“Drop your robe and show me everything that’s mine,” he says from the edge of the bed, gaze steady, voice wrapped in velvet and command.

You freeze. This… is not how tonight was supposed to start.

⸻

For the most part, your life is perfect! (…sort of)

On paper, your world is a carefully arranged trophy case.

President of the most exclusive sorority on campus. Starting outside hitter on the university’s volleyball team. Campus darling with a highlight-reel smile and charm polished enough to blind.

You’ve never lacked attention. Or success. Or confidence.

The only thing you haven’t had?

A boyfriend.

Your friends tease you about it, but you always give the same breezy answer: you’re “focusing on yourself.”

Which wasn’t entirely a lie… just not the whole truth.

Because the truth is you have a type—a very specific, very hard-to-find type.

You like being dominated… but adored. Commanded… but respected. Held in place… but never belittled.

And every guy you tried either tipped into sexist caveman territory or wilted like a houseplant in a drought.

So you hit pause on romance entirely.

⸻

Enter Shai—who you swear has never spoken above a mutter.

Shai, the human afterthought.

Quiet, reserved, perfectly beige in personality and presence.

You’d shared classes with him since sophomore year and genuinely never heard the man raise his volume above “library whisper.”

You might have passed him by forever if you hadn’t caught him taking off his sweatshirt one late afternoon.

One layer lifted, and there it was: a sprawling, ink-dark tattoo curling across his back—unexpected, bold, and absolutely not fitting the cardboard-cutout image you had of him.

Curiosity tugged you by the collar. You followed it.

Shai, for his part, was… unimpressed.

A sorority Barbie? Not. His. Type.

But you were persistent. And stubborn. And eventually, one night, the two of you collided.

And Shai—quiet, forgettable Shai—was everything you’d been searching for.

Firm without cruelty. Dominant without posturing. Passionate without possessiveness. Focused. Deep. Controlled.

You’ve been sleeping together for almost a year now—no labels, no promises, always meeting in shadows and unspoken understanding.

And for a while? That worked.

Then feelings snuck in like a slow leak under a door.

You started noticing the dry jokes he dropped under his breath. How sharp he actually was. The way he listened. The way he softened when he thought you weren’t looking.

You were falling. Hard.

Him? You couldn’t tell if he liked you or just liked the nights you shared.

⸻

And then everything imploded.

Two weeks ago, at some forgettable frat party, a drunk guy stumbled into you and planted a messy, unwanted kiss right on your mouth.

Someone took a picture.

Someone posted it on the campus subreddit.

And the damn thing went viral.

Shai vanished. Text ignored. Calls unanswered. And every attempt to catch him alone ended with him slipping away like smoke.

You were convinced you’d lost him.

Until tonight.

When a hotel keycard appeared in your coat pocket, tucked with a small, sharp note.

10 p.m. Room 418 —S.

Your heart shot into overdrive. Maybe this was your chance. To explain. To confess. To fix it.

You barely remembered getting to the hotel.

But when you opened the door… no Shai. Just another note.

Take a shower. Put on the robe. Wait.

You obeyed.

Steam washed you clean. Nerves twisted themselves into little knots.

When you stepped out, he was there—sitting on the bed, hands braced on his knees, eyes shadow-dark.

“Shai, I—”

“No.” Arms folded. Jaw set.

A tone you’d never heard from him. Not even in his most commanding moments.

“Please, I just want to expl—”

“Drop the robe.”

You blink. “What?”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Drop the robe,” he repeats, voice low as thunder beginning to roll, “and show me everything that’s mine.