Neon Hunger Pt. 02: Tarnished Gold

All characters depicted in Neon Hunger are fictional and over the age of 18. This story is a work of imagination intended for mature audiences only. It contains explicit content, psychological themes, and adult situations. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental. The narrative explores complex dynamics and should not be interpreted as condoning or promoting harmful behavior. Reader discretion is advised.

The Hudson looked lazy that afternoon, brown and sluggish under a heavy sky, its surface rippling here and there where a stray breeze touched down. The sun had weight--dull and oppressive, soaking into skin like syrup. The whole park felt dazed.

People were scattered across the patchy grass in poses of heat-induced surrender: yoga grannies moving like tired birds; a couple on a shared towel, half-eating, half-fucking with their eyes; a headphone girl cross-legged, nodding off beneath a hoodie despite the sun.

No one looked at Skye.

She wasn't built to draw attention like this. Not here. Not in this heat.

She drifted across the concrete barefoot, leaving behind a trail of apathy and heat shimmer. A sun-bleached canvas bag sagged from one shoulder. Her sunglasses--plastic, cracked, crooked--sat like a dare on her head. The black tee was hacked off with scissors and barely clung to her ribs, hem curling upward like it knew how little it mattered.

She hadn't dressed for seduction.

She'd barely dressed for existence.

She picked her spot: half-buried in shade, half-roasting in sun, river dragging itself along beside her like something dying slow. She dropped her towel--threadbare, stained, the memory of blue--and collapsed onto it like a crime scene.

One slow breath. Then the strip.

She peeled down the cargos like shedding dead skin, revealing inked thighs, long and milk-pale, bruised faintly in places where touch had once landed too hard. The bikini bottoms underneath were electric blue, small enough to be a joke, the elastic biting into her skin like teeth. When she moved, they shifted--riding up, hinting, outlining her pussy in a way that was both accidental and entirely deliberate.

Next, the shirt.

She lifted it off in one smooth motion, catching briefly on the barbell in her brow. Her tits bounced free for a second--pierced, full, damp with heat--before she yanked the neon pink tube top back down. It didn't help much. It clung like a wet napkin, nipples punched out through the fabric like they were trying to escape. The top was a size too small. Maybe two.

She adjusted, sighed, rolled her neck like a bored animal in a cage. Then stretched. Long and full. Her ribs flared, her belly hollowed, skin stretched taut across bones like silk over wire. A quiet, satisfied noise slipped out of her. She dropped back onto the towel with an unbothered grunt, one arm slung over her eyes, the other across her stomach.

One knee bent. Her hips slouched open. Her bikini cut in tighter. Sunlight smeared her thighs, her stomach, the swell of her breasts. Her ass peeked out from the towel like punctuation. Hair spilled around her like static. Sweat beaded on her collarbones. Sand clung to her calves. Piercings caught stray light. She didn't pose. She didn't preen. She existed like an invitation no one had the balls to open.

The heat dug in. The bottle of sunscreen sagged in her bag like a lazy dare. She reached for it--stopped halfway.

Let the sun take her.

The sky above was an idiot shade of blue. The river glittered like broken glass. Kids screeched, somewhere distant. A Bluetooth speaker choked out Britney Spears.

Nobody cared. Nobody watched.

So she let herself fall inward.

Back into memory.

Back into Marcus.

The bruises were fading. But not fast enough.

Ghost-fingerprints on her hips. A claw-mark down her thigh. The bite he left at her neck--almost gone. Almost.

Like he'd never touched her.

Like she'd made it up.

Sometimes she wondered if she had. A glitch. A hallucination. Too much E, too little sleep. Too many hands. Too much skin.

But then she'd roll and feel the deep ache--the one hidden in the hinge of her knee, the shadow in her ribs--and it all came back like static.

Marcus had fucked her open.

Not just body. Soul.

And now?

The empty stretch of time where a message should have been.

Not even a drunk text.

Not even a lazy "u up?"

Not even a crumb.

It wasn't like she was starving for attention.

If anything, she was drowning in it.

Men clung to her like burrs.

Unwanted, unremarkable, inevitable.

Dean was the easiest.

The lowest-hanging, slimiest fruit.

Her roommate's on-again-off-again. Dealer. Pervert. Opportunist. The kind of guy who'd hump a warm slice of cantaloupe if it blinked at him. He'd show up uninvited. Hard before the door even shut.

He didn't speak. Just grunted. Grabbed. Pulled her back onto the futon or counter or floor. Yanked her panties aside. Jackhammered like he was angry she let him. His sweat stank. His breath was beer and bong water. He always finished the same way--loud, pathetic, unloading hot across her tits or her belly or her cheek. Claiming territory he'd never own.

Then, out of breath, he'd dig into his jacket, pull out a baggie of molly or ice or something uncut, and press it into her palm like it made things square.

She didn't want it.

She wanted the knowledge. The ammo.

Because when her roommate spat barbs--about Skye's flat chest, her Hooters gig, her shitty paychecks--Skye would just smirk.

Knowing her man had choked out her name ten hours earlier with his dick buried in the wrong girl.

Then there was Nico.

Golden boy. Sweetheart. Savior.

The one who treated her like she was made of glass and moonlight.

He took her to rooftop dinners under fairy lights, bought her overpriced coffee with her name spelled right, gifted her hand-stitched notebooks and silver charms "just because."

He thought she was untouched.

A hurting little virgin or almost, that Nico could save.

And Skye let him think it.

She'd let him brush his knuckles over her knuckles, let him tuck a strand of hair behind her ear like it meant something, let him pay for every meal, every drink, every Uber, and then reward him -- maybe -- with a shy kiss on the cheek.

She loved it.

Loved how he blushed.

Loved how he said goodnight like he was afraid to break the spell.

Loved knowing exactly what happened after he dropped her off.

Nico, alone in his sleek, cold apartment bought by his hedge-fund parents.

Nico, washing his hands twice, brushing his perfect teeth for nobody.

Nico, settling into his home office ergonomic throne of a chair, pulling down his carefully ironed designer pants, Nico jerking off desperately his sad little dick, scrolling through Skye's Insta for something -- anything -- to fill the hollow ache she had carved into him.

She could almost see him: red with effort, diligently pumping hard to her blurry selfies and tongue-out mirror shots, spilling into his fist while whispering her name into the dark like a prayer.

And still thinking he was a good guy.

Still thinking he was saving her.

And then -- there was Tesla Boy.

Jesus, Tesla Boy was the worst.

He was almost too pretty. He knew it. That's what made it worse.

And then -- there was Tesla Boy.

Jesus, Tesla Boy was the worst.

He was almost too pretty.

The kind of beautiful that made waitresses linger too long at the table, that made other guys flinch and look away.

Tall, sculpted like a Calvin Klein ad, straight white teeth he loved to flash at his own reflection.

He knew it, too. Knew it like gospel -- the way he looked at himself sideways in every window they passed, like he was the answer to some woman's desperate prayers.

Like he was the prize.

The gift.

The endgame.

