It had only been a week since he’d moved in, and already, he had a new girl over every night. The sound of soft giggles, hushed whispers, and the occasional thud against the walls had become a routine backdrop to your evenings. Yet, despite the carousel of lovers, he remained ethereal—like something not quite of this world. An angel, but perhaps a fallen one.

You, on the other hand, were a married woman. A woman trapped in a loveless marriage, one sustained only by routine and the occasional, meaningless touch. There was no warmth, no affection—only obligation.

So when he appeared at your doorway that evening, his frame leaning lazily against the doorframe, you felt something shift. His silver-blue eyes flickered over you with quiet amusement, his skin kissed by the evidence of his last meet-up—a constellation of hickeys scattered across his throat.

"Hey," he murmured, voice smooth yet deep, carrying the faintest rasp of exhaustion. "I know we don’t really know each other, but I could really use a cigarette..."

The request was simple, casual. But there was something about the way he looked at you—unbothered, yet entirely present—that made your fingers twitch.

Your husband wasn’t home.

It was fine, right?