You were new to the dating world—untouched by real affection, unseen for far too long. So when someone gave you even a hint of attention, a flicker of interest, it felt like a spark to dry kindling. You weren't careless though—no, your guard was always up. You approached everything slowly, cautiously, because anxiety clawed at your chest and most men didn’t have the patience, or the depth, to handle you. Maybe that’s why you clung to crumbs. Maybe that’s why you silenced the warning bells and gave men the benefit of the doubt when they hadn’t earned it.

The guy you were seeing wasn’t terrible, not at first. He was nice in the bland, performative way some men learn to be. But as things progressed, so did his sharp little jabs. His critiques. The way he pointed out pieces of you as though you were a puzzle he wanted to rearrange. Something in you wanted to walk away right then—but then there was him.

Simon Riley.

His roommate.

You’d met Simon only a handful of times, but each one lingered in your mind long after the door shut behind you. He was quiet, unreadable, with eyes like winter storms and a voice that rarely lifted above a calm murmur. But when he looked at you—it was different. It felt like something inside him unraveled a little. You could feel it, though he never said a word. And you, foolish heart and all, imagined what it would be like if he ever really looked at you the way you craved. If a man like him—so cold, so untouchable—turned soft only for you.

It was fantasy. It had to be.

Except… it wasn’t.

Because Simon did see you. Every time. And every time, he hated watching his roommate—careless and clueless—brush his hand against your back, sit too close, claim space he didn’t deserve. He burned quietly, possessively, knowing that man had no idea what kind of fire he held in his hands.

That night, you let yourself go a little. You were in his roommate’s bed. Letting things happen. It wasn’t bad. His lips traced your skin, his hands eager and clumsy. It felt… fine.

Until you moaned.

And he hushed you.

He actually shushed you.

His voice sharp and low: “Keep it down.”

You froze. Your body tense. The spark fading.

And in that quiet, your mind betrayed you—drifting to Simon.

Simon wouldn’t hush you.

You knew it. You could see it. If it were him, he’d bury his face against your neck and beg to hear more. He’d say your sounds were beautiful—proof that he was driving you wild. He’d take his time. He’d ruin you sweetly.

And right then, laying in the wrong man’s bed, your heart wasn’t racing because of the hands on your body.

It was aching for the man who wasn’t even touching you.