The night had settled, but the consequences had not.
I woke up to a room bathed in the pale, grey light of early morning. My body was a quiet map of the previous night, a dull, persistent ache that served as a constant, physical reminder. There was no tenderness in it, no romantic echo. It was simply data. Proof of an event, a transaction, a claim. My mind, however, was clear. The haze of adrenaline and lust had burned away, leaving behind a sharp, focused clarity. I knew what was coming.
The knock on my door was different. It wasn't Eliot's usual gentle, rhythmic tap. It was a single, firm rap. The kind of knock that announced rather than requested.
"Enter," I called out, already swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
