The kitchen is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the stovetop light. The air is thick—too warm, too heavy, too full of something that should have never happened.

My hands are on Rihanna’s waist, her body pinned against the counter, my lips still on her neck, breath hot, skin burning. Her nails dig into my back, and for a moment, nothing else exists but this—the rush, the heat, the mistake I told myself I’d never make.

And then—the sound of a sharp inhale.

Everything stops.

I freeze. Rihanna freezes.

And I feel her. Before I even turn my head, I know.

She’s there. My girl.

„Fuck“

Standing in the doorway, eyes wide, face pale, her hands trembling at her sides. She saw everything. For a second, no one moves.

The room is too quiet. No yelling, no crashing, no accusations. Just the unbearable silence of something breaking.

I step back, my chest tightening, my mouth opening—but what the fuck can I even say?

„Darling it’s not…“

Her eyes flick between us—between my hands still on Rihanna’s waist, Rihanna’s swollen lips, the guilt painted all over my face. And then?