If only he wasn’t married. The thought settles in my chest before I can push it away. Images surface without permission, his hands, the steady way he looks at me, the quiet intensity in his voice when he says my name.
Stop.
I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of the silence in the room. The low hum of the air conditioner. The small distance between us that feels thinner than it should. He returns with a glass of water and places it in my hand. Our fingers brush and my pulse jumps. So this is what choosing myself looks like. Standing in another man’s hotel room, pretending the reason I’m here is something simple.
Do I do this? Am I really capable of becoming the same kind of person who just shattered my life?
A homewrecker.
The word settles heavily in my chest. Make the decision, Sera. My heart beats louder with every second that passes. I exhale slowly. No. I can’t do this. I won’t become the thing that just destroyed me. It’s wrong. All of it. I open my mouth, ready to say something sensible. Something responsible. Something that sounds like the version of me who believes in restraint and moral high ground.
Before I can speak, he exhales quietly.
“Abby isn’t my wife,” he says.
My brow furrows.
“My brother,” he adds. “Abraham. Abby’s just… what we call him.” The words take a second to settle. “He’s the one who called me.”
Everything inside me pauses. “What?”
The air between us shifts. Guilt arrives first. Relief follows right behind it, sharp, almost embarrassing. He sits beside me on the edge of the bed. Not touching. Just close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. Our eyes meet. My lips part slightly, like I’m about to tell him to step away, to remind both of us that this is a terrible idea. But the words never come.
He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room worth noticing. “God,” he murmurs softly, almost like the words surprised him. “You’re beautiful.”
The compliment doesn’t hit all at once. It spreads slowly through me. Like oxygen reaching somewhere that’s been starved of it. Dominic hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time. Maybe he never did. My heartbeat stumbles. This is the kind of moment that changes things and it’s exactly the kind of moment I promised myself I wouldn’t allow.
Before I can decide, before I can choose logic over loneliness, his hand brushes my cheek. Soft, tentative, giving me time to pull away. I don’t. His lips touch mine. Slow at first, testing, asking. And for one terrifying, electric second, I forget everything.
My shirt falls down both arms, I lean back to his hold. His mouth grazes down my neck as I tip my head back. His hands found my waist, and I bucked my hips off the bed to help him remove my socks, my jeans. He deepened the kiss, and I wrapped my legs around his back, hooking him closer. He tore his lips from my mouth to my neck, where he dragged his teeth and tongue down my skin as his hands went up, up, to cup my breasts.
His mouth eats me up, moving over me, kissing the corners of my mouth and nibbling the flesh of my bottom lip, and I put my hand on his and guide him down, pushing him to the V between my legs. His kissing falters as he gasps. And for one suspended second, I melt into it. Into the warmth. Into the feeling of being wanted instead of discarded.
But then, he freezes.
His hand tightens slightly at my waist before pulling back like he’s touched something that burns. Forehead resting lightly against mine, breathing uneven. “Fuck,” he exhales under his breath. Guilt flashesacross his face. Not regret for me, but something deeper. Something older.
“I shouldn’t…” he murmurs. And suddenly I don’t know which one of us he’s trying to protect. The room feels smaller. Air is heavier. My lips still tingle and I realize this might be worse than if he hadn’t stopped at all.
“I—” My voice breaks. “I’m sorry. This is a mistake.”
I’m stuttering now. God. Pull it together, Sera. The ache inside me comes rushing back like it never left. Tight. Crushing. Tears burn my eyes before I can stop them. Tears. Fucking tears. I swipe at them angrily, but it’s too late. He looks at me like I’m broken. Not disgusted. Not annoyed.
Broken.
Like I’m something fragile that fell off a shelf and he’s trying to decide how to put the pieces back together. That almost makes it worse. His thumb brushes under my eye, wiping away a tear slowly. Gently. Like I might shatter if he moves too fast.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says quietly. “This is probably the most cliché thing I’ll say tonight, but… sometimes things happen for a reason.”
A small, shaky laugh slips out of me. “Either that,” I whisper, “or things happen for no reason at all.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. Then he shrugs, thoughtful. “Maybe we decide that part,” he says. “If you believe things happen for a reason, then they do. Your brain will connect the dots until the story makes sense.”
I blink. “…What?”
His mouth curves faintly. “If you believe it’s all random chaos, then that’s what it becomes too,” he adds. “We’re pretty good at shaping our own realities.”
So he’s handsome and thoughtful. Despite myself, I laugh. A real one this time, small, but real. It loosens something tight in my chest. He’s still close. Still warm. Still looking at me like I’m something worth understanding instead of discarding which might be the most dangerous thing of all.