At first, Tesla Boy had courted her the way he thought women wanted -- expensive dinners, sleek rooftop lounges, gifts boxed in that stiff luxury-paper smell.

The first few times, he even pretended to listen to her talk. Told her she was different. Special. Asked if she liked oysters, leaned in close across tiny marble tables under gold light.

And then, like a switch flipped, the pretence vanished.

The texts came late now -- after midnight, after the club, after the bottle service girls went home.

"u up?"

"slide thru"

"want that pretty ass over"

And when she was lonely enough, bruised enough, she'd respond w "omw".

Because it was easy.

Because he was pretty ad cutout.

Because she felt like this time it will be different, maybe.

He'd usually do her in the back seat of his matte-black self driven car, the leather seats creaking under them, her face pressed against the tinted window as he shoved into her -- fast, mechanical, selfish -- finishing inside of five minutes, barely pretending to notice her.

Other times he'd drag her up to his cold, soulless high-rise, stripping her, without bothering to lock, bending her over the back of his ridiculous Italian leather couch, his thrusts more about punishing the space than touching her.

She'd fake it, of course.

Clenching and gasping in the right places, biting her lip, letting her eyes roll back.

All while staring down the couch, at the dust and cobwebs his maid didn't bother to get, wondering how the fuck she ended up here again -- letting some beautiful boy milk himself onto her like it was a debt she owed.

Then -- came the grunt, and Tesla Boy would pull the condom off, landing his rich load onto her lower back. Dangerous game, as he was afraid semen would stain the couch, or -- god forbids -- his precious car seats. He would always have Clorox wipes on hand, giving his furniture the attention, she never even strived for.

While she showered, he'd get busy, checking his phone for new DMs or lovingly gazing at his own abs -- reflected in the black mirror of flatscreen TV. The asshole would often not even bother to venmo her money for the ride, and she hated both reminding him, and the fact that she had to.

Sex wasn't connection.

It was currency.

It was punishment.

Marcus had been something else. Something real.

And now she couldn't stop remembering.

Couldn't stop aching for it.

Like a phantom limb she didn't know she had until he tore it off.

Her mouth felt dry. She needed something cold. Something sharp. Groaning, Skye pushed herself upright, squinting toward the vendor cart wobbling at the edge of the walking path.

The guy running it--old, sweaty, his jersey damp and stretched--perked up at the sight of her, eyes crawling across her tits and the sliver of ink above her bikini line.

She fished a crumpled ten from her bag and shoved it between her tits, then wandered barefoot toward him. The gaze followed her like grease.

"What can I get you, sveethurt?" the man asked, voice thick with accent and pervy joy.

"Vanilla." Skye shaded her face with one hand. "And a Diet Coke."

He handed both over, fingers lingering too long. "Nice nails," he said, nodding toward her long acrylic claws. His eyes flicked from the silver glint of her nipple ring to the faded ink that screamed "RUIN ME" above the glittery blue of her bikini.

"On de house," he said with a grin that split his face like a knife.

She gave him a crooked smile, tucked the money back into her top, and walked away.

Not a win.

Just... expected.

The cone was already sagging in the sun. She licked it once--slow--then again, dragging the melt off her wrist with her tongue. Salt. Sugar. Skin. The taste grounded her. She walked slow, weaving between sunbathers and half-naked bros tossing frisbees like drunk gods.

Everything shimmered. Sunlight scattered across the grass like glitter. Radios fought in the distance--top 40 clashing with some kid's SoundCloud mix. The sky was blank blue, stupidly perfect, without a single thought in its head.

Back on the towel, she cracked the Coke and poured a splash of rum in from her flask. Stirred it with a lazy flick. The sun folded over her like heatstroke. She settled back. Closed her eyes.

Then a shadow fell.

"Need a hand?"

She cracked one eye.

A boy stood above her, golden and stupid. Floppy blond hair, swim trunks low on sharp hips. Cheap sunglasses. Red Bull energy. Bare chest with a tattoo that meant nothing.

"Hey," he said. "You're that girl--from Delirium, right? Other night?"

She gave him a long blink.

"You were with me--for like five minutes. Before you ditched me for that slick old dude. No hard feelings, though."

Skye grinned, wicked and lazy. "You didn't scare me off."

"Good. I was gonna say--if I blew it that bad, I'd be depressed."

He held up his palms. "Want help with your back? You're kinda... struggling."

She waited. Let him sweat.

Then nodded. Turned forward, resting her arms on her knees.

He sat behind her, legs straddling the towel. She felt the lotion hit her spine. Cool. His hands followed--tentative at first, then firmer.

Her hair was in the way. He brushed it aside, slow, letting it fall over one shoulder. Her skin twitched beneath his fingers.

He worked lower--smoothing the lotion down her spine in long, indulgent strokes. His hands spread across her shoulder blades, dipped beneath her arms, knuckles grazing the swell of her sideboob.

She made a small noise. Not approval. Not protest. Just acknowledgment.

He kept going, breath catching.

Down to her lower back now, to the top edge of her bikini. Fingers hovering. Then pressing, pushing lotion into the waistband like maybe it needed to be there. Like maybe her skin underneath was his to tend to.

"Cool top," he said.

She snorted, low and amused.

"Dude," she said, flashing a grin with her sharp uneven whities. "It's not really though. I have lost the top of my bikini at a rooftop pool party. Jumped off one dude's shoulders, like, high as a cloud, next minute--tits out, national broadcast. On the walk home, nothing but towel outside and beer mixed with molly inside, I saw this in Target and thought--'Sick. I'm going to own this shit.'"

She flicked the hem of the tiny tube top, a scrap of pink neon fun.

He barked out a laugh, full body, no hesitation. "Wait -- you stole it?"

"Five-finger discount," she said, proud. "Kids section. Size ten, if you're curious."

He laughed so hard he nearly toppled off his towel, hands slipping low down her slick ribs. His fingers skated dangerously close to the jagged black ink peeking out under her bikini line -- the tip of a snake tattoo coiling up her hipbone.

She wriggled under his hands, half-flinching, half-daring. Platinum hair spilled down her back like melted mercury, catching the light in quicksilver flashes.

"Careful," she said, pretending to pout. "I'm delicate."

"Yeah, sure," he said, still grinning. "Delicate like a goddamn landmine."

His hands slipped lower. Lotion glided down her ribs, skating toward the low dip of her hips. Her body shimmered like melted gold, skin slick and glowing.

"We're throwing a party tonight," he said after a moment. "Big one. Kegs. Wrestling. Live DJ"

She tipped her head back, letting it rest against his thigh.

"Sounds... very classy," she said voice velvet-drenched in sarcasm.

"Oh, yeah. High society. We even got those little toothpicks in the cocktail sausages," he deadpanned.

She snorted, short and rough, shaking her head. Platinum strands brushed his bare skin, making his pulse skip.

"Come on," he coaxed, more eager now, fingers tracing aimless shapes along her ribs. "Don't leave me alone with the zoo animals."

