10:43

A successful data analyst discovers that being in control of everything means feeling nothing at all. But in the late-night gym, watching a scarred stranger work out, she finds herself aching for something she can't quantify. When he finally speaks after three months of silent tension, she learns what it means to truly let go. (MF, voyeurism, rough sex, light D/s)

---

Some women go to therapy. I go to the gym after hours.

The place transforms after ten. When the entry logs stop syncing to the main grid and the overhead fluorescents shift from sterile white to low violet, it becomes something else. A liminal space. A confessional. The taste of recycled air turns metallic and sharp, tinged with industrial cleaner that never quite masks the smell of sweat and iron and want.

The mirrors remember everything.

The south wall especially. Twenty feet of seamless glass that's witnessed every breakdown, every breakthrough, every 3 a. m. confession to iron and sweat. Some nights I swear I can see other women in its surface--ghosts of who pushed themselves here before me. Their trembling thighs. Their gritted teeth. Their bodies learning what they could take.

I see myself there too, sometimes. But she's a stranger. Hair pulled back in the same careful ponytail. Designer leggings that cost more than most people's rent. The kind of woman who has her life together, whose spreadsheets always balance, whose facade never cracks.

I don't recognize her anymore.

And him.

I don't know his name. Don't ask. That would make it real.

He's just always here. Same time as me. Or maybe I show up at the same time as him. Maybe he changed his schedule, started coming later, when he noticed me. Maybe we're both circling the same inevitable thing.

Doesn't matter.

I tell myself I come to unwind. Stretch. Shake off the data rot after another ten hours of compliance verifications and code reroutes. Tell myself this place makes me feel safe--the familiarity of equipment that never judges, mirrors that only reflect what is, not what should be.

That's a lie.

I come to watch him.

I tried to quantify it once. Built a spreadsheet. Tracked patterns. Times. Exercises. The way his jaw tightens on the third rep. How his breathing changes during deadlifts. The precise angle of his shoulders when he knows I'm looking. But the data just sat there, meaningless. Some things can't be reduced to numbers.

He's not beautiful. Not polished or pretty. But he's big. Dangerous. The kind of man who probably fought in the Mars mining conflicts before getting dumped back planetside with scars and too much silence. His body is coiled strength. Clean power. Like someone took a weapon and taught it to breathe.

The scar tissue across his left shoulder blade moves like water when he lifts. Three parallel lines--claw marks from something that wasn't human. His knuckles are thick with old breaks. There's a tattoo on his ribs in a language I don't recognize, half-hidden by the tanks he wears like afterthoughts.

And he never speaks.

Not once. Not to the regulars who've been coming here since before the renovation. Not to the trainers who hover nearby, desperate to compare numbers. Not to the women who drift into his orbit, pretending they need spots. He keeps his headphones in--ancient wired things that probably haven't played music in years--and his eyes forward. Always on the mirror.

Which is how I know he sees me.

Because some nights, when I'm too still, too obvious in my watching, he shifts. Not a lot. Just enough. Angles his stance so I catch the full spread of his lats. So I see his fingers re-grip the bar, chalk dust floating like snow in the violet light. The way his spine ripples when he exhales. So I feel it.

And his breathing changes. Deeper. More controlled. Like he's fighting the same thing I am.

Like he's giving me something I shouldn't be allowed to want.

I'm successful. Senior data analyst. Good apartment. Investment portfolio. The kind of life that looks perfect in quarterly reviews. I control everything--my team, my projects, my carefully structured days. But I don't feel anything anymore. Not unless I'm watching him. And even then, it's not emotion. Just... tension. Like something wound so tight it's forgotten how to release.

My last relationship ended two years ago. "You're always somewhere else," he'd said. "Even when you're right here."

He wasn't wrong.

But here, watching this stranger work his body like a machine that runs on pure will, I'm present. Too present. Every nerve aware. My analytical brain trying to quantify what's happening and failing. The data doesn't compute. The spreadsheet of my life has no column for this.

And when I leave, I'm soaked. Every time. Legs clenched. Pulse hammering between my thighs. Shame and want pooling together until I can't tell them apart.

I don't work out. Not really. I stretch. Balance poses I mastered years ago. Planks until my core shakes--not from effort but from holding myself back from walking over there. I act like I'm cooling down from something. But I never push myself. My workout clothes are armor, and I'm terrified of what happens when I take them off.

I don't come here for results.

I come here to ache.

I've been doing this for three months.

