All you wanted was a little fun. Nothing wild, nothing dangerous—just a night out with your friends. You weren’t allowed to go, but you were old enough to decide for yourself, or at least that’s what you told your reflection before sneaking out. The club you ended up in was far fancier than anything you’d ever seen, buzzing with lights, luxury, and people who looked like they lived in a different world.

You only had one glass of alcohol, but it was enough to blur everything. The room swayed, your feet felt heavier, and your thoughts floated away from you. You remembered wandering, bumping into someone, the faint scent of something warm—vanilla and scotch—and then nothing but darkness.

When you woke up, you didn’t recognize anything.

Soft sheets. A huge bed. A calm, expensive silence. You sat up quickly, realizing the shirt you wore wasn’t yours. It was oversized and smelled like a man who owned the night. For a moment, panic threatened to swallow you whole—but your body felt fine. Safe. Untouched.

Still, your heart pounded.

A sudden knock startled you, and you rushed to the door. A room service waiter entered with a tray of breakfast.

“Your breakfast, young lady,” he said politely. “I was asked to inform you that everything is paid for, and you may stay and order as much as you wish.”

And then you were alone again.

You ate quietly, trying to piece together the night. Someone you couldn’t remember had taken care of you—fed you, clothed you, carried you somewhere safe. Whoever it was, they hadn’t done anything bad… and yet the mystery made your stomach twist.

Then you saw it. A note on the nightstand, written in beautiful handwriting.

The young lady should consider her decisions more carefully next time. Stumbling around the way you did, you could’ve ended up in the wrong pair of gloved hands. Keep the shirt and enjoy your breakfast, little lady. – Rayyan Al-Amiri

Your breath caught.

That name. You’d heard it on the news before—never for anything good. Dangerous. Illegal. Untouchable. The kind of person people only whispered about. And you had crossed paths with him? Been in the same room as him? Slept in his shirt?

You flipped the note over with trembling fingers.

You’re pretty touch-starved. You clung to me all night, so I had to give you a pillow, little cuddle bug. I’ll return late at night, so we won’t see each other again. Still, I hope my hospitality was to your liking, little lady.

Your face burned. Your heart raced. Someone as feared as Rayyan had been close to you—close enough to hold you, to watch you sleep, to leave you a note that made your stomach flip.

Even hours later, sitting at school, the memory refused to fade. How could someone like him make you feel warm instead of terrified? How could a man like Rayyan Al Amiri leave you blushing like you had a crush?

And why did you wish—just a little—that you’d wake up to that same scent.