She arched her back just slightly -- enough for him to notice.

His hands slid lower, down the satin stretch of her thighs, rubbing slow, hypnotic circles into her oiled skin.

When she shifted, the neon thong pulled taut, the outline of her cunt pressing lewd against the thin fabric -- a wicked, perfect little cameltoe framed between her thighs. His fingers faltered.

She caught it. Smirked without mercy.

"Didn't you get enough of the view at the club, dude?"

He flushed, but grinned. "Didn't... y'know... feel enough."

She tapped her phone against his chest. "Here. Send yourself a message. If you're lucky, I might grace your meat parade."

He scrambled to type. Still flushed. Still grinning.

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged.

"Later, cowboy."

He laughed under his breath, backing away like he was afraid to break the moment if he turned too fast. Then he jogged off across the parking lot, sneakers slapping hot pavement.

Skye flopped back onto the towel, arms flung out, skinny ribs sharp under pale skin. The heat rolled over her in thick, greasy waves. Sweat prickled at her scalp, slid down the inside of her thighs. The smell of sunscreen, fryer oil, and cheap beer floated heavy in the air. Somewhere across the lot, someone whooped like an idiot.

For a minute, everything was easy. The sun burned clean against her bones, no memories, no promises, just weightless heat and the faint throb of a bassline from somebody's busted speakers.

The phone buzzed against her hip.

She made herself wait a second; lazy just to be petty, then grabbed it.

New message.

Seriously -- already?!

Yo, it's Mike the beach D0de! - followed by time and address link

She snorted under her breath

Figures.

But just as she was putting it away, another buzz.

Unknown number.

Did u miss me?

Her stomach dropped, sharp and sudden.

The sun, the heat, the lazy afternoon -- all of it sucked out of her in one ugly gulp.

Skye stared at the screen like it might bite her.

A fine tremor started in her wrist, traveling down the nerves like cold water.

Phone burned in her hand. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.

Skye:

who is this

Dots. Flash. Gone. Back.

Unknown number:

funny

like u forgot

Flash--

"Turn over. Good. Arch your bum."

His voice low, steady. Her little body folding obediently, blond hair spilling everywhere, breath hitching as she spread herself open like a gift.

She shuddered. Wiped her sweaty palm against her thigh.

Skye:

what do you want

The wind rattled a nearby umbrella. Someone jumped into the pool with a splash. None of it real.

Unknown number:

can't forget u

not really my style

Flash--

"Tongue out," he ordered.

And Skye, desperate to please, licked her own wetness off his hand, tasting herself, tasting him.

She clutched the phone tighter, feeling dizzy.

Skye:

were you even thinking

when you fucked me

without a condom

Stupid. Too much. But she couldn't unsend it.

Ping.

Unknown number:

no

wasn't thinking

Flash--

his cock thick and brutal inside her, no barrier, just skin on skin, heat and force and filthy dominance.

"Remember, bitch, it will go where I want it."

The way she'd spread herself for him, sobbing, obedient.

Her stomach twisted, nausea rising hot up her throat.

Skye:

i never did that before

Flash--

"Harder, daddy" she'd cried, half broken, as he held her wide open, massive hand grinding cruel circles against her clit.

And he'd just kept going. Making her come. Making her take it.

Her breathing got faster. Shallow. Couldn't slow it down.

Nothing for a while. She almost thought maybe he left.

Then--

Ping.

Unknown number:

plans tonight?

She blinked, disoriented. The sun felt wrong. Her body wrong.

Skye:

|party

Unknown number:

where

Flash--

"Who do you belong to?"

"You, daddy," she had screamed, raw, owned, undone.

Fingers trembling, she copies Mike's address instructions.

Immediate reply. No hesitation.

Unknown number:

11

ill pick u up

No question. No negotiation.

Just like before.

Like she still belonged to him.

Her throat closed up. Her whole body shook like a tuning fork.

She put the phone down gently, like it might explode.

She could still feel him.

Still feel the stretch, the burn, the bruises blooming across her thighs and hips and ribs.

Still feel the inside of herself marked, owned, dripping with him.

Nothing would ever be normal again.

The gate creaked shut behind her and the bass hit like a heartbeat through the soles of her boots. The backyard was already thick with people--red cups in hand, girls laughing too loud, some guy lifting another on his shoulders like they were at a festival, not just a grimy New York frat house three stories high and flaking at the corners. A bonfire crackled lazily in a rusted firepit, throwing shadows up the side of the townhouse like ghosts trying to crawl in.

Skye adjusted the strap of her overalls and stepped in, a slow prowl through the bodies. She didn't even make it five steps before someone noticed her.

"Yo, are you lost?" The guy had a clean face, cocky smile, and frat-boy swag that came with too much protein powder and not enough self-awareness.

She tilted her head. "Mike invited me."

"Mike?" His grin widened. "Mike with the chain or Mike with the Subaru?"

"Shirtless rooftop Mike," she said, watching his eyes flick instinctively to her chest as she folded her arms under it. She wasn't wearing a bra. He looked like he wanted to thank Mike personally.

"Damn. Guess you're in the right place, then." He stepped closer. "What's your name?"

She didn't give it. Just smiled with her mouth closed and let her eyes do the rest.

He took that as an invitation and moved to her side, hand ghosting above the overalls, on the small of her back like maybe he'd guide her somewhere. "Come on, I'll show you around."

He led her inside, through a sliding door jammed halfway open, into the haze of weed smoke and sweat. A makeshift DJ booth was already grinding beats upstairs, bass making the light fixtures shiver. Inside, it was all mismatched couches, beer pong tables, and graffiti-tagged walls. The scent of cheap tequila clung to the drywall. Bodies moved in waves, people bumping and pressing and grabbing like this was all they had.

He kept glancing at her, like he didn't trust her not to vanish, or maybe didn't trust himself not to reach out. Then a girl walked by -- tall, caramel skin, backless dress that dipped down to her ass, perfume trailing behind her like sex and fire -- and he turned, mesmerized.

Just like that, Skye was alone.

Two hours earlier, she was crouched on the bathroom counter, just finished with her makeup, lips parted, eyeliners sharp. Her breathing had gone shallow. Something ugly coiled tight in her ribs, and she couldn't stop shaking.

It hit her like a car: the thought of Marcus. The not-knowing if he'd show. The hope that he might. She hated herself for hoping. Hated that it mattered. That any of this did.

Her hands trembled. She blinked hard, leaned back from the mirror, and tried to catch her breath. Her reflection looked fake. The space buns she'd twisted into place an hour ago were looking sublime, streaks of purple flashing against her platinum blonde. She'd flat-ironed the rest into a curtain down her back. Her brows were arched, just right, eyes smoked and winged. Her lips were painted in a deep plum matte, cracked now from her teeth digging into them.

She felt like she was dying.

Skye pushed away from the mirror, and walked barefoot to the window. Naked but for the makeup, she grabbed her pick-me up baggy of wonders, pulled up a pair of old cotton panties -- the kind that sagged at the hip and had a little faded cartoon bear on the waistband and climbed out onto the fire escape.

