugged on my jacket and stood.

The wind had picked up outside, dragging sheets of rain sideways across the street. I didn’t care. We pushed out through the door, the heat of the café replaced by a damp chill that wrapped around us immediately. The rain was sharp and insistent, soaking into the knees of my jeans and weighing down my still-wet hair. But I liked the way it felt, needling into my skin. Like it was washing away the last of that shower. The last of whatever that was.

He fumbled with his hood. I didn’t bother.

We half-jogged, half-walked across the crosswalk, past a honking car and the blinking glow of the corner traffic light. My sneakers splashed through shallow puddles. He was trailing behind a little, backpack clutched awkwardly, until I turned and grabbed his wrist, not hard, just enough.

“C’mon.”

I pulled him the last few steps to the building entrance, rainwater trailing down the back of my neck. He unlocked the outer door with a quick swipe of a fob, then led us up a narrow flight of stairs, our wet shoes squeaking on the concrete.

His apartment was at the far end of the hallway. Number 305. A scuffed blue welcome mat sat crooked in front of the door.

He opened it, stepped inside, and I followed without hesitation.

Warm air hit me first. Then the smell. Cedar, maybe. Something faintly herbal, clean but lived-in. The apartment was small and uncluttered, an open living room that bled into a kitchenette, a bookshelf filled with paperbacks and a record player in the corner. The curtains matched, soft blue, just like he’d said.

He was watching me. His glasses were fogging up.

I smiled and peeled off my jacket, water dripping from the hem. “You gonna offer me a towel, Noel?”

--- 🐺 ---

He shut the door behind him, shaking out his umbrella with one hand while fumbling to hang it on a hook. The rain was already pooling beneath our shoes. I didn’t wait.

My rainjacket hit the floor first. Heavy, damp Gore-Tex clinging to my arms until I peeled it free. Then the sweater: soft and swollen from the downpour, sticking to my chest, my hips, until that too slumped to the ground with a wet thup. The T-shirt underneath was practically transparent, so I didn’t bother with ceremony, just pulled it over my head and let it fall behind me like shed skin.

My jeans were next. A struggle. The denim clung stubbornly, suctioned to my legs, but I got them off with a little wiggle, stepping out barefoot onto his hardwood floor. My underwear followed. Everything was wet, and I hated the feel of it: clinging to my skin, sapping the last bit of warmth I had left. I wanted it gone. I wanted to feel heat again. Skin again. Him.

I didn’t look over my shoulder when I heard his footsteps pause. I just stood there, bare and dripping, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

When I finally turned, he hadn’t moved an inch.

His mouth was slightly open, eyes wide behind his glasses, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the air. Laptop bag still slung over his shoulder, one hand halfway toward the couch like he’d started to put it down and forgotten what he was doing.

I almost laughed. He looked like a man watching a star fall and not quite believing it was real.

I walked toward him slowly, the soft pad of my bare feet on his floor the only sound between us. His eyes never left me, not when I crossed the room, not when my hips tilted just enough to make him notice. I stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin, still flushed from the cold outside.

Both my hands came up to his face, fingers brushing back the wet strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead. His skin was warm beneath my palms, a little rough from the stubble on his jaw. I leaned in and kissed him: slow, deep, full of everything I hadn’t said.

At first, he didn’t move. Just stood there like his brain hadn’t caught up to his body. But then I felt the shift. The way his lips parted against mine. The small sound he made when he exhaled. The way his hands hovered like he didn’t know where to touch me first.

I pulled back before he could decide, leaving his lips parted, his breath shaky. I walked toward the couch with a glance over my shoulder, hips swaying just enough to tease. No words. No need.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

His jacket hit the floor. Shoes kicked off in quick, clumsy nudges. That soft grey sweater clung to his frame before he peeled it over his head and tossed it aside.

And then he followed: chest rising, mouth still parted, eyes full of heat.

He stood in front of me, flushed and breathing harder than he meant to. I reached for his belt, fingers nimble on the buckle, tugging it loose. The zipper followed, slow and deliberate, and I watched his expression shift, like he still couldn’t believe any of this was happening.

His briefs clung to him, already tight from the way he was growing underneath. I slipped my fingers beneath the waistband and drew them down, letting them fall to the floor. He was nearly hard already, thick and heavy between us.

