Page 45 of Depths of Desire
No ticking clock, no clatter of neighbors, just stillness. The