The metal bit into her thighs. Undoing the bag straps she rolled a thick joint, struggled with an almost-dead lighter, and took a drag so deep it made her shrug in bouts of cough.

Right now, she didn't give a fuck that saw her pathetic nude form. Her flat chest rose and fell, pierced nipples catching the dying light like warnings. Bruised knees pulled up to her chest, arms around them, the joint burning slow between thin fingers like a fuse. She hated herself -- all wild and feral, a sick, sad albino chimpanzee perched on rusted cast iron, eyes too bright, skin too raw. Shoot it down, put it out of misery.

She sat there until the joint was a nub, until the street lights flickered on and someone yelled three floors down about Chinese food.

Then she climbed back in, silent and dazed, and went to the kitchen.

The shrooms were in a paper towel inside an Altoids tin. She measured the stems on the scale, fingers steady now, precision returning like it never left. Just enough to tip the edge, nothing more. She chewed them down with a face-scrunch and chased the taste with a gulp of stale Coca-Cola that had been sitting on the counter all week. It was flat and warm, and it stuck to her teeth. She made a face. Then she laughed.

Back to the mirror. Back to the ritual.

She didn't fix her makeup. Just leaned in close and grinned at herself, crooked and mean. The high was coming, crawling slow up her spine like heat. She pulled on the black baby tee -- the word LOSER stretched in bold white letters across her tits, the hem deliberately brutalized until it just barely held her nipples in check. She raised her arms, checked the mirror. Nipples still hidden, though barely. I'm all proper, momma.

Then the overall shorts-- faded black, soft with wear, frayed at the edges. She deliberately left them unzipped, giving the world a sneak peak at the neon rainbow of her thong. She adjusted the single buckled strap, then grabbing scissors, cut the other one off clean. Adjusted her chains, stacked in layers -- one choker tight against her neck, another longer, swinging with a tarnished pendant.

She tugged on the fishnet gloves last. Black, fingerless, punk-trash pretty. She ran a hand through her hair, twisted a bun tighter, then let it fall.

She stared at herself again. She looked like sex and sleep deprivation. She looked ready.

Now the party was loud again, everything vibrating under her skin. The rooms blurred, color and heat and light bleeding into each other. Someone handed her a drink -- rum maybe, or just rubbing alcohol in disguise -- and she knocked it back without flinching. It burned, but it grounded her. People bumped into her, shouted past her. Some guy with a mustache was crying in the hallway. A girl was twerking in the kitchen while another filmed it on Snapchat. The upstairs DJ was mixing early-2000s bangers with anime remixes, and for a second it made Skye want to scream or dance or punch a wall.

She didn't do any of those things.

She just walked.

Her dangerously looking combat boots landed with weight, a rhythmic thud that cut through the noise. The platform soles added inches and made her feel like a weapon. Her hair swayed down her back, her underboob visible with every step, her body a calculated mess of soft skin and hard metal.

She didn't know what she wanted -- Marcus, maybe. A fight. A fuck. A drink she didn't have to chase. Something to make her feel.

She raised her chin. Walked deeper into the party.

And the night, like her, was just getting started.

She didn't catch the name of the game, not that it mattered. Someone handed her a cup of watered-down beer, and before she could even roll her eyes, she'd been tugged toward a circle forming in the middle of the backyard, right where a string of cheap patio lights buzzed above like tired fireflies.

The rules were barely explained--teams were formed, red cups lined in front of them, and a gauntlet of flip-cup-meets-truth-or-dare began. Every time a team lost a round, the winners got to assign a task: a weird accent to be used, a compliment shouted, a secret confessed. Stupid, juvenile, vaguely flirtatious.

The kind of game that didn't ask for permission so much as assumed it.

Skye didn't protest. Didn't smile much either. Just pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek and played along, hands deft and quick. When she flipped her cup first try and her team erupted in a cheer, she didn't even blink--just passed the cup along and adjusted the one loose strap of her overalls, letting it fall back off her shoulder. The fabric gaped a little, giving a flash of her navel ring and the dark band of the baby tee she wore beneath.

They won again. This time, one of the frat girls dared a guy to recite a line of bad poetry about the person he most wanted to make out with in the circle. Everyone laughed. Skye half-listened, eyes flicking over the small crowd.

And that's when she saw him.

Mike. Leaning against the fence just outside the circle of bodies. Same sleepy eyes, same loose way he always seemed to stand like gravity wasn't entirely committed to keeping him grounded. Hidden under a branded Metallica hoodie. Red plastic cup in hand, sweat at his temple. His gaze locked with hers and held. Then he gave a slow grin, one side of his mouth curling higher than the other.

"Hey," he said, once she'd wandered over.

She tilted her chin. "Didn't know you'd be here."

"You said my name at the door. That makes me your reason."

She almost smiled. "Technically, I said it so they'd let me in."

He stepped closer, crowding just enough to make her feel the night stretch between them. "So... we're even, then?"

"Hardly."

"I owe you a drink, don't I?"

She didn't answer. Just sipped the warm beer she still held. He raised his brows, mock-offended.

"Stay here. I'll get you something better. Promise."

She watched him go. His back cut a sharp line through the crowd as he disappeared inside, heading for the kitchen or wherever the alchemy of cheap booze and mixers was happening tonight.

Then, as if summoned by the gap in her attention, the other guy--the one from before, the bareback dress chaser--slid back into her orbit.

"You play hard," he said, voice low, smug.

"I play bored."

"Same thing."

He offered a hand, half-ironic. "Dance?"

She should've said no. She didn't. Instead, she let him lead her back inside where the lights were dimmer and the music bled into a heavy, rhythmic throb.

They didn't dance so much as orbit--him moving close, then closer, until his hands hovered near the hem of her overalls. He didn't touch her outright. Not at first. Just danced near enough that their skin almost sparked. His chest brushed her back when she turned, his breath on her neck when he leaned in too close to say something she didn't bother hearing.

She didn't smile. She didn't pull away, either.

His hands found her waist, and her shirt rode up. One thumb skimmed just under the crop, just over skin. Her underboob was visible again--bare, the edge of her nipple threatening to slip out. He looked. She let him.

Then Mike returned.

"Drink delivery," he said, too casual, handing her a red cup chilled with condensation.

She turned. Took the drink. Took her time. Putting herself against Mike, and letting the other guy take the hint and fuck the fuck out.

"You make a habit of rescuing girls from dancing?" she asked looking at his disappointed grimace fade into the crowd.

Mike's smile barely moved. "Only when I am on drink delivery duties. You like?"

She took a sip. Sweet. Fizzy. A soft memory of the club's pink drink, refashioned in plastic.

She shrugged. "It's cool."

The music had gotten louder somehow. Bodies pressed tighter. Someone nearby was making out with abandon, moaning into someone else's mouth like no one could see them. A couple was practically dry-humping against the wall, laughing through it like it wasn't desperate.

Mike leaned in, voice low, lips grazing the shell of her ear.

