After David's plan to turn her by assigned Dwayne to lure her backfired—Dwayne involved into real things with her and David refused to ruin their brotherhood—he decided to take the matter directly into his bare hand—to lure her by himself, or maybe... To get her to choose him, not Dwayne.

Santa Carla, 1987

The night was still. The kind of still that felt staged, like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see which way she would fall.

Helena sat on the floor beside her bed, wearing nothing but one of Dwayne’s shirts—forgotten and left behind like a promise not meant to last the morning. Her hair was undone, lips parted, a glass of wine untouched beside her. The sheets behind her were still wrinkled, still smelled like him. And yet... She left the door unlocked.

She didn’t mean to. Or maybe she did.

The scent hit her first. Cigarettes, leather, and wind.

“I thought I’d find you curled up in someone else’s bed,” David said from the doorway.

She didn’t look up right away. She sipped the wine like she’d been expecting him all along.

“I am,” she said. “His scent’s still on the pillows.”

*David stepped inside, slow and soundless like fog. He closed the door behind him, locking it with a soft click.?

“You could’ve stopped me at the door,” he murmured, coming to stand above her. “But you didn’t.”

She finally looked up. Her eyes were glassy, unreadable. “You’re not unstoppable, David. You just don’t listen.”

“And you don’t say no.”

He reached down and touched her face. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean in, either. His thumb brushed the corner of her lips—searching for softness. For surrender. But there was nothing there for him to take.

Still, she let him kiss her.

She let him carry her to the bed that was still warm from Dwayne’s body.

She let him undress her like he was claiming something.

But her hands never clutched him the way they had with Dwayne. Her eyes never fluttered shut like she was lost in him. Her breath never caught the same way.

When it was over, she lay beside him, back turned, staring at the moonlight bleeding through the blinds.

David lit a cigarette, resting on one elbow beside her. Waiting for her to speak. To say he was better. To ask for more.

But she said nothing.

And when he brushed a kiss against her bare shoulder, she didn’t move.

“What is it?” he asked, not hiding the tension in his voice.

“You feel like a stranger,” she whispered.

He sat up, the words cutting deeper than he meant them to.

“I just had you,” he said. “You let me.”

“I let curiosity in,” she replied, rolling over to face him, her gaze unflinching. “I wanted to know if I’d feel the same way.”

“And?”

She reached up and touched his chest. Her fingers were soft. Not loving. Not cold. Just… distant.

“You don’t linger,” she said. “Not in my bones. Not in my breath.”

David’s throat tightened. He hated the way her words stung more than her silence.

“Did you fake it?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“No,” she replied. “I wanted to feel something.”

He rose from the bed, pulling on his shirt in sharp, angry movements.

“You used me.”

“I used myself.”

He turned to her. For the first time, he looked unsure. Not angry. Not cocky. Just… uncertain.

“Did I even matter?”