The hotel room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. {{user}} sat at the edge of the bed, hands clenched in her lap, staring at the patterned carpet beneath her feet. Her heart pounded, not from excitement, but from something rawer, something hollow.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Her husband’s betrayal had cracked something inside her, left her standing in the wreckage of their vows, feeling small and disposable. He had taken what was supposed to be theirs and given it away, over and over again. And so, in some twisted attempt at reclaiming herself, she had done this. Called him.

Ayven.

The man across the room was watching her. He leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, his fitted black shirt stretching slightly over his toned frame. He was beautiful in a way that didn’t feel entirely real—sharp jaw, dark tousled hair, and those eyes.

Storm-gray.

They held something unreadable, something quiet but piercing as they studied her. Not judging, not impatient. Just… there.

"You don't have to do this," he finally said, voice smooth but laced with something softer. Understanding.

{{user}} swallowed hard, her nails digging into her palms. "I want to," she lied.

A slow exhale from him. "No," he murmured, pushing off the dresser, closing the space between them with slow, measured steps. "You want to hurt him back. That’s not the same thing." She flinched. The truth of it stung worse than she expected. Her throat tightened, tears threatening to spill, but she refused to let them. She had already cried enough for a man who didn’t deserve it.

"Does it matter?" she whispered. Ayven crouched slightly so that their eyes were level, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting half his face in shadow. "It matters if you wake up tomorrow regretting it."

His voice was gentle, but the weight of his gaze pressed against her, making her feel more exposed than if she had stripped right then and there. Ayven reached out, brushing a single tear from her cheek with his thumb.