"Wanna get out of here?"

She didn't answer. Not right away.

Just turned toward him, slow. The overalls still hung open, slipped off one shoulder like a dare she hadn't decided whether to follow through on. Her mouth glistened faintly--she'd just wet her bottom lip with her tongue, as if the question left a taste behind.

"Where?"

He nodded toward the stairs. "Up. It's quieter."

She stared past him, glass loose in her grip. The music throbbed through her bones, a synthetic heartbeat that wasn't hers. The air smelled like beer, sweat, cheap body spray. Something sour underneath.

"Convince me."

He leaned in closer, breath warm. Confident. Too confident.

"You want me to talk," he murmured, "or listen?"

Her lashes dipped low. No spark in her gaze, just that glassy nothing she wore when she didn't want to feel. The kind of look you give when your skin's still warm but the rest of you already left.

Then he added, "Could be a break. A bite. I brought candy."

That caught. Her brow lifted, barely.

"Candy?"

Mike smirked. "Not exactly. Better."

She reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. A nervous tic disguised as poise. Most of it was still twisted up--tight and mean like a grudge she'd fought into submission. But loose wisps clung to her neck and collarbones like ghosts, soft as ash. The longer strands trailed over her shoulder like a leash. Still in her grip. For now.

"You're, like, trying to drug me?" Flat voice. No inflection.

Mike grinned. "Only if you want to forget this dump exists."

Skye clicked her tongue. Tasted smoke, dust, nothing. Then nodded.

He took her hand. Loose. No pull, no pressure--just the suggestion of movement. Cold fingers brushing hers like a secret. He didn't lead. Just walked like he knew she'd follow.

And she did.

Through the crowd--past the second floor bathroom line, where glitter-drenched girls sobbed into phones, mascara running like war paint. Past the guys, slack-jawed and swaying, trading low murmurs like bets. The hallway stank of mildew and piss. The kind of air that clung to your clothes, your skin, your soul.

The third floor wasn't quieter. It was pulsing. Breathing. Walls tight with heat and rot. Every surface shimmered like it was sweating. The carpet squelched. The drywall wept. The stench--fermented sex, Axe spray, tequila vomit--hit Skye like a slap, crawling up her throat, sweet and sour and sticky.

Mike didn't pause. He moved through the stench like it was weather. Hoodie up, hooded eyes sharper than ever. "Anthropology, babe," his walk said. "Observe the collapse."

First door--locked. Someone was slamming into it from the other side. A thud, again and again. Then a muffled voice screaming something unintelligible, followed by laughter--wet, hysterical. A high-pitched scream rang out and died fast. No one reacted. Not Mike. Not the walls. Not the house.

The opposite door was wide open, presenting a full-blown riot of action and dripping sweat.

Three Hindu guys, thick-bearded and frat-cut surrounded a plus sized white teen -- tall, blonde, wide like a billboard. As Skye slowed down to look, the girl lost her tube dress, moaning, naked and flabby, like a dairy cow in high heels. In less than a breath, she was already bent over a couch, tits spilling over the other side, with largest of the three Hindus moving in from behind --cap backwards, gold chain bouncing, jeans halfway down his thighs. His hips gyrated with brutal slaps, each thrust sending shockwaves through blonde's enormous ass; grunting like he was benching her.

Another Hindu squatted in front--shirt off, belly sweating--jamming his bushed dick between swinging tits. He pinched them together like kneading dough, muttering a broken mantra: "So soft, so soft, so nasty, oh yeah, oh yeah--"

The third stood at the side with his phone out, jerking off while directing the scene like a sick little Spielberg. "Look up, Marissa. Yeah, tell Fariz what those milk bags want."

Her face was blank, drooling slightly, but she obeyed. In a squeaky, toddler voice.

"P-please f-fuck my big milky titties with your brown cock, sir..."

She giggled afterward. Delayed. Like a bad actor missing her cue.

In the corner, a fourth guy sat in a gaming chair. VR goggles over his eyes, wearing nothing but boxers. His hips twitched while a headset spat out digitized screams and gunfire. He didn't look up once.

The whole room steamed. Light flickered like a pulse. The bed creaked in a slow, sad rhythm. Everything looked too bright. Too waxy. Like a sex doll factory left to melt.

Skye didn't flinch. She wasn't new here. Just newer than she wanted to be. The carpet stuck to her boots. Beer, come, vomit--maybe all three--glued the fibers into a crunchy crust. The walls were sweating. Or maybe that was her. The air was thick with everything no one wanted to admit: shame, salt, bad decisions fermented in flesh.

Mike stopped at the next door. Heavy wood, swollen from damp and age, scarred with dark smudges like dried blood and ink -- veins of grime crawling along the grain like bruises beneath skin. He knocked twice, slow and deliberate, each thud swallowed by the obscene muffled screams leaking through the cracks.

A voice from inside: hoarse, annoyed, female.

"Room's fucking busy!"

Mike leaned in, lips close to the wood. "I just need something. Two seconds."

Another crash. Metal on tile. Screams, wet and sharp, like someone being split in half by pleasure. Then a scream: "You like that, you fucking bitch-boy? Cry harder!"

The door cracked open.

A face appeared in the light. Blonde curls pasted to her cheeks, skin dewed with sweat. Mascara streaked like war paint, black rivers under glassy eyes. Her pupils were bottomless -- so wide they looked inked. Her breath came fast and shallow. A red smear on her lips like she'd been feeding.

She hesitated.

Mike's voice slid in, low and certain. "I need to get to my backpack. Unless you torched it."

A beat.

Blonde stepped back.

The door opened wider, letting the full red of the room spill out like blood from a cut throat. She was naked but for a twisted bra pushed beneath one breast. Her body was blotched and bruised, love bites and fingernail trails crisscrossing pale skin. One nipple gleamed wet, still glossy with someone's spit. A silver hoop swung from her navel. Between her thighs, the slick gleamed like oil. Her chest heaved as she turned back into the room.

Skye hesitated for a moment and then followed Mike in.

Red light cast shadows like claw marks across the walls. Sheets were slung over lamps. Incense smoldered in the corner, masking and mingling with the rank scent of sweat, latex, burnt weed, rot, and blood.

The mattress at the center wasn't a bed -- it was a pit. A sacrificial altar soaked in cum, spit, and fluids unnamed. Two girls sprawled across it, their limbs tangled, their mouths hungry. The bald black girl; metal bar piercings through cheeks and nostrils, wearing nothing but a harness made of chains left half-undone. She growled as a tiny redhead -- petite, freckles melted into her sweat-slick skin -- drove a thick silicone dildo inside her, knuckles whitening.

The blonde dropped to her knees and crawled behind the redhead, kneeling to kiss her sweaty freckled ass. "Where the fuck'd you go?" snapped the redhead. She grabbed the blonde by the neck, dragging her closer. The blonde moaned, twisting her tongue into the redhead's mouth while her hand fumbled between the other girl's legs.

