Roisin's POV

The first thing I notice is the quiet.

Not the kind you get in my apartment, with the hum of a fridge and Nichole snoring down the hall. This quiet is deeper, heavier. The kind that makes your heart pound louder just to fill the space.

Then I feel warmth beside me.
Steady breathing.

My eyes open to gray light spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline stretches across the horizon, still hazy from dawn. I blink, disoriented, my brain fighting through fragments of memory—the club, the dance, his hand on my back, the ride in the car, the city glowing outside the window—

Oh God.

I sit up fast, the sheets sliding down my bare skin. My stomach twists. What did I do?

He's still asleep. On his side, one arm bent under the pillow, the other resting loosely near where I was a moment ago. His face looks different in sleep—less sharp, almost peaceful. The arrogance I saw in the club is gone, replaced by something human.

For a moment, I just look at him. There's something about the sight that makes my chest ache, though I can't say why.

Then reality crashes back.

I have to go.

Quietly, I slide out of bed and gather my clothes from the floor, wincing at every rustle. My red dress lies tangled near the window, looking far too bright in the pale morning light. I pull it on, my hands shaking slightly, and catch my reflection in the glass.

I look like a stranger.

My hair's a mess, my lipstick is gone, and my eyes... they look different. Softer. Sadder.

I turn away.

My heels are near the door. I pick them up instead of putting them on. The marble floor is cold under my feet, but I don't care. I just want to leave before he wakes—before he looks at me and I see regret in his eyes.

The elevator ride down feels endless. My heart beats in my throat, loud in the silence.

When the doors finally open to the empty lobby, I breathe again. The morning air outside is cool, damp from last night's rain. The city is still half-asleep.

I walk barefoot down the block, the heels dangling from my fingers. My skin still smells faintly of him—warm spice and whiskey and something I can't name.

It should mean nothing.
It has to mean nothing.

It was one night.
That's all.

At least, that's what I tell myself.