I wrapped my hand around him, teasing, stroking lazily from base to tip. His breath stopped when I ran my thumb along the underside. I let my other hand drift lower, cradling the weight of his balls in my palm, rolling them gently. My breath was warm against his skin, and he twitched in my hand: eager, responsive, real.

I looked up at him. His eyes were glassy, lips parted. He was still trying to catch up. Still trying to believe I was really here.

But I was.

And I wasn’t done yet.

I part my lips and take him in slowly, savoring the weight and warmth of him on my tongue. Each inch ignites something inside me: something primal, something starving. I try to hold it back, to stay gentle, to tease. But it’s there. Just beneath the surface.

Hungry.

Desperate to consume him.

I pull back, swirl my tongue around the tip, then sink lower again. He groans, deep and ragged, and I feel it echo in my chest. My hands steady his hips, but part of me wants to push him deeper, to feel him hit the back of my throat. To give in.

But I don’t. Not yet.

I let the moment stretch. Let the tension build. This isn’t just about pleasure, it’s about power. Control. I want to taste all of him, slowly, deliberately. Until he’s trembling. Until I’m the only thing he can think about.

Until my demon is fed.

I take him deeper now, my lips stretched tight, my throat relaxing as I ease him in. His breath falters, fingers twitching in my hair, but I don't stop. I want him shaky. Want him undone.

The hunger inside me claws at the edges of my thoughts: hot, insistent, writhing. It isn't content with just this, with slow, careful pleasure. It wants to devour. To break him open and drink every drop of what he can give.

He groans, hips bucking slightly, and I let him. I want him to lose control.

My head bops, working him with lips and tongue, my hand wrapped around the base, stroking in time. His thighs tense. His breathing stutters. I can feel him start to throb in my mouth, and I don't pull away.

He cums into me with a gasp, hot and sudden. I swallow it all, eyes open, holding him deep, not flinching. Not blinking. Not stopping.

But it’s not enough.

The demon inside me snarls, unsatisfied. A blowjob? A simple release? That was foreplay. A taste. My body hums with need, wet and aching, skin hot like a fever. My jaw aches, my thighs press tight together, and still it isn’t enough.

I want to climb on top of him and ride him until he begs.

I want to see him break.

I pull back slowly, a thread of saliva catching at the corner of my lip, my eyes never leaving his. He looks dazed, euphoric... but I’m not done.

Not even close.

I lick my lips. "You think that’s all I wanted?" I whisper, voice low and dangerous. "That was just the beginning."

--- 🐺 ---

I lean back on the couch, letting my thighs fall open: bare, wet, aching. I don’t bother hiding any of it. There’s no shame left. Just need. Just heat. Just the raw, gnawing hunger curling low in my belly.

My voice is calm, but it vibrates with something darker underneath.

“Come. Eat.”

It takes him less than a breath to obey. He drops to his knees like he was made to. Head between my legs, mouth open, hungry.

And the moment he touches me, tongue slipping between slick folds, I shudder. Not from surprise, but from satisfaction. Yes. This is better. This is closer.

That thing inside me purrs, pleased. But not sated.

I tangle my fingers in his hair, guiding him, grinding against his mouth, making him work for it. Every flick of his tongue sends sparks through me, but I don’t want to just feel good.

I want to drown in it.

To lose myself.

To feed the thing inside me until it howls.

And god help him, so do I.

He kisses me like he means it: wet, open-mouthed, eager. He sucks gently, then harder. Flicks his tongue against me, circling, probing, testing. Sometimes he hits the spot, and a jolt shoots through my spine. Other times… not quite. He shifts angles, tries again. He's trying, I can feel that, but it’s not right.

Not enough.

Not deep enough, not dark enough.

I grip his hair tighter, trying to guide him, tilt his face just so. My hips twitch, chasing friction. That wild thing inside me claws at my chest, restless, snarling. It wants more than effort. It wants instinct. It wants ruin.

And this… this feels like foreplay.

I want to be devoured.

I grab his hair, twisting it in my fist, my heels locking behind his head to keep him in place. “There,” I breathe, more command than whisper. “Stay there.” I grind against his mouth, guiding him to the right spot, the only spot that matters now.