It was violent. Beautiful. Carnal in a way that felt ancient. They tore at each other -- moans climbing into screams, one spitting into the other's mouth, another biting a nipple until it welled blood. Their hips rolled in rhythm with the mattress's gasps. A mixture of gloss, lube, blood, and discharge pooled beneath them.

Mike had already dropped to the floor, digging through a backpack. The contents spilled like entrails: school books, rolled bills, torn foil, twist-tied baggies, an old Nokia phone sticky with syrup.

Skye, trying not to gag, turned away from the mattress -- and locked eyes with the other side of the room.

The armchair.

Ripped brown suede, saturated with years of sweat, sex, and smoke. One armrest was split open, stuffing bleeding out like cotton entrails.

The man in it -- barely a man -- was emaciated, ribs like fingers under thin skin, chest slick with fever sweat. His jaw trembled. He couldn't move. His wrists gripped the chair like they were nailed there.

On top of him -- riding like a woman possessed --was another naked form.

Latina. Could have been eighteen, could have been thirty. The girl was built like a bull fighter: thick thighs, round hips, tits full and brown. Curls stuck to her back, wild and glossy. Lips bloodied from biting. Sweat in big drops on her chin, forehead, back, ass... It slapped down hard on the cock, and latina grinned like a lunatic.

"You beggin' for this pussy, huh?" she spat, bouncing faster. "You my little fuck-toy now? Tell me who do your dick belong now, you pathetic fuck?"

The anorexic choked on air. "Y-yours..."

She leaned in, dragging her tits against his mouth. "That's right, bitch-boy."

She rode harder, clawing his nipples, spitting in his face, clapping her hand against his cheek.

"Say you love this slutty ass! Say it!"

He whimpered, tears streaking. "I--I love it--please don't stop--"

Her eyes snapped to Skye.

"The fuck you starin' at, cunt?" she hissed. "Jealous?"

Her tits heaved. Hair stuck to her sweat-glazed cheeks. One hand dug into her own breast, the other still choking the man beneath her, she moaned performatively.

Skye blinked. The copper taste hit again.

Mike stood. "Sorry! Got it!"

He held up a crumpled baggie like a relic pulled from bone.

The door clicked shut behind them like a coffin sealing.

The hallway pulsed. Breathing.

Skye stepped over a used condom. A crack pipe. A ripped-up cum-covered photo of someone's mom. The walls pulsed like lungs. Light swam. An older guy stumbled past, in an aura of weed and ethanol. He looked at Mike like a fellow soldier.

"Nice pull, bro."

Mike didn't look back. "Back into your kennel, asshat".

Skye caught her breath on the edge of gagging. The air vibrated in her teeth. Her pupils swam. The whole house moaned. Somewhere behind her, the pounding resumed. A door shook. Someone cried for help. The house ignored it.

The window to the roof gaped open. The moonlight spilled in like cold water, carving silver into the filth.

Mike shoved it open the rest of the way. "Come on."

She didn't answer. Just climbed through.

The rooftop hit her like absolution. Cold wind slapped her bare thighs. Noise dimmed. The air was sharp, sky bruised purple-black, stars indifferent.

She gasped like she'd been drowning.

Below, the house groaned--still alive, still writhing.

But up here, it couldn't touch her. Not yet.

Not tonight.

The joint smouldered low between their fingers, a dying ember flickering like a last breath clawing at the dark. Skye leaned back on her elbows, hair spilling like a bleached halo, tangled with moonlight caught in the chaos. Her thighs bare, cold air crawling over the skin inked with whispered secrets--snakes coiling, a fractured martini glass cracked in silence. Overalls bunched at her hips, baby tee stretched tight over ribs that rose and fell with shallow breaths.

Mike took the final drag, eyes half-lidded, and passed her the roach. Then, slow and casual, he pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket. Dirty white powder inside, glinting like crushed teeth caught in the city's dying glow.

"Dessert," he said, voice smooth, like it was nothing.

She eyed it, chest tightening. "What is it?"

He pinched out a bump, held it up to the sky--stars caught in powder form. "Crushed galaxies. Pinky promise."

"That's what, like, they all say, dude." Still, she leaned in. Always did. Their breaths tangled, warm and sharp in the night.

He snorted it like someone who'd kissed worse devils, then held out his hand. She hesitated, just a fraction of a second--too long--and took it. The bitter bright burn bit her nose, opened her chest like a trapdoor left unlocked.

The rooftop shimmered, the city bleeding watercolors in the rain. Sounds thickened, sirens dragging guts down below. The wind slipped over the ledge like it knew her name, cold and intimate. Her skin hummed under the weight of night, fragile as broken glass.

They didn't speak. The city did.

Then Mike's voice, low and cracked, slipped through the silence.

"You ever get tired of pretending?"

She turned, caught in the bruised honesty behind his eyes. No frat-boy smirk--just something fractured, leaking light.

"Pretending what?"

"That it doesn't touch you," he said. "That being wanted is enough."

It hit harder than the powder. She didn't answer. Looked past him, eyes distant, flickers behind lashes--maybe he saw her after all.

Without warning, she kissed him.

Not sweet. Not slow. Mouth on mouth, knives in velvet. Her tongue, his teeth--too much and still never enough. Chaos breaking apart in the press of lips.

Then nothing.

Stillness.

Breath held between them.

She pulled away first, chest heaving, that smirk crawling back like armor tightening.

"You didn't roofie me, right?"

He blinked. "Technically."

"What?"

"We're on a roof." He grinned like a devil. "So... roofie."

She groaned, shoved his shoulder hard. "You're fucking stupid."

"Stupid and charming," he said, leaning in again. Fingers traced fire along her thigh, creeping toward the open V of her shorts.

She snapped her legs shut--fast, brutal--catching his wrist like a trap.

"You think I'm a party favor?" Her voice dripped gasoline, sharp enough to burn. "Like that little scene downstairs? What was it?" She mocked, voice high, cruel. "'Please mister, fuck my jiggly fat titties!'"

Mike laughed, forehead dropping to her shoulder, breath hot and reckless.

"I'm not that girl," she said. "You want this?" She tilted her head, a dare flickering in her grin. "Earn it."

In oh-too-casual manner, she lifted her baby tee--just skin. No show. No flirt. The raw truth beneath cotton. Ribs, stretch marks, a scar shaped like a secret. Moonlight licking her open wounds.

He choked on air.

"Jesus, Skye."

She watched him, still as stone. "Relax. They're just tits."

But he didn't relax. Lunged back in, mouth rough, hungry. His hand slid down again, pressed against the thin membrane of her thong.

"You're soaked," he whispered, voice shredded.

She smiled, teeth grazing his lip. "Like a fucking slip-n-slide."

Silence fell heavy.

Only the rush of blood, the city screaming below.

Her hips lifted, cunt rubbing against his hand, desperate to feel something real inside. His mouth hot and hungry, suckling her exposed pierced nipple.

Then--

Buzz.

The phone.

She jerked back like a slap.

Mike blinked, high and confused. "What--?"

She fumbled for it, froze at the screen.

