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“Where the fuck am I? Mayberry?” The words spilled out of my mouth, laced with a venomous grog I didn’t recognize as my own. The whistling in the kitchen cut off abruptly, as if startled by the presence of something feral—me.
Footsteps approached, a familiar cadence that set my teeth on edge. Then there he was, Mr. High-and-Mighty, sauntering over with a smirk plastered on his bruised face, a cup of coffee in his hand, and not a care in the world.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he drawled, extending the cup as if it were a peace offering. Or maybe a white flag. As if anything could be that simple between us.
I snatched the coffee from him, the ceramic warm against my fingers. I eyed him suspiciously, taking in his casual stance, the way his brown eyes seemed to mock the state I was in. Trusting this man was like playing Russian roulette with all chambers loaded.
“Damn, you look like shit.” His voice held a hint of amusement before he turned away, dismissing my wrecked appearance as just another fact of life.
I took a sip of the bitter liquid, feeling its heat trail down my throat, scorching a path that did nothing to ease the chaos raging inside my skull. I eyed Weston, his figure clad in jeans and a plain T-shirt. Casual. Too fucking casual. Like he was any regular Joe and not some suit-clad shark.
“How’s the nose?” His voice cut through the kitchen clatter.
“It fucking hurts,” I said. Short, sweet and to the point.
“Can you breathe?”
“Unfortunately.” The word dragged out, laced with sarcasm.
The sounds of his movements, the clinks and clatters. They were background noise as I pushed off the couch. Muscles protested. Head spun. Fuck.
“Good, at least it’s not broken.” His tone, matter-of-fact, held no hint of sympathy.
I stood there, swaying slightly, grasping onto the semblance of normalcy that the coffee offered. Meanwhile, Weston played house in a reality where neither of us belonged.
I shuffled down the hallway, the ache in my head a relentless companion. Weston’s voice trailed after me, casual and fucking annoying. “Go into my bedroom. There are clothes and a toothbrush for you.”
I paused, hesitation gripping me.
“Cynthia isn’t here,” he added, as if that was supposed to make a damn difference.
Stepping into the sanctum that was Weston’s bedroom felt like trespassing into enemy territory. His space, his rules, his life—laid bare for me to see. The bed was meticulous, not a crease on the duvet, and there, on the foot of it, were folded clothes that screamed of Weston’s touch. My gaze flicked to the nightstand, sleek and minimalistic, just like the man himself. It held a black iPad that looked like it had never known the warmth of human hands. Curiosity itched beneath my skin, a demand that refused to be ignored. I reached out, fingers closing around the cool metal, swiping to unlock the device.
It yielded under my touch, no passcode barrier. A silent invitation or a forgotten precaution? Didn’t matter. I was in. I flicked through the apps, swiping with a bit more force than necessary. It wasn’t like Weston to leave things unguarded. His whole damn life was a fortress. And there I was, in his bedroom, thumbing through his digital secrets.
“Googling?” Weston’s voice cut through the silence, a smirk audible, even without seeing his face.
I didn’t look up, just kept scrolling. “I’m looking for your porn history. I wanna know what you watch to get your rocks off.” The words tasted like venom on my tongue, but they were dripping with sarcasm.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Weston lean into the doorframe; the wood creaking under his weight as he crossed his arms over his chest—a casual display of the muscles underneath his shirt. “I stopped watching porn the day I snuck into your room and watched you beat your cock,” he said, each word deliberate and heavy with imagery. “It’s been playing on repeat in my head ever since.”
My head turned slowly, eyes dragging up from the iPad to meet his gaze. “Bummer,” I replied, lips curling into a half-smirk, half-snarl. “You should’ve filmed me. You know how memory gets in old age.”
Weston’s brown eyes held mine, dark and unwavering. There was no chuckle, no movement—just the stillness of a man who knew how deep his confession dug.
He shrugged, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face like he’d won some silent victory. “I can always make more memories,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges.
A thrill shot through me, raw and unbidden. This was our thing, a word duel as intense and electric as the air crackling between us.
“Shower. Breakfast is almost ready.” It wasn’t a request.
The scent wafting from the kitchen was enough to remind me I was fucking starving. I stalked into the bathroom, every muscle in my body screaming from last night’s brawl. The new toothbrush sat on the counter, still encased in its sterile prison. Ripping it open felt like tearing through the last semblance of civility I had left, and the bristles were cold against my teeth, scraping away the grime of the night before.
My reflection was a mess—hair tangled, eyes bloodshot, and the remnants of my bloody nose crusted onto my shirt. Peeling off the filthy rags felt like shedding a second skin, one that reeked of violence and bad decisions. Fabric hit the tile with a slap, and I stepped into the shower, letting scalding water cascade over me. The sting was a welcome punishment, searing away the pain, if only for a moment. Steam filled the room, clouding the mirror and wrapping around me like a shroud. With every water drop that hit my skin, I could feel last night’s bullshit wash away, down the drain with all the other shit I didn’t want to think about.
The water slid down my back, sending shivers through me as the shower’s warmth still clung to my skin. Stepping out, steam enveloped me like a ghostly mist after a crazy battle. The mirror was all fogged up, so I smudged it with my hand, making a small circle to check out the mess. I eyed the bruises on my torso, a few scattered across my skin. I made a silent vow to rip the asshole who knocked me the fuck out a new one the next time I saw him.
Dark, angry bruises covered me, stark against my pale skin. They were souvenirs from the brawl last night, each one a vow for revenge. That club guy who threw punches at me would soon regret it. Dragging the towel over my torso, I stepped out of the bathroom and locked my eyes on the sweats and hoodie Weston had left for me. My fingers grazed the soft fabric, pulling it on over my damp skin. It hung loose on my frame—Weston’s size, not mine—and it swallowed me whole, the way his touch and kiss did. No matter how hard I tried to fight it. I buried my nose in the sleeve, inhaling deep. It was clean, sure, but laced underneath was the unmistakable scent of him—something expensive and sharp, just like the man himself.Fucking Weston.
