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Not with words. With hands. With intent. Because heknowsher. Knows what softness costs her. Knows that every offer she makes is a thread of trust, not a trap—and I’m standing here like I’m ready to burn the whole spool down to the knot. I should walk away. Ishould.
But I don’t.
Instead, I knock.
Three quiet taps.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing demanding.
But it echoes like a gunshot in my skull.
The moment it’s done, I regret it. Not because I don’t want to be here, but because the sound makes this real. It makesmereal. And I don’t know what I’m going to say when she opens that door.
If she opens it.
Because what if she doesn’t? What if this wasn’t an open invitation? What if it was her way of giving me a kind exit—one I didn’t take?
But the damage is done. My hand falls back to my side, clenched now. My shoulders roll back instinctively, spine straightening as if preparing for battle. Not against her. Never her. Against myself.
If she says yes, I’ll go in.
If she says no—
I’ll lie.
And pretend I never stood here like a starving man at the edge of her world, hoping she'd open the door.
Her door creaks open slow—no hesitation, just quiet certainty—and there she is.
Not a temptress bathed in moonlight. Not the Sin Binder draped in power and prophecy. Just a girl. Barefoot. Swallowed in one of Elias’ hoodies that’s too big for her, sleeves falling past her wrists, the scent of him still clinging faintly to the fabric like static. Her hair is messy, twisted on top of her head in a way that looks accidental, but I know her well enough to recognize the intention behind it. She doesn’t look tired—her bed’s still made, a book open and spine-cracked like it’s been read and reread, set aside only because her mind can’t rest long enough to focus.
Like she’s been waiting.
Or like she knew I’d come.
I clear my throat, and it sounds too loud in the quiet. “I need to know what the rules are.”
She leans against the frame, one hand tucked into the front pocket of the hoodie, the other lifting to push a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes don’t flinch. “There aren’t any,” she says simply. “Take what you want. Leave when you need. Stay if you want to. I don’t expect anything.”
I stare at her. Really stare. Trying to find the strings. The trap. The endgame she’s angling for. But her voice is steady. Unbothered. And that’s what makes it dangerous.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say, more to myself than her. “You’d give yourself to me for nothing? No cost, no expectations? That’s not how things work.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” she says, and it’s not defensive. It’s worse—it’s honest. “Not your love. Not your loyalty. Not your attention the next morning. I offered, Ambrose. BecauseI wanted to. Not because I thought you’d give me something back.”
My hand twitches at my side, like it wants to touch her just to see if she’s real. Just to prove this isn’t some elaborate hallucination conjured by guilt and sleeplessness.
“But why?” I ask her. Not because I need it clarified. Because Idon’tunderstand. Because nothing comes without cost in my world. Nothing is ever truly free. “What do you get out of it?”
She shrugs, the movement subtle beneath Elias’ hoodie. “You. For a night. Maybe a few. Maybe more. Maybe just this one. You get your distraction. I get mine.”
It sounds too clean. Too tidy.
Too easy.
And I don’t trust easy. Easy is a prelude to regret.
But she’s looking at me like she’s already factored that in. Like she’s built her expectations low to spare herself the fall. And that shouldn’t bother me.