And just like that, everything shattered.

She stood, face drained, pulling clothes back like armor. Wet circles blooming between her thighs, hidden from eyes that shouldn't see.

"Time to go."

His hand fell like dead weight. "What? Why?"

"My ride's here."

His puzzled face made it through plethora of emotions.

"Skye, come on. Ditch it. Stay. We got something good going."

She didn't look.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Skye."

Still nothing.

His grin faltered, desperate. "What, your dad or something?"

She froze, sharp eyes cutting ice. Voice flat as stone.

"Yeah."

It landed like a knife handle to the chest.

"Oh."

Jaw tight, lips white, she shoved the phone into her pocket like it might explode.

"Bye, Mike."

He stood slower now, the buzz unraveling, hope bleeding away.

"Call you later?"

She was already walking.

No answer.

No looking back.

The gate creaked shut behind her with a sound like finality. Skye stepped out into the electric hush of the street, and there it was--parked at the curb like a promise: sleek, low, midnight-black with shaded windows that glinted under the streetlight like wet ink. Her stomach flipped.

It reminded her of Tesla Boy's car. Same predatory gleam. Same quiet arrogance. For a second, she almost turned around. Why the fuck did I even come down?

But then the driver's door already opened--and Marcus stepped to greet her.

Black Italian silk jacket, sleeves rolled, white undershirt covering down his muscular forearms. Expensive watch, a different brand gleaming on his right, gold chain on the left. His jaw was tight, unreadable. He didn't say a word. Just opened the passenger door and looked at her.

She hesitated. Then walked over and slid in, heart hammering. The interior smelled like leather and cedar and something darker--him.

"Where the hell?" she asked, voice low but sharp, eyes fixed on the windshield like it was safer than looking at him, starting the car, driving into the night. No words. No explanations. Well, she needed some.

He didn't look away from the road. "Out and about. Out of the country, actually."

"For a week?"

He nodded. "I called you as soon as I landed."

Skye felt something bloom in her chest, hot and soft. She smothered it under a half-shrug and stared out the window. "Whatever."

He glanced sideways. "Missed me?"

She snorted. "I was too busy getting stoned and fondled by frat boys on rooftops."

He grinned, one of those crooked, tired things that still managed to hit like a shot of espresso. "Bet none of them fucked you as good"

She didn't answer. But her cheeks flushed.

They drove in silence for a few beats, New York sliding past like a wet oil painting. Neon and smog. Sweat and steel.

"Where are we going?" she asked, fingers toying with the frayed hem of her shorts.

"I want to show you something," he said. "A view. You deserve something beautiful."

She rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. "You getting soft on me, sir?"

"Never," he said. "Just generous."

They crossed into Brooklyn. The bridge loomed ahead, ribs of steel and cable cutting into the sky like a skeleton of something ancient. He pulled over in the emergency lane halfway across, hazard lights blinking slow.

"Come on," he said, grabbing a bottle from the backseat. Gold foil. Champagne. Looking fancy.

She pulled the window down. The wind was crisp, lifting her hair off her shoulders.

And then--there it was.

The skyline stretched out like a wet dream. Manhattan glowed in layers--steel, glass, and ghostlight. Every window a story. The river below caught it all and flipped it upside down.

It was stupidly beautiful. And for a second, she forgot everything.

Foam hissed, spilled down his fingers. He handed her a delicate flashing glass filled to a brim. She took a long sip, the bubbles burning sweet in her throat.

"This is nice," she admitted, almost shy.

"Want to put your feet up?"

She glanced at him, testing. "Can I?"

He smirked. "You're the princess. Do whatever the royal fuck you want."

She struggled with a lever and pulled the seat back, and began unzipping her combat boots. Slow. The metal teeth rasped. She peeled them off her long pale legs, pulled glass jacquard slim socks off her delicate feet. "I've been dancing all night, don't blame if I'm stinky!" Skye propped them up on the dash, flexed. Her skin looked radioactive in the bridge light. Then she made a face at him, wiggling her toes painted chipped black, shyly laughed and taking another sip, felt like something has uncoiled inside.

He watched her like she was a cathedral.

They passed the bottle back and forth, silent, wrapped in the hum of traffic below, the buzz of night thick with possibility. A siren wailed in the distance. Everything smelled like rain and steel.

He leaned back, gaze out toward the skyline. "I closed the best deal of my life this week."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. And I think it's 'cause of you."

She arched a brow. "I'm like your lucky charm now?"

"Could be."

Something twisted inside her. Something sharp. She shifted, the moment too pretty, too easy.

"Marcus, You know..." she said, voice dipping awkward, teenage and raw. "You treated me like piece of shit."

He looked at her, eyes narrow

"It was the first time anyone ever fucked me without a condom," she said, like she was throwing stones. "You ripped my like best pair of underwear. Ripped my fucking everything. Then you ghosted me for a week."

The words came out jagged, too honest.

She turned away, stared out at the city like it might save her for whatever she just unloaded on him. Then, feeling light and free, and sorry...

She woke to warmth. The kind that clung to her skin and hummed in her bones. Not sunlight--though the room was faintly gold--but water. Heavy, enveloping, slow. She blinked, lids gummy, breath shallow. Her body floated slightly, cushioned by suds and steam. For a second, she thought she was dead.

Then came the scent--eucalyptus, and some herbal undercurrent she didn't recognize. Clean. Expensive. Her neck ached faintly, a ghost of whiplash. Her ribs twinged. The ache behind her eyes pulsed like an echo. She stirred, the soapy water sloshing softly, and realized she was in a bathtub.

Someone's bathtub.

Her limbs flinched like they'd been startled back into existence. The chill of porcelain touched her spine. Beside the tub sat a sweating cup of iced tea, beads trickling down its sides. A towel was folded on the closed toilet lid, gray and plush. She glanced down. Her body was submerged, covered in soft clouds of soap. Hair long and slick, floating like silver ink.

And then, the voice.

"Welcome back, princess,"

She snapped her head to the doorway--Marcus. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, black tee clinging to his torso like a second skin.

"You remember anything?"

Her voice came out scratchy. "Define 'anything.'"

"You passed out in the car," he said. "Came to when we got here, asked for a bath like a royal brat. Direct quote: If you don't draw me a goddamn bath I'll pee all over your precious Italian couch, Kevin."

She closed her eyes, smirk curling half her mouth. "Sounds like me."

He leaned forward, eyes scanning her face with something like concern. "You okay now?"

She shrugged, leaning her head back against the porcelain. "Sure. Just a bit wrung out."

"So... who's Kevin?"

She answered instinctively, matching his suspicious cadences. "So... this is your place?"

He nodded. "Figured since last time we ended up in your shoebox, it was only fair."

She looked around, eyes still unfocused. White walls, brushed steel fixtures. Smooth matte black tile. Everything smelled faintly of vetiver and ozone--like hotel soap and rain on pavement. She could see her awkward form, pale and blurred, covered in bubbles and wet platinum strands, in the high-gloss cabinet fronts. No toothbrush on the counter. No razor. Not even a speck of toothpaste in the sink.