My other hand moves to my chest, fingers teasing, pinching my nipples until the sharp edge of sensation shoots straight to my core. I'm chasing that perfect mix of pressure and rhythm, trying to amplify what he's giving me. Trying to push myself over. But it’s not enough. Not yet.

The demon inside me growls in frustration, pacing. It wants to break through. Wants to take control. It’s hungry, insatiable, and this— this fumble of lips and tongue, isn’t feeding it. Not yet.

It starts as a slow hum: one of those lazy, lapping strokes that finally lands just right. My back arches. Not from effort, but instinct. Like my body has been waiting for this moment, braced for it. His tongue keeps going, more confident now. More certain. And I feel it… that shift. That rhythm. That long-awaited syncing of lips and pulse and heat.

The pleasure isn’t a spike. It’s a flood. Rolling through me in waves that crash harder and higher each time. Every nerve lights up like kindling, and something inside me howls in response. The demon. I can feel it stretching in my chest, in my spine, teeth bared and grinning wide. It thrives on this. On me.

It’s not like I’m losing control. No. This is something deeper, more dangerous. It’s a surrender I want. My legs tense, calves quivering, thighs locked around his head now not out of dominance but necessity. I need him there. Right there. He’s hitting every nerve like they were strung just for this moment.

And the demon is feasting. Feeding on the curl of my toes, the hiss between my teeth, the way I can barely hold on as the tension ratchets higher and higher. It’s not a build-up anymore, it’s an overload. Every second feels like an edge. My fingers dig into his hair, harder now. My other hand works frantically over my breast, as if I could milk the climax closer. But it’s not enough.

She wants me to cum. Wants me to tip over the edge so it can drink every drop of it. The hunger is unreal. It’s inside me, under my skin, licking its lips with every spasm of pleasure I ride through.

I’m trying to hold it together. Trying to breathe. But the dial is cranked past ten, past anything human… and I’m slipping. Slipping fast.

And fuck, I think I want to fall.

It's too much. It’s so good it hurts.

Every flick of his tongue is a brand on my nerves, searing and precise. I’ve stopped moaning, there’s no breath for it. Just these little, broken sounds punched out of me as my body coils tighter, tighter, impossibly tight. My thighs are trembling now, clamped around his head like a trap, and still he doesn’t stop. He’s relentless.

The pleasure turns sharp. White-hot. Not soft or swirling anymore, but jagged, like something is clawing its way up through my spine and burning through every cell. I try to move, to shift, to do something, but I can’t. My fingers spasm in his hair. My back lifts from the couch. I feel the demon inside me writhing, screaming, pressing her mouth to my ribs as if it could drink the climax before it even crests.

It’s unbearable.

It’s too much.

And then…

Everything breaks.

It doesn’t come in waves this time. It’s a rupture. A detonation. My body convulses, jerks, locked in a climax so intense it feels like my brain snaps in half. A full-body seizure of sensation. My vision shatters behind my eyes in strobe-light flashes, colors that don't exist. I hear myself cry out: ragged, animal, and then I don’t hear anything at all. Just blood rushing in my ears like a tidal wave, drowning out everything else.

The demon is screaming too, but it’s a sound of triumph now. A wild, hungry wail echoing through my hollowed-out insides.

I’m cumming.

I’m still cumming.

It keeps going. Shaking me to pieces. Folding me in on myself. Somewhere deep in the pleasure, there’s a crack of something breaking open. A self. A boundary. I feel it shatter like glass, and for a second, I swear I can feel everything: every nerve, every breath, every particle of heat in the room.

And then…

Nothing.

A dizzying freefall into black.

No sound. No thought. Just this floating, endless dark laced with the faint taste of sweat and salt and satisfaction. Like the universe has gone quiet just to cradle me in it.

My last thought, if it even counts as a thought, is oh... Not in fear. Not in panic. Just surprise.

Like I didn’t know I could be undone like this.

--- 🐺 ---

I wake to the steady patter of rain against a window, soft and distant, like fingertips drumming glass. My eyes flutter open. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar, plaster with hairline cracks that branch like veins.

I'm on a bed. Not mine.