I know he's kept the hair tie that slipped from my ponytail two weeks ago. Saw him pick it up. Put it in his pocket. My stomach flipped so hard I had to leave early.

The morning crowd has started to notice. Quick glances at my neck. At the way I move differently. Carefully. Like I'm carrying secrets under my skin. Like I'm sore in places they can't see.

They don't know those are just phantom aches. Wishful thinking made flesh.

Tonight I'm early. He's already here.

It's 10:43 p. m. according to the old analog clock that hasn't worked right since the EMP storms last summer. Still ticks though. Still counts down to nothing. Time feels suspended in here anyway. Like the real world stops existing after the doors lock.

He finishes his warmup and pulls his tank top off in one motion.

His skin gleams under the red emergency LEDs that kick in after eleven. There are more scars than I realized. A patchwork history written in raised tissue. The three claws on his shoulder. Shrapnel stars across his ribs. Something that looks like teeth marks on his forearm.

He tosses the shirt onto the bench and transitions into deadlifts. Smooth. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your pulse skip when it brushes too close.

I freeze on my mat. Not because I'm scared--because I can already feel him in places I shouldn't. My cunt clenches reflexively, and I have to bite back a sound. The rubber flooring beneath my knees suddenly feels too textured, too real.

He loads the bar. Four plates each side. Checks his grip.

Then turns toward the mirror.

Our eyes meet in the glass.

I should look away. Pretend to check my phone. Adjust my form. Anything.

Instead, I hold his gaze as he drops into position. Watch him watch me as he pulls 405 pounds off the ground like gravity's just a suggestion. His jaw tightens. Veins surface along his forearms. But his eyes never leave mine in the reflection.

One rep. Two. Three.

Each lift, he holds at the top just a second longer than necessary. Letting me see. Letting me imagine what that controlled power would feel like directed at me. How those hands would grip. How that focus would narrow until I was the only thing in his world.

I've imagined it so many times. Him pressing me against this exact mirror. Bending me over the weight bench. Taking me apart in the shower until my screams echo off the tiles. I've built entire fantasies around the way his fingers wrap around the bar.

I shift on my mat. My leggings are soaked through. It's obscene. Obvious. I don't even care anymore.

He sets the bar down after eight reps. Still watching me.

Then he does something he's never done before.

He speaks.

"Your form's off."

His voice is exactly what I expected. Low. Rough. Like he hasn't used it in days.

I blink. "I'm not lifting."

"Your plank." He steps around the bar, moving closer. "You're compensating. Favoring your right side."

He's ten feet away now. Eight. Six.

I can smell him. Salt. Steel. Something darker underneath--like ozone before a storm.

"I'm fine," I manage.

"No." He stops just outside my mat. "You're not."

The words land heavy. Loaded with meaning that has nothing to do with exercise form.

I should be offended. Should tell him to fuck off. Should pack up and leave and find a different gym and never come back.

Instead, I hear myself say: "Show me."

Something flickers in his eyes. Satisfaction, maybe. Or hunger.

He steps onto my mat.

The air changes. Charges. Like the moment before lightning strikes. The temperature drops five degrees, but my skin burns.

"On your hands," he says.

I obey without thinking. Drop forward into plank position. My arms shake immediately--not from weakness but from having him this close. From knowing he's studying my body with the same intensity he brings to his lifts.

He circles me slowly. Predatory. Assessing.

"Here." His boot nudges my left foot wider. "And here." A slight pressure on my lower back, guiding my hips into alignment.

Then he crouches beside me.

His hand hovers just above my spine. Not touching. But I feel the heat of him like a brand waiting to mark.

"You hold tension here," he says, indicating my mid-back. "Like you're bracing for impact."

"Maybe I am."

The words slip out before I can stop them.

His hand finally makes contact. Just fingertips. Just enough to make my whole body lock up.

"Breathe," he commands.

I try. Fail. Try again.

His fingers trace down my spine, finding each knot of tension. Professional. Clinical. Except for the way his breathing changes when he reaches my lower back. The way his other hand clenches into a fist against his thigh.

"How long?" he asks.

"How long what?"

"How long have you been watching me?"

My arms give out.

I collapse to the mat, rolling onto my back to stare up at him. He hasn't moved. Still crouched there. Waiting.

"Three months," I admit.

"I know."

Of course he does.

"I've been watching you too," he continues. "Waiting."

"For what?"

His mouth curves. Not quite a smile. Something hungrier.

