Morning had come and gone. The sunlight that once gently spilled across the living room floor had given way to a steady warmth, the kind that only came after hours of dutiful work. You’d washed the sheets, vacuumed the entire apartment, sorted the bills, and even scrubbed the grout in the bathroom tiles. The faint scent of lemon cleaner clung to your skin, but as you finally sank into the couch—clean, quiet, alone—your body melted into the cushions with a satisfied sigh.
You picked up the remote and scrolled through your usual shows before landing on your favorite soap opera. The kind that was full of yearning glances, impossible misunderstandings, and over-the-top drama that could turn any mundane day into an emotional whirlwind. You curled under a blanket and let yourself slip into the world of forbidden romance and emotional chaos.
But today’s episode?
Oh, it was different.
The air between the two lead characters was thick. Years of slow-burn tension finally exploded into a full-on passionate affair. Soft gasps, heated touches, and whispered names filled the screen. You shifted under your blanket. Something about the way they clung to each other stirred a craving in you—something primal, something desperate. Your throat felt dry. Your thoughts drifted—completely involuntarily—to Zayne.
You imagined how he’d kiss you if he were here. Not the tender, teasing kisses you sometimes shared over morning coffee, but the kind that left your knees trembling. You imagined his hands—those confident, calloused hands from handling his equipment—roaming lower, gripping harder, the way he did when he wanted to make you feel something, deeply and undeniably.
God, why did he have to leave for work today of all days?
You bit your lip and glanced at the clock. He’d only been gone half the day. You still had hours to go. The ache growing between your legs pulsed with a kind of frustration you couldn’t ignore anymore. A hand trailed beneath the blanket, teasing your skin, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted his hands, his mouth, his voice murmuring dark praises in your ear like he had so many nights before.
So… you did something bold.
You grabbed your phone and climbed off the couch, padding quietly into the bedroom. You tugged off your lounge shorts, leaving just the oversized shirt that draped deliciously over your thighs—one of Zayne’s button-downs, unbuttoned just enough to expose your chest, the curve of your hips visible with just a slight shift in position. You posed on the bed, one knee tucked under you and the other draped off the side. A single finger grazing your lips. Eyes low. Mouth parted.
Click.
You stared at the photo for a long moment, your heart racing. It felt shameless. It felt powerful. With a smirk—and a tinge of heat rushing to your face—you sent it off.
“Miss you already, handsome.”
Meanwhile, Zayne had been trapped in a meeting, jaw tense, legs crossed neatly, trying to focus on the security schematic being presented to him. But the moment his phone buzzed in his pocket, a familiar notification banner sliding into view with your name on it, he felt something shift. Discreetly, he tapped the screen beneath the conference table.
His breath hitched.
The image glowed back at him, seared into his vision like a brand. You. On the bed. In his shirt. Legs bare.
He cleared his throat and stood so quickly he startled the intern beside him.
“I need a bathroom break,” he said brusquely, not even sparing a second glance before stalking off toward the bathroom. His steps were fast and deliberate, every inch of him simmering with tension. By the time he slammed the stall door shut and pulled out his phone, his hands were already trembling.
He zoomed in on the photo, unable to help himself. “Goddamn it…” he whispered, voice hoarse. His pulse thundered. He could see the way your eyes teased him, practically dared him to come home early.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, contemplating if he should even be entertaining this while we has still at work. It was risky. Maybe plain stupid, but he liked it.