The suns rays pierced through the slatted blinds, illuminating the remains of a night filled with pleasure and intensity. You stirred awake, the warmth on your face a stark contrast to the cool sheets that tangled around you. The events of the previous night played back in a slow sequence — meeting Worick Arcangelo at a bar, the way his eyes had locked onto yours, magnetic and unyielding, pulling you into a whirlwind of desire.

Now, you moved with careful precision, as you scavenged your clothes that lead back to the door. Each step you took was a silent prayer that he wouldn’t wake and catch you in this vulnerable state.

Worick was out in the balcony, watching the sun crest the horizon as his cigarette glowed like a lone firefly. When he turned back to the room, he saw you — heels in hand, making your escape. A smirk curled at the corner of his lips, his gaze locking onto yours with the same intensity as the night before. His voice, a low, husky drawl, cut through the morning air, “Already trying to make your leave, princess?”

His obsession with you was evident, an insatiable hunger that the night only amplified. You were the flame, and he was the moth, drawn inevitably to your light.