"I thought serial killers had more personality," she said, stretching a leg above the surface. Bubbles dripped down her calf coiling around the inked snakes. "This place feels like it was wiped down by a team of crime scene cleaners."

"Ice tea?" he offered, carefully moving the stylish art-nuveaux cup towards her.

She sipped the tea. Cold. Slightly sweet. A wedge of lemon floated like a lifeboat on the surface. Suddenly she felt sober and self conscious at her nakedness, and let herself sink lower into the water, bubbles sliding up over her collarbones, her legs floating under the surface like pale, boneless fish. "You always keep your tub this bubble-happy?"

"You demanded maximum bubbles. Threatened legal action."

She groaned again, lifting a soapy hand to her face. "God. I'm a monster."

He smirked. "You're something, allright".

"Last time I enjoyed bubbles this much," she muttered from the protection of her bubble fortress, "was at Burning Man. End of day five. I hadn't washed in, like, over a week. Full dust crust, hair like hay, smelled like a dead raccoon fucked a glitter bomb. Stumbled into this random camp, where they were blasting Donna Summer and hosing people down. Two dudes--one in glitter hot pants, the other in a priest collar--basically gave me the dirtiest clean of my life. Full car-wash fantasy. Made me strip-up and stand spread-eagle while they sprayed me down with a foaming-colored soap wave and scrubbed me with loofahs the size of dinner plates. I was squealing, laughing, getting squeegeed and then detailed like a rental car. They used a toothbrush for all the crevices, too! Best foreplay I never followed up on.

Marcus laughed. A real one. Deep, caught off guard. It vibrated through her like a hand on the base of her spine. "You're a fucking fever dream."

Skye closed her eyes again, letting the memory ripple away. "Yeah. And you're the nasty bastard who walked into it."

"And this... bath compares?" he asked, smirking.

She slid even lower, the bubbles kissing her lips. "You're missing the glitter thong, but otherwise? Not bad."

He reached forward then, and without asking, swept her floating hair cover gently behind her shoulder. Fingers brushed her skin. She tensed--but didn't stop him. He moved with that same infuriating calm, like none of this was strange. Like stripping and bathing a young fucked up girl was his normal Friday afternoon.

He poured a cup of warm water over her head, the stream cascading down her back, and began massaging her scalp. Fingers slow, deliberate. She shivered.

The water sloshed gently as she shifted, arm draped over the tub's edge. "This your idea of romance? Luring damaged girls into bathtubs and making them iced tea?"

"Only the special ones," he said softly, without stopping his movements.

She frowned at him. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Talk like that. I already told you--"

"I know," he cut in, voice leveling. "I was a dick. You didn't deserve to..."

Skye waved a soapy finger at him frantically "Stop... like stop, okay?!"

He blinked.

"Just--don't, Marcus. Just... don't. I haven't had a proper bath in like a year. I fucking hated myself for the past week, okay? I was all covered in smells of basement weed and club regret. And you--" she shook her finger again, getting some bubbles on his pristine shirt, "you're my fucking knight on a white horse right now. Let me have this."

He said nothing. Just nodded. The silence expanded again, gentle and dense. She let herself drift in it. Then feeling awkward added: "I didn't tell you to stop, by the way..."

His thumbs loyally pressed again into her sculp, then moved down into the base of her neck, where tension lived like a parasite. Then her shoulders. Her body softened, muscle by muscle, like something exorcised. he scent of lavender wrapped around them. His fingers moved like he knew her--like he'd done this before, maybe not with her, but with someone he'd wanted to keep calm. Wanted to keep close.

"You're good at this," she murmured, eyes closed.

"I have a sister," he said eventually. "Back in Boston. Used to wash her hair when she was on chemo. and too tired to care. She's all better now. Married. Pretends to be happy. Teaches undergrads how to hate capitalism politely."

The answer cracked something, just a little. She didn't push.

He kept washing, then lifted the handheld showerhead, cupped a hand to shield her eyes, and rinsed the soap away like he was baptizing her.

By the end of it, she was boneless. Floating. Bubbles slid off her shoulders, trailed down her ribs. His hand moved to her back, rubbed gentle circles against the knots between her shoulder blades. No urgency. Just care. When he finally helped her out, wrapped her in a towel thick enough to smother a scream, she leaned against him for balance, legs weak, head spinning.

Later, she padded barefoot down a spotless hallway, wrapped in one of his massive towels. His apartment was a temple to restraint. Everything gleamed--black slate floors, glass shelving, minimalist furniture. The kitchen was chrome and concrete. The living room could've been a showroom. A single abstract painting hung on the far wall, sharp red strokes on white canvas, like blood on snow.

It didn't look lived-in. Not really.

But the bed was enormous. King-sized, obsidian frame, silk-gray sheets pulled tight as skin. A stack of books sat untouched on the nightstand. No photographs. No clutter. Nothing that said him--only echoes of money, taste, and distance.

She stood in the doorway, toweling off her hair, until she felt his presence behind her.

"You'll sleep here," he said. Not asked--said.

"Only if I get a shirt," she said.

She got one too. Large oversized cotton. It draped off her shoulder, all the way to thighs, covering everything.

"You're decent now," he murmured. "Mostly."

"Liar," she said, climbing into the bed. Lights went off, large, dangerous form has occupied the other side of the bed. Not touching--yet.

Sheets whispered around her. Her skin sank into cool silk.

For a moment, it was just breath.

And then, slowly, she rolled toward him. Pressed her head against his chest.

"I'm still mad at you," she mumbled.

"I know."

"But you have good sheets."

He smiled into her hair.

The apartment was silent. The air smelled like him --cool, clean, restrained. Cedarwood and glass. The kind of place that said: You may stay, but you won't leave a trace.

He was next to her, shirtless, propped slightly against the headboard, half in shadow. His body wasn't perfect--it was better. The kind that could hold her down or hold her up, depending on his mood. His lips were parted just slightly. He looked asleep.

She turned toward him. Watched him breathe.

He could be faking.

She squinted. No tell. His breath was too even.

She didn't know what to do--stay, say something stupid, crack a joke, beg for more silence. Her eyes wandered across the room, taking it in.

The place was gorgeous. Sterile. Every surface smooth and untouched, the walls a soft, industrial gray. One perfect row of books, all hardcovers, no dog ears. The only light came from the city outside--a dull electric pulse leaking in from behind the blackout curtains.

No photos. No souvenirs. No mess.

A home that could be wiped clean in minutes.

She looked back at him. His jaw was perfect from this angle, like it was carved by someone who really gave a shit about symmetry. His lashes were long. His mouth slack in sleep--or maybe just letting her look.

"Still mad at you," she whispered.

No response.

She wanted to press her mouth against his collarbone. She wanted to get up and run. She wanted to laugh.

Instead, she pulled the covers up to her chin. Let her forehead brush against his arm. And with a long, silent exhale, let sleep drag her down.

To be continued...