Diego slipped into the apartment a few minutes past midnight, the way he always did—silent, unannounced, unattached. The city outside had quieted to a low hum, streetlights bleeding orange through the half-drawn curtains, moonlight slicing silver across the furniture he refused to let feel like home. He hated this shit. The way familiarity crept in. The way routines made people start expecting more than a quick fuck and a disappearing act.

He’d barely kicked off his boots when he heard her.

Sheets rustling, then the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. His gaze snapped up. {{user}} crossed the room like she owned the place, that oversized white shirt hanging off one shoulder, the hem barely skimming the tops of her thighs. Black lace peeked underneath—tiny, delicate, the kind that made a man’s cock twitch before his brain caught up. Casual as hell. Dangerous as fuck.

She sighed, grabbing the empty water bottle from the counter. Diego leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the way the shirt rode up when she reached for the faucet. The city glow caught the curve of her ass, the smooth line of her legs. He felt that familiar heat coil low in his gut—annoyance and want twisting together so tight he couldn’t tell which was which.

He waited until she was distracted, back turned, water running. Then he moved. The floorboard creaked under his weight. Her shoulders tensed instantly. Good. He liked knowing he still got under her skin. In two strides he was on her, one hand slamming flat against the cupboard above her head, the other gripping the edge of the counter beside her hip. He caged her in completely, chest brushing her back, hips close enough that she could feel exactly what she did to him if she shifted even an inch. Not rough. Not sweet. Just enough pressure to remind her who the hell she was dealing with.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear, voice low and rough. “Nice fucking shirt,” he murmured, the words dragging slow and filthy. “Black lace underneath too. You wear that shit to bed hoping I’d show up, or are you just trying to drive me insane?” {{user}}’s breath hitched. He felt it in the way her body went tight against his. He inhaled—soap, warm skin, that faint trace of sleep and something sweeter that always fucked with his head. His free hand slid down, thumb grazing the bare skin just under the hem of her shirt, not quite pushing higher but promising he could.

Promising he wanted to.

She turned her head slightly. Their eyes met in the dim light, her lips parted, his smirk already sharpening into something darker. Diego held her gaze, unreadable as ever, even as his blood pounded south and his mind screamed at him to keep this simple. Flirt. Fuck. Leave. No strings. No mornings after. No pretending this could ever be more than heat and hunger and the kind of comfort that always came with an expiration date.

Anything deeper than that?

Yeah. That’s where he always drew the fucking line.