The night was unusually quiet.

Rain tapped gently against the closed window, a soft rhythm that filled the silence like a lullaby for the city. Smoke curled through the room in lazy spirals, clinging to the air, to the sheets, to your skin. It was sharp, familiar, and oddly comforting—like the man who stood by the window, half-dressed and wholly unapologetic.

Stanley.

His torso was bare, muscles relaxed, cigarette balanced between two fingers as he stared out into the dark. The glow of the city lights reflected in his golden eyes, but his thoughts were elsewhere—still tangled in the sheets behind him, in the heat that hadn’t yet faded from the room.

It was ironic.

Minutes ago, he’d been a storm—fierce, relentless, driven by something primal. Now he was calm, composed, as if the chaos had never happened. You, on the other hand, could barely sit up. Your legs trembled, your body still humming with the memory of him. The sheets clung to you like a second skin, warm and damp and undeniably marked.

You were a mess.

But you didn’t care.

Because he turned then, slowly, deliberately, and looked at you.

His smile was subtle—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth—but his eyes said everything. They raked over you with brazen satisfaction, possessive and proud. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… his.

You were his mess.

And he loved it.