Desired

Morning came without permission.

Light crept in through the narrow gap between the curtains, pale and invasive, cutting across the unfamiliar ceiling. Will opened his eyes once. Closed them again. His body knew before his mind did.

Not home.

The apartment was quiet in the way places get after something loud has passed through them. Not peaceful. Spent. The air still held warmth that didn’t belong to the room.

He lay still, flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes like he could block out memory the same way he blocked out light. His body ached—not sharply, not painfully—but with the dull, undeniable awareness of use. Muscles worked. Skin marked by pressure and friction and heat.

He inhaled.

Her.

Not perfume. Not soap. Something subtle. Skin. Night. The faint trace of sweat and something darker that sat low in his chest when he recognized it.

He sat up.

The movement was careful, controlled. Automatic. Habit asserting itself. The couch was a mess—cushions skewed, fabric creased, evidence everywhere if he bothered to look. He didn’t.

Will swung his feet to the floor and stood.

Naked, he realized. That should have bothered him. It didn’t. What bothered him was how unselfconscious the fact felt. Like his body hadn’t asked permission to exist here.

He found his clothes scattered with a kind of violence that made his jaw tighten. Shirt abandoned near the table. Jacket on the chair. Belt on the floor like it had been dropped without thought. He picked each item up, folded them slowly, deliberately. Reasserting order. Rebuilding something piece by piece.

He dressed in silence.

No phone. No checking the time. No listening for movement from the bedroom. He didn’t want to know if she was awake. Didn’t want to risk seeing her like this—softened by morning, real in a way night had hidden.

That was dangerous.

He tied his shoes with steady hands. Stood. Paused.

The apartment held its breath.

For a moment—just one—he considered going to her. Standing in the doorway. Saying something neutral. Polite. A line that closed this cleanly.

Thanks for last night.

I should go.

We’ll pretend—

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t trust his voice.

So he did what he always did when something threatened to undo him.

He left.

The door closed quietly behind him. No drama. No final glance. The hallway smelled faintly of detergent and coffee from another apartment. Normal life continuing, oblivious.

By the time he reached the street, the city was fully awake. Traffic moving. People walking with purpose. Routine. Structure. He breathed it in like oxygen.

Good.

In his car, he sat for a full minute before starting the engine. Hands on the wheel. Posture perfect. Control sliding back into place like armor.

It should have ended there.

But as he pulled into traffic, something unsettled refused to quiet.

It wasn’t hunger.

It wasn’t regret.

It was the memory of her eyes—steady, deliberate—watching him like she had chosen him. Not stumbled into him. Not reacted.

Chosen.

The thought sat wrong in his chest.

He had spent his life wanting nothing he couldn’t walk away from.

Last night, someone had wanted him.

And this morning, he didn’t know what to do with that.

He drove on.

He reached his apartment. Elevators. Key turns. Familiar walls. His space greeted him with perfect indifference.

He showered. Cold. Efficient. Let the water beat sensation out of his skin until he felt like himself again.

Almost.

At his kitchen counter, coffee in hand, phone finally face-up, he checked the time.

No messages.

He stared at the screen longer than necessary before locking it again.

Fine.

Good.

This was clean. Contained. Over.

And yet—

As he stood there, morning light filling his apartment, a single, unwelcome truth surfaced with quiet clarity:

He didn’t only miss her body.

He missed the way she looked at him.

And that was far more dangerous.