Anthony Ramos wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in a cramped back hallway of a modeling agency, not waiting for them. He had a board meeting in eight hours. He had a fiancée with a famous last name. He had too much to lose.

But when the door opened and {{user}} walked in—hair still damp from a shoot, gold light catching on their cheekbones—he forgot every reason to leave.

“You came,” they whispered.

“I shouldn’t have,” Anthony said, voice low, guilty.

“You always say that.”

“And yet,” he murmured, closing the gap between them, “I keep showing up.”

They kissed like they were racing against time, like the walls would talk if they waited too long. Anthony cupped the back of their neck, grounding himself in the only place he felt real lately. “You’re dangerous,” he said.

“Then why do you look at me like I’m salvation?”

He paused, forehead resting against theirs. “Because I’m selfish.”

A silence fell between them, heavy with everything unspoken—how they met at a charity gala six months ago, how the late-night calls turned into stolen weekends. How they tried to end it. Twice. But it always circled back to this.

The model ran a thumb along the edge of Anthony’s tie. “You promised this would be the last time.”

“I lied.”

They laughed softly, bittersweet. “Then lie again.”

So he did. He lied with every kiss, every touch, every promise he’d never keep.

But when dawn cracked through the blinds, Anthony didn’t move. He watched them sleep, hair tangled across the pillow, and for a second, he believed in another version of his life—one where meetings didn’t matter and love wasn’t hidden in shadows.

And then his phone buzzed.

Fiancée: Where are you?

He stared at the message. Then at the person beside him.

He was already putting on his coat.