The sheets smell faintly of detergent and something more masculine: aftershave, maybe? Blue curtains shift gently in the breeze from the cracked window. I blink, trying to remember.

Nash? Noel?

I think that was his name.

The clock on the nightstand pulses red in the dark: 3:56 AM.

I sit up slowly. My body aches in strange places. The muscles low in my belly throb. My thighs are sore, tender. My head pounds.

I’m naked.

The apartment looks different now: shadows stretching longer, colors flattened to grayscale. The couch is still there, sagging slightly in the middle. An empty glass on the floor near it. The kitchen light is off, but I can make out shapes: a dish towel draped over the sink, a bottle of something left uncapped.

I turn toward the nightstand. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses rests beside the clock, lenses smudged. Noel wore glasses... yes, that clicks. His phone and wallet are beside them, stacked neatly.

But he's not here.

I listen.

Silence. No breathing, no rustle of sheets, no footsteps from another room. Just the sound of rain.

I stand, unsteady. The floor is cold against my feet. Something sticky pulls faintly at the inside of my thigh as I move. The ache between my legs deepens when I straighten.

I don't remember coming to bed.

I don't remember much of anything after.

The apartment is still. Not quiet in the peaceful way, but quiet like the air after something loud has left the room. The kind of silence that hums in your ears. I tiptoe barefoot across the wood floor: cool against my skin, almost slick from the humidity and make my way toward the kitchen. Not out of hunger. Just... movement. Distraction.

But it’s empty. No shoes by the door. No second cup in the sink. Just mine from Starbucks, smudged with lipstick, forgotten on the counter.

I glance toward the couch.

Our clothes are still there: mine in a damp little heap near the door, his strewn in a trail that leads to where it all began. Jacket. Sweater. Belt. Jeans. Like he peeled himself out of them in a rush.

But he’s not here.

I crouch, gathering my things into a tight bundle against my chest. The fabric is cold and clings to my skin. Still wet from earlier. I don’t want to put it on.

I slip on my rain jacket instead, just that, and zip it halfway. The hem barely covers my thighs, but it’ll do. My phone, wallet, and keys are still in the side pocket. Thank God. I check twice just to be sure.

Back in the bedroom, the clock blinks 4:09 AM. Blue curtains flutter faintly at the window, the sound of rain whispering through the glass. His glasses still sit on the nightstand, folded neatly beside his wallet and phone. It feels wrong to be here without him. Like I’ve wandered into someone else’s life and can’t remember the script.

I hesitate, just for a moment, then turn and leave.

The rain is relentless, sharp, and sudden as it hits my bare legs. The streets shine wet and empty under streetlights, and I start to run. My jacket flapping behind me. The bundle of clothes tight in my arms.

I don’t stop until I’m home.

--- 🐺 ---

The next morning, I was scrolling Reddit. I wasn’t really awake, just killing time, letting my brain catch up to my body. The rain was still coming down. My clothes were still damp, draped over the back of a chair.

Then I saw it.

Body of Seattle man found on Bainbridge Island.
Noel Carter, 37. Discovered naked and mauled in the woodlands.
Police say the death is suspicious.

There was a photo. Wire-rimmed glasses. A soft, distracted smile.

That face…

Noel.

Noel?

I blink. Frown and read the caption again.

Noel Carter. Thirty-seven. Mauled overnight. On Bainbridge Island.

But that couldn’t be right.

I was with him. I fell asleep next to him. After we fucked. I remember the sound of his breathing. The heat of him.

On Bainbridge Island? But we were in Eastlake…

My hand was trembling. Phone clutched so tightly my knuckles were white.

I tried to remember leaving. The door. The rain. The dark hallway. I had his taste on my tongue, his scent still in my hair.

And yet…

There was no one in the apartment. No coat. No lingering smell of cologne. Just my own damp clothes and the memory of warmth that vanished the moment I opened my eyes.

I looked at the photo again. Something stirred.

Something inside me.

Not panic. Not grief. Something quieter. Colder.

Recognition.

Not of him... But of the woods. The damp soil. The iron tang in the back of my throat.

A flicker of hunger, curling low in my belly.

I shut the phone off.

And sat very, very still.

My stomach growls, and I remember the taste of him.