Episode 8
Sunlight cuts through the curtains, too sharp for the hour. I blink awake to the weight of an arm draped heavy across my stomach, warm and possessive. I lie still, just listening to the muffled hum of traffic below, to Adam’s steady breathing against the back of my neck.
I should slip out while he’s still asleep. It would be easier that way. No awkward goodbye, no risk of lingering. Just clothes back on, door closed, end of story.
But then he shifts, nuzzles closer, and murmurs, “You’re still here.”
“Didn’t get around to running,” I mutter, voice scratchy.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through my spine. “Good.” His hand flexes against my stomach, anchoring me there.
We lay like that for a while in silence that feels strange and dangerous in its comfort. Then he props himself up on one elbow, hair sticking every which way, eyes bright even in the blur of morning. “Stay for breakfast. Don’t make it complicated.”
“You order room service for all your conquests?” I ask, even though I’m already too comfortable under the sheets, too unwilling to move.
His grin is slow, easy. “No. Just the ones I want to see again.”
His words settle deep in my chest. I cover it with a smirk, but inside, something shifts. The thought of him wanting more—of me wanting more—rattles around my chest, sharp and sweet.
“Careful,” I say, letting the warning curl in my voice. “That sounds dangerously like interest.”
He leans down, presses a kiss against my temple, softer than anything we did last night. “Maybe it is.”
And just like that, the idea of leaving doesn’t feel simple anymore.
The tray arrives twenty minutes later, silver lids and the smell of coffee filling the room.
Adam tips the waiter generously, then shuts the door with his hip like he’s done this a hundred times.
Sitting cross-legged in the sheets, I try not to look like I’m waiting on him, but the moment he sets the tray on the bed, I’m already reaching for the mug.
“Black?” he asks, holding out the sugar and cream like it’s a test.
“Black,” I confirm, taking a long swallow that burns in the best way. “Need it to remind me I’m still alive.”
He smirks, settling across from me, hair a wreck, wearing nothing but a hotel robe. “Pretty sure I already reminded you of that last night.”
“Cocky,” I say around a mouthful of toast.
“Confident,” he corrects, flashing a grin before spearing a piece of fruit with his fork. He offers it across the tray without comment, and before I can think better of it, I lean forward and take it from him. It’s too domestic, too easy, but damn if it doesn’t feel good.
We eat in companionable silence, interrupted only by his dry jokes about the eggs and my muttered complaints about hotel coffee never being hot enough. It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t.
Halfway through, he sets down his fork and leans back against the headboard, studying me. His face has that look again, like I’m not just a distraction, not just a warm body in his bed.
“You were going to leave,” he says, not accusing, just certain.
“Yeah.” No point denying it.
“And you didn’t.”
I shrug and sip my coffee, but my throat’s tight. “The door was too heavy.”
He laughs softly, but it fades quickly. His hand rubs at the back of his neck, uncertain in a way I haven’t seen from him yet. “I don’t usually… care if someone stays. But with you…” He trails off, searching for the words. “It feels different. Like if I let you walk out, I’m going to regret it.”
That sits heavy in the space between us. I should make a joke, deflect like I always do. Instead, I just hold his gaze, feeling something shift in me, dangerous and sweet all at once.
Maybe last night wasn’t just about heat. Maybe, it’s the start of something I don’t know how to name yet.
The coffee is bitter, but it’s grounding.
My body aches the way it always does after a night spent giving too much, chasing heat until I’m wrung out.
Usually, the mornings after blur together—faces I can’t quite recall, names I never learned, encounters that dissolve into the fog thicker than the steam in the bathhouse.
It’s all the same: hunger, release, emptiness.
But this—him—feels different.
Adam leans against the headboard, hair mussed, chest bare, watching me as if he’s memorizing details no one’s ever bothered to. His grin is still wicked, but softer now, as if the night burned off the edges.
I should already be gone. That’s the rhythm I know—slip out, no note, no second look. Pretend it never mattered because it never did.
Only… my body doesn’t want to move. My pulse isn’t racing with the itch to escape.
Last night replays in flashes—his mouth at my throat, the press of his palm at the small of my back, the way he pulled me closer instead of pushing me away when I gave too much of myself.
And now, this morning, there’s nothing transactional in the way he passes me a fork, or teases me about coffee, or meets my eyes like he actually wants to know what’s inside me.
It hits me hard enough that I set the mug down, afraid I’ll drop it.
What if this is my chance? Not just another anonymous fog, not just another hour lost. What if this man, this morning, is the crack in the pattern I didn’t know I was desperate to break?
Something that matters. Something that might last.
“You’re quiet,” Adam says, breaking into my thoughts. He tilts his head, studying me like he’s not afraid of what he’ll see. “That’s not how you were last night.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Too much coffee,” I lie, fingers tapping the rim of the mug.
Adam doesn’t buy it. His eyes linger, sharp but not unkind, like he can peel back the layers I’ve spent years piling on. “No. It’s something else.”
I want to laugh it off, crack a joke, slip back into the role I know. But my chest feels tight, like he’s pressed a hand right over the part of me that never gets touched.
“You look like you’re somewhere far away,” he says softer this time, leaning in until his shoulder brushes mine. “I’d rather you stay here. With me.”
The words are simple, but they land like a stone dropped in still water. My stomach flips, and I can’t look at him, not when he’s close enough that I could kiss him without thinking.
He nudges my knee with his. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
The request is dangerous. No one asks that. No one wants more than my body, the burn of my mouth, the release I can give them. But he’s looking at me like he already knows I’m weighing the risk.
“I don’t…” My throat works around the words. “This—” I gesture between us. “It’s not usually like this in the morning.”
Adam’s mouth curves, not smug, not teasing, just warm. “Good. Then let’s not do usual.”
My tongue feels clumsy, like it’s forgotten how to work. The easy answer would be to kiss him, to let my mouth do the talking the way it always has. But if I dodge this, I’ll regret it.
“I’ve… been with a lot of guys,” I admit, eyes fixed on the coffee swirling in my mug. “Most of the time, it all just… blends together. Faces. Names. Rooms. Doesn’t matter. It’s all the same.”
Adam doesn’t flinch. He just waits, steady and patient.
I risk a glance at him. “But you…” My chest aches. “You stand out. Last night—this morning—it feels different. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing saying this.”
His hand comes down on mine, fingers warm, certain. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t claim, just rests there like an anchor. “You don’t have to know what you’re doing,” he says. “You just have to decide if you want more.”
My pulse hammers in my throat. “And if I do?”
Adam leans in until our foreheads touch, his voice a breath between us. “Then we figure it out. Together.”
The simple promise knocks the air from my lungs. I close my eyes, and for the first time in a long while, the fog clears.
I tip my face up, and his lips are right there. The first brush is almost shy, like we’re both afraid to break whatever spell is holding us. But when his hand slides to the back of my neck, I open to him, and the kiss sharpens into something hungrier.
The coffee cools on the table, forgotten. His mouth tastes faintly of it, bitter and sweet, and when his tongue teases against mine, I groan into him.
Adam pulls me into his lap, my thighs straddling him, and the morning light spilling in through the curtains paints everything in shades of gold. His hands roam slow but deliberate, up my back, down to my hips, slipping under the hem of my shirt.
“I could get used to this,” he murmurs against my mouth, and the words set me on fire.
I push against him, grinding until he gasps, until I feel the hard proof of what he wants pressing against me. His grip tightens, dragging me closer, and the kiss breaks only long enough for both of us to catch a ragged breath.
Then I give in, rocking against him, the need curling tighter and tighter until it feels inevitable.
Adam’s hands are everywhere, not greedy, not rushed, just thorough. He cups my jaw when he kisses me, thumbs grazing the edges of my mouth like he’s memorizing me by touch alone. Then he drags his fingers into my hair and tugs just enough to pull a gasp out of me.
I kiss him harder, chasing that gasp into his mouth. He laughs softly against my lips, the sound vibrating through me, and I kiss him again to steal it away.
My shirt gets peeled over my head, slow, his knuckles grazing my skin as he works it free.
He doesn’t toss it aside. He drops it neatly on the chair by the table, like he’s not willing to ruin the moment with careless movements.
Then he leans back just enough to look at me, his eyes roaming, lingering, darkening.
The weight of his gaze makes me shiver. “God, Luca…” His voice is roughened by sleep and want, and it does something to me I can’t explain.