She knocked like she knew I'd answer.

No urgency.

Just… certainty.

It was past midnight. The city hummed the way it only does when it thinks no one's listening—wet streets, a siren somewhere, elevator cables whining through concrete.

I opened the door in nothing but low light and a pair of sweatpants. Her eyes moved down my chest like they had every right.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

She stepped inside. Wet hair. Lips painted the same shade I used to wipe off with my mouth. My shirt—hers now—hanging open. Nothing underneath.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

She never made promises. Only entrances.

I locked the door behind her. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to.

She walked to the window like it had called her by name. I watched her from behind—the soft sway of her hips, how the fabric clung to the damp curve of her lower back. That slow, cruel elegance she wore like perfume.

“I missed this view,” she said.

“You mean the room?”

“I mean the way you look at me when I don’t say anything.”

I didn’t answer.

She turned, that smile pulling at one corner of her mouth—sharp and soft all at once.

“Are you gonna keep standing there,” she said, “or are you gonna come take what you’ve been staring at?”

I reached her in two slow steps.

Her mouth was already parted when I kissed her. Warm. Wet. Her teeth grazed my bottom lip like she meant it to sting. Her hand slid into my waistband, fingers brushing against the base of me like she wasn’t checking permission, just reminding me who she was.

I exhaled into her throat. She tasted like rain and something sweeter, something stolen.

“I don’t want to talk,” she whispered.

“You never do.”

“Then shut me up.”

She yanked the drawstring loose. I pushed the shirt off her shoulders—it hit the floor without a sound. Her skin was cooler than mine, already aching. She stepped back toward the bed, pulling me with her by the wrist, not looking away.

When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she sank down, legs spreading, thighs parting like a secret she was tired of keeping.

And there she was.

Open.

Not asking.

Offering.

I didn’t speak. Just dropped to my knees between hers and kissed the inside of one, slow, before dragging my mouth higher. Her breath caught when I found her—wet, swollen, waiting. I dragged my tongue through her slowly, letting her hips rock into my face, her hands clenching fistfuls of the sheets.

She tasted like memory. Like something I’d gone too long without.

“God—don’t stop,” she breathed.

I didn’t.

Not until her thighs were shaking, head tipped back, hips jerking up into my mouth with this quiet, desperate rhythm like she was trying to climb inside the feeling. When she came, she went still first. Just… still. Then the shudder. Then the moan, low and deep and guttural, like it had been buried too long.

I stood. She pulled me down over her. Still breathless. Still open.

I sank inside her without a word.

No resistance. Just heat. Pressure. That slow slide into something too tight, too familiar, too right.

She locked her ankles behind my back.

“Harder,” she said, voice rough. “Don’t make it gentle.”

So I gave it to her the way she liked it.

The slap of skin, the creak of the bed frame, the soft, filthy sounds our bodies made. Her nails in my back. Her mouth on my jaw. I watched her as I fucked her, watched the way her eyes fluttered open and closed like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to see or disappear.

Every thrust felt like a question we weren’t brave enough to ask out loud. Every time she gasped, it felt like she almost answered.

I felt her tightening around me.

“Cum for me,” I told her.

And she did. Head thrown back. Eyes shut. Lips parted.

I followed her seconds later, face buried in her neck, both of us catching our breath in a room gone suddenly too quiet.

Afterward, she curled into me, damp and hot and trembling. One leg draped over mine. Her fingers trailing circles over my ribs.

“I never stay the night,” she said.

“I know.”

She didn’t move.

Neither did I.

We just lay there, letting the rain keep talking to the glass.

Somewhere in the building, a door slammed. Maybe a neighbor. Maybe the wind. Neither of us flinched.

Her fingers slowed, then stopped, still resting against my skin. Her breath had evened out, but I could tell she wasn’t asleep.

She never fell asleep first.

“You still drink that cinnamon creamer?” she murmured.

I chuckled, low. “Yeah.”

She smiled against my shoulder. “It’s disgusting.”

“You bought it.”

“I was trying something new.”

“You bought five bottles of it.”

She nudged my side with her knee. “Okay, I commit when I commit.”

“That’d be the first time.”

She snorted, that quiet, reluctant kind of laugh like she didn’t mean to let it out.

Silence again. Not heavy. Just full.

Outside, the city was still humming—more distant now, like it had started tiptoeing out of respect.

Her hand moved to my chest, fingers splayed, slow and lazy.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she said softly.

“I know.”

But it did. And we both knew that too.

“You ever think about moving?” she asked.

I looked at her. “Out of the city?”

She shrugged, eyes tracing the ceiling.

“Or just… starting over. Somewhere warm. Where the rain doesn’t come sideways.”

“Wouldn’t suit you,” I said.

“You like storms too much.”

She didn’t argue.

Eventually, she sighed and pulled the blanket up over both of us. Her body curled closer, fit tighter.

I kissed the top of her head.

She didn’t say thank you.

She didn’t have to.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she stayed.

Until morning found her gone—no note, no sound—just rumpled sheets, an open window, and the faint hum of city lights.