𝗦𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀𝘁

Note: Sorry, English is not my first language. And also it's my first story. I'd be really grateful if you keep that in mind while reading the story. And enjoy the story. Please leave comments. Thank you. 

(Chapter: 1)

Ezran Sharma;

Just a week ago, I didn't know his name.idn't know he lived across from me. Didn't know that man would eventually rip my life in half and leave me crawling toward the part of myself I didn't know existed. Cause that part? God forbid me— was not right.

Men only like women. It was the holy truth. Then why the hell on earth my dick was twitching looking at him when he didn't even noticed me?

All I knew was that he was standing on his balcony, half-naked, soaked in sunlight and unmistakable sin.

Tight black boxers slung low on his hips like even that piece of cloth was begging him to let go. Wet hair dripping down his bare chest. A single sentence carved across his chest in black ink— meant something, probably, but I couldn't read that from where I stood. Cigarette clinging between his lips like it belonged there more than I did anywhere near that view.

And me?

I was frozen.

Halfway through hanging my laundry, toothbrush still in my mouth, staring like a fucking idiot while my freshly washed apron dripped onto the expensive tiles. 

I hadn't slept last night. My back still ached from unpacking. But suddenly none of that mattered, because he was standing there like the cover model for every mistake I was never allowed to make.

And he didn't even notice me.

Didn't glance. Didn't nod. Didn't exist in my direction.

He just... watered his plants. Nonchalantly. One hand holding a ridiculous plastic watering spray, the other lazily scratching his stomach like he hadn't just walked out of someone else's bed, lit a smoke, and declared war on every single moral of the society.

I'd seen attractive people before. I'm not blind. But he? He was the kind of man you don't look at— you suffer or survive. 

My body's reaction didn't made any sense. It wasn't supposed to react. Wasn't supposed to feel that twist in my gut. That strange pull. That all consuming heat.

Not because I was religious— I wasn't. I didn't even believe in hell, but suddenly I was half-convinced I was already in it.

Because my eyes wouldn't move. Because my fingers tightened on the railing. Because I hated him.

Immediately. Viscerally. Unfairly.

Not for being attractive. But for making me feel something wrong which felt dangerously right.

Because that meant something was wrong with me. Very very wrong. So fucking wrong.

And where I come from? That kind of wrong doesn't get talked about.

It gets silenced. Mocked. Caged. Beaten out.

I dropped my toothbrush. Didn't even notice. Didn't pick it up either. I backed into my apartment like the balcony had caught fire and I'd been stupid enough to stand in it.

I shut the door. Locked it.

And for the rest of the day, I pretended like I hadn't seen anything.

Like I didn't spend the next three hours trying not to remember the shape of his spine, the cut of his hips, or the way the smoke curled from his mouth like a fucking promise I wasn't allowed to hear.

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(To be continued)

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