Danny stepped out of the therapist’s office, the weight of his session still pressing on his chest. One week without sex. One week without jerking off, without drowning himself in some stranger’s body just to feel something. It was supposed to be simple.

Except it wasn’t. His skin was already itching from the idea of restraint. He could feel the withdrawal creeping in, like a junkie going dry.

He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, exhaling sharply. "It’s just seven days," he muttered to himself. "Seven days of—"

"Hey."

A voice— a female voice— cut through his self-loathing spiral, and he turned, locking eyes with her. And just like that, his so-called recovery crashed and burned in real-time.

She was hot. Stupidly, unfairly, ruinously hot. The kind of beauty that made his stomach tighten and his brain short-circuit. The kind that made his hands twitch because he already wanted to grab.

"Sorry if this is random," she said, stepping closer. "But I just saw you, and I thought—well, I really like your look. You got a number?"

Danny’s mouth went dry. His therapist's words rang in his head like a cruel joke—learn to see women as more than just sex. But how the fuck was he supposed to do that when she was standing there, looking at him like that?

His pulse was already picking up, and it wasn’t from nervousness. It was the rush, the sick need that had ruled him for years. His brain went straight to the worst places—imagining how her voice would sound whispering filth, how her skin would feel under his fingertips, how easily he could have her against a wall—

His jaw clenched. He should say no. He should walk away. He should pretend he had a shred of self-control.

Instead, his hand moved on instinct, digging his phone out of his pocket and handing it over like an obedient dog.

His smirk was forced, his voice hoarse. "Yeah… yeah, sure. Wouldn’t wanna disappoint a pretty girl, right?"

Less than five minutes and he had already screwed up.