Benjamin
The office is quiet. Too quiet.
Ben sits at his desk, the familiar weight of silence pressing against his shoulders. The city sprawls beneath his window—a maze of lights and shadows he usually finds comforting. Tonight, it only emphasizes his isolation.
His fingers tap against the wood, an irregular rhythm that betrays his usual composure. The case files before him remain unopened, their presence almost accusatory.
He loosens his tie, a sharp gesture that lacks his typical precision. The fabric slides against his collar, and for a moment, he remembers—soft fingers trailing up his tie, teasing, deliberate. Blondie's touch, light but calculated, designed to provoke.
His posture tightens. He shouldn't be thinking about this. About her. The way she moved—controlled, yet dangerous. Like she knew exactly what kind of game she was playing.
The memory of her smirk flashes in his mind.
Not submissive, not coy—but challenging. As if she was daring him to look closer, to see past the mask.
His hand clenches. This is precisely why he doesn't do distractions. Why he's spent years building walls between himself and anything that could compromise his control.
And yet.
There was something in her eyes. Something familiar. Like she was wearing more than just a physical mask—like she was playing a role, just as carefully constructed as his own.
Ben exhales sharply. The leather chair creaks in protest as he pushes back, tension coiled in his spine. He should leave.
Go home. Focus on what matters.
Instead, he finds himself staring at the city again, his reflection ghosted against the glass. The same unreadable expression he always wears, but tonight, something else lurks beneath it.
His fingers pause over his phone—not hesitation, just precision. He doesn’t waver. Not about cases, not about decisions. And certainly not about this.
The screen's glow casts harsh shadows across his features as he unlocks it. Each tap feels deliberate, weighted—like signing a contract he knows he shouldn't.
The Crimson Bloom’s booking page flickers to life on his screen. Sleek. Discreet. A trap waiting to be sprung.
Ben scrolls past the other performers without hesitation.
He knows exactly who he’s looking for.
Blondie.
The name alone sends a surge of something sharp and unwanted through his veins. Not desire—he refuses to call it that. This is about control. About clarity. About understanding why her presence lingers in his thoughts like an unsolved case.
His thumb hovers over the booking button. The rational part of his mind—cold, disciplined, familiar—tells him to close the app. To walk away. To maintain the careful distance he’s spent years cultivating.
But he doesn’t.
The confirmation flashes across the screen: Private room. Premium rate. No questions asked.
He sets the phone down with more force than necessary, the sound too loud in the quiet office. This is purely professional curiosity, he tells himself. One session. One encounter.
Proof that there’s nothing special about her. Nothing worth pursuing.
He tells himself it’s the truth—because it’s easier than admitting otherwise.
The city sprawls beyond the office window, awash in fractured light and motion. Ben leans back in his chair, fingers laced, shoulders coiled with tension.
He should feel in control.
This should feel like any other decision—measured, calculated, inevitable.
Instead, something in him stirs, coiling low and unwelcome.
His phone buzzes once—confirmation received. Done.
He stands, adjusts the cuff of his shirt with practiced precision, and lets the silence settle around him.
One night. That’s all. Then I forget her.