"For you to stop pretending you come here to exercise."

My face burns. "I don't--"

"You show up in expensive leggings you never sweat in. You stretch muscles that aren't tight. You hold poses you mastered years ago." He leans closer. "You come here to watch me. To imagine what I'd do to you if you ever got brave enough to ask."

I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare at him while my body turns liquid and wanting.

"I wasn't brave enough," I whisper.

"No." He reaches down, fingers ghosting over my cheek. "But you're getting there."

I turn my face into his touch without meaning to. His thumb brushes my lower lip.

"I kept your hair tie," he says quietly. "The black one with the gold thread."

My stomach flips. "I know."

"I changed my schedule. Started coming later. When I noticed you."

"I know that too."

"I almost broke," he admits. "So many times. Almost walked over. Almost grabbed you. Almost--" He stops himself.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because you needed to choose it." His thumb traces my jaw. "And you weren't ready."

"What makes you think I'm ready now?"

"You're here, aren't you? Letting me touch you. Letting me see how wet you are through those expensive leggings." His eyes darken. "Letting me smell how much you want this."

I make a broken sound.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Does it matter?"

No. It doesn't.

I catch his thumb between my teeth. Just for a second. Just enough to make him exhale sharp through his nose.

His hand slides down to my throat. Not squeezing. Just resting there. Feeling my pulse hammer against his palm.

"Get up," he says.

I scramble to my feet. He rises with that same controlled grace.

"Walk to the door."

I blink. "What?"

"You heard me. Walk to the door. Try to leave."

My feet move automatically. One step. Two. Three. Each one harder than the last. By the time I'm halfway across the gym, I'm shaking. My body rebels against every step. The armor of my workout clothes feels like it's dissolving.

I make it to the door. Put my hand on the handle.

Can't turn it.

Can't leave.

Can't do anything but stand there, forehead pressed to the cool metal, whole body vibrating with need.

"Come back," he says. Not loud. He doesn't need to be.

I turn around. Walk back to him on unsteady legs. Stop when I'm close enough to feel his heat again.

"You can't leave," he observes. "Not anymore."

"No."

"Tell me why."

"Because I need--" My voice cracks. "I need what you can give me."

"What can I give you?"

"I don't know." It's honest. "But no one else--nothing else--makes me feel like this. Like I'm finally awake. Like my skin finally fits."

He studies me for a long moment. Then: "Finish your workout."

I open my mouth to protest, but he's already walking away. Back to his bar like nothing happened.

I stand there for a full minute, trying to remember how to move. When I finally make it back to my mat, he's mid-lift again. But this time, his eyes stay closed.

Like he's imagining something.

Like he's planning.

I force myself through the rest of my routine. Stretches that feel pointless now. My body's already loose. Liquid. Ready. The cold mirror against my back during shoulder stretches makes me gasp. Everything is too sensitive. Too aware.

But I wait. Watch him work through his sets. Watch the sweat trail down his spine. Watch him get harder and more focused with each rep. His breathing changes again when he catches me staring. Deeper. More ragged. Like he's fighting for control.

When he finally starts unloading the bar, I'm vibrating with anticipation.

He strips the weights methodically. Wipes down the bar. Returns everything to its place. Then walks to the water fountain without looking at me.

I should leave. This is my chance. Get up, get out, never come back.

Instead, I follow him.

He's bent over the fountain when I reach him. The muscles in his back shift as he drinks. Those three scars catch the light.

"Mars?" I ask, indicating the marks.

He straightens. Turns. "Deimos. Mining conflict in '31."

"What made them?"

"Genetically modified guard beast. Corporate security's favorite toy." He steps closer, backing me against the wall. "Sixty pounds of muscle and teeth programmed to protect assets."

"You killed it?"

"Eventually." His hands find the wall on either side of my head. "Took three of us. I'm the only one who walked away."

I should feel trapped. Threatened. Instead, I feel chosen.

"Is that why you don't talk to anyone?"

"I talk to you."

"Only just now."

"I was waiting," he says again. "Seeing how long you'd torture yourself. How many nights you'd go home aching. How wet you'd get just from watching."

My breath catches. "How do you know I get wet?"

He leans down until his mouth is by my ear. "Because I can smell it on you. Have been able to for weeks. Sweet and desperate and getting stronger every night."

I make a sound I don't recognize. Part whimper, part moan.

"Tonight's different though," he continues. "Tonight you're dripping."

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I'm dripping."

"Why?"

"Because of you." The words tumble out. "Because I've been imagining you fucking me since the first night I saw you. Because I go home and touch myself thinking about your hands. Because I've never wanted anything the way I want you to wreck me."

He pulls back just enough to see my face. "Wreck you?"

"Please." My voice breaks. "I'm so tired of being in control. Of making every decision. Of having my life perfectly balanced. I need--I need someone to--"

"To take it away from you."

"Yes."

"To make you let go."

"God, yes."

"To fuck you until you can't remember your own name, much less your spreadsheets and data points."

A sob escapes me. "Please."

He studies my face. "Tell me exactly what you've imagined. In detail."

The command in his voice shuts down the last of my resistance.

"You pressing me against the mirror while everyone can still see. Making me watch myself fall apart. Your hands in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. Bending me over the bench and fucking me until I scream. In the showers with my legs around your waist. On the floor by the free weights. Against this wall. Everywhere. Every way."

His breathing gets harsher with each confession.

"What else?"

"The way you'd taste. How you'd stretch me. How deep you'd go. The marks you'd leave. How sore I'd be the next day. How everyone would know just from looking at me that I'd been thoroughly fucked."

"By who?"

"By you. Only you."

He makes a sound like I've punched him. Then he's kissing me.

It's not gentle. His mouth claims mine like he's been starving for it. His teeth catch my lower lip. His tongue demands entry. One hand fists in my hair while the other grips my hip hard enough to bruise.

I kiss him back just as desperately. Months of want pouring out through my mouth and hands and the way I arch against him.

He tastes like mineral water and determination.

When he finally breaks away, we're both breathing hard.

"I need to know your limits," he says.

"I don't have any. Not with you."

"Everyone has limits."

"Then find mine."

His eyes go dark. "Dangerous thing to say."

"I'm tired of being safe."

He studies my face for a long moment. Then nods toward the far end of the gym. "There's a blind spot. No cameras."

"I know." I've checked. Planned. Imagined.

"If we do this--"

"We're doing this."

He almost smiles. "If we do this, you don't get to pretend it didn't happen. You don't get to go back to watching from across the room. You're mine after this."

The possessiveness in his voice makes me clench.

"I'm already yours. Have been for months."

"No." He leans close again. "You've been yours, playing at being mine in your head. There's a difference."

"Show me."

He does.

He leads me to the blind spot--a corner past the free weights where two walls meet. The mirrors here are older, hazed with years of moisture. But I can still see us clearly enough. See how small I look next to him. How ready.

"Take off your shirt," he says.

Not a request.

I pull my tank top over my head. No sports bra underneath. I never wear one here. Never saw the point of pretending I come to work out.

His eyes track over me slowly. Taking in my tight nipples. The flush spreading down my chest. The way I'm already breathing too fast.

"Touch yourself."

I hesitate.

"You've been eye-fucking me for twelve weeks," he says. "Show me what you do when you get home."

My hand slides down my stomach. Into my leggings. I'm so wet my fingers slip easily through my folds.

"Eyes on me," he commands when I try to close them.

I force them open. Watch him watch me circle my clit. Watch his jaw tighten when I gasp. Watch him adjust himself through his shorts.

"Tell me what you think about."

"You." My fingers move faster. "Fucking me against the mirror. Bending me over the bench. Making me scream."

"What else?"

"Your cock in my mouth. Your hands in my hair. The way you'd taste."

"And?"

"How you'd stretch me. How deep you'd go. How you'd--" I break off with a moan as I slide two fingers inside myself.

"How I'd what?"

"Own me. Use me. Make me yours."

He moves then. Crowds me against the wall. Pulls my hand from my leggings and brings my wet fingers to his mouth.

The sight of him sucking them clean shorts out my brain.

"You taste desperate," he says.

"I am."

"Good."

Then he's kissing me again. Letting me taste myself on his tongue while his hands work my leggings down. They stick to my thighs, soaked through. He doesn't seem to care. Just keeps stripping me efficiently until I'm naked except for my shoes.

"Look at yourself."

I turn my head toward the hazy mirror. See myself flushed and panting. See him fully dressed behind me, still in control.

"This is what you've been hiding under those expensive clothes," he says, running one hand down my side. "This needy little thing who gets wet from watching."

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I'm a needy little thing who gets wet from watching you."

His hand slides between my legs. Cups me. The heel of his palm presses against my clit while two fingers test my entrance.

"Fuck, you're soaked."

"Please--"

"No." He removes his hand. "You're going to earn it."

I whimper.

"Tell me what you want."

"You. Inside me. Please."

"Be specific."

"I want your cock. Want you to fuck me. Want to feel you for days."

"Better. But not good enough." He steps back. "Show me how badly you need it."

I reach for him, but he catches my wrists. Pins them above my head with one hand.

"Without touching me."

I writhe against the wall. Try to press my thighs together for friction. Can't with him standing between them.

"Please," I beg. "I need--I can't--"

"You can. Tell me exactly what you need. Make me believe it."

The command breaks something in me. Words pour out, raw and desperate.

"I need you to fuck me so hard I forget everything else. Need your cock stretching me until it hurts. Need you to use me like I'm yours to use. Need you to make me take it, all of it, even when I think I can't. Need you to fuck me until I can't walk. Can't think. Can't do anything but feel you inside me."

His grip on my wrists tightens.

"More."

"I touch myself every night thinking about you. Come with your name in my throat. But it's never enough. Nothing's enough. I need the real thing. Need you to pin me down and take what you want. Need you to fuck me like you own me. Because you do. You already do."

"Since when?"

"Since the first night I saw you. Since you looked at me in that mirror and I felt it everywhere. I've been yours since then. Just waiting for you to claim me."

He releases my wrists. "On your knees."

I drop immediately. The rubber flooring is hard under my knees, textured and unforgiving, but I don't care. Not when he's looking down at me like that. Not when I can see how hard he is through his shorts.

He pulls them down just enough to free his cock.

I was right about him being proportional. Thick. Veined. Already leaking.

"You've imagined this," he says. Not a question.

"Every night."

"Show me how much you want it."

I don't need more invitation than that. I lean forward, tongue out, and lick from base to tip. He tastes like salt and need.

His hand fists in my hair as I take him in my mouth. Not forcing. Just holding. Letting me set the pace as I work him deeper.

"Eyes up," he reminds me when I get too focused on what I'm doing.

I look up at him through my lashes. See his control starting to crack. Feel his thighs tense under my hands.

"Deeper," he says.

I try. Gag a little. Try again.

"Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat." His thumb strokes my cheek. "That's it. Take it all."

I do. Somehow. Feel him hit the back of my throat and keep going. Feel my eyes water. Feel my cunt clench around nothing.

"Fuck." His hips jerk forward involuntarily. "Look at you. So eager. So perfect."

The praise makes me moan around him.

"You like that? Like being told how good you are?"

I nod as best I can with my mouth full.

"Then be good and touch yourself while you suck my cock."

My hand flies between my legs. I'm so sensitive it only takes a few circles before I'm close.

"Don't come," he warns. "Not until I'm inside you."

I whine but slow my fingers. Focus on him instead. On the weight of him on my tongue. The way his breathing gets harsher. The way his grip tightens in my hair.

"Enough." He pulls me off. Helps me to my feet. "Turn around. Hands on the mirror."

I obey, placing my palms flat against the cool glass. In the reflection, I watch him strip off his shorts completely. Watch him position himself behind me.

"Spread your legs."

I do.

"More."

I'm practically doing a split now. Exposed. Vulnerable. Aching.

He runs one hand down my spine. Over my ass. Between my legs.

"You're dripping down your thighs."

"I know."

"Have you ever been this wet?"

"No." It's true. I've never wanted anything like this. Never been this empty.

"Tell me what you need."

"You. Inside me. Please. I can't--I need--"

"I know what you need."

He pushes inside me in one smooth thrust.

I scream. Can't help it. He's so thick, stretching me so perfectly, that my vision whites out for a second.

"Too much?"

"No. God, no. More. Please. Fuck me. Use me. I need--"

He pulls almost all the way out. Slams back in.

My hands slip on the mirror. He catches me. Holds me up with one arm around my waist while he sets a punishing rhythm.

"Look at yourself," he commands. "Look at what you become when you finally get what you need."

I force my eyes open. In the hazy glass, I see a woman I don't recognize. Wild hair. Glazed eyes. Mouth open in constant moans. Getting fucked by a man who knows exactly how to take her apart.

"This is who you really are," he says against my ear. "Not the analyst. Not the professional. This."

"Yes."

"Say it."

"This is who I am."

"What are you?"

"Yours."

He groans. Fucks me harder. His free hand finds my clit.

"Come for me. Show me what I do to you."

I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me so hard my legs give out. He holds me up. Keeps fucking me through it. Draws it out until I'm sobbing from overstimulation.

"Again," he says.

"I can't--"

"You can. You will."

He's right. My body responds to his command. Builds again. Crests again. Leaves me boneless and gasping.

Only then does he slow. Pull out. Turn me around.

"You're not done," he says.

I can barely stand but I nod. "Whatever you want."

He lifts me easily. Presses my back against the mirror. The cold glass against my overheated skin makes me gasp. I wrap my legs around his waist as he pushes back inside me.

This angle is different. Deeper. More intimate.

"Watch us," he says.

I turn my head. See us in profile. See the way my body takes him. The way I cling to him. The way he moves like he could do this forever.

"I've wanted this since the first night," he admits. "Wanted to bend you over every surface in this place. Wanted to make you scream. Wanted to mark you so everyone would know you're mine."

"Do it. All of it."

He kisses me. Softer this time. Almost tender.

Then he fucks me like he's trying to climb inside my skin.

I lose track of time. Of how many times I come. Of everything except him and the way he makes me feel. My successful, controlled life feels like a dream. This is what's real. This is who I am.

By the time he finally gets close, I'm completely gone. Floating. Anchored only by his hands and his voice telling me how perfect I am.

"Where?" he asks, voice strained.

"Inside me. Please. I want to feel you. Want to be dripping with you."

He buries his face in my neck and comes with a groan that might be my name.

We stay like that for a long moment. Him holding me up. Me clinging to him. Both of us trying to remember how to breathe. The broken clock ticks on, marking nothing.

Finally, he lowers me carefully to my feet. My legs wobble. He steadies me.

"You okay?"

"I don't know." It's honest. "I can't feel my legs."

He almost smiles again. "That's normal."

"This happens to you a lot?"

"No." He touches my face. "This has never happened to me."

Something passes between us. Heavy. Important.

"Get dressed," he says softly. "I'll walk you to your car."

I pull on my clothes with shaking hands. Everything feels different. Hypersensitive. Like my skin woke up after a long sleep. The armor of my workout clothes feels like tissue paper now.

He leads me through the gym in silence. But it's not awkward. Just... processing.

At my car, he cages me against the driver's door.

"Tomorrow," he says. "Bring workout clothes you don't mind ruining."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to fuck you in the showers. And the sauna. And that spot behind the leg press where the mirrors meet." His thumb traces my jaw. "Going to make good on everything you imagined."

"All of it?"

"Every fantasy. Every position. Every surface." He leans closer. "Going to fuck you so thoroughly that when you're at your desk tomorrow, trying to analyze your data, all you'll be able to think about is my cock inside you."

I whimper.

"Delete whatever gym you were planning to switch to from your phone," he says.

"How did you--"

"Because I know you. You would have run after tonight. Found somewhere else to watch someone else." His thumb traces my jaw. "But you're done running. Done watching. You're mine now."

"Yours," I agree.

"Good girl."

The praise hits me like a physical thing. I sway toward him.

"Tomorrow," he repeats. "Same time."

"I'll be here."

"I know you will." He kisses me once more. Quick but claiming. "Drive safe."

I almost ask his name again. The question rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. Names would make this real. Would turn it into something that could be quantified. Analyzed. Broken down into data points.

This is better. This exists outside of real life.

I somehow make it home. Shower. Collapse into bed.

But I can still feel him. Still smell him on my skin. Still feel the ghost of his hands. I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and see the marks he left. Fingerprints on my hips. A bruise on my neck. Evidence that it was real.

At work the next day, I can't concentrate. Every time I shift in my chair, I feel him. Every spreadsheet blurs. Every data point becomes meaningless. My assistant asks if I'm feeling alright.

"Just tired," I lie.

But I'm not tired. I'm alive. For the first time in years.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number.

Wear the black set tonight. The one with the straps.

I stare at the text. How does he know about--

I've seen the edge when you bend. Been imagining tearing it off you.

Another text follows.

10:43. Don't be late.

I check the broken clock on my wall. Six hours. It always reads 2:17, frozen since the power surge last year. But in my mind, it will always be 10:43. The moment everything changed.

Six hours until I can stop pretending to be the controlled, professional woman everyone thinks I am.

Six hours until I can be his again.

I've been watching him for three months.

Now I know what it feels like to be seen.

To be known.

To be owned.

And I'm never going back to watching from across the room.

Because some women go to therapy.

I go to the gym after hours.

And tonight, I'll bring clothes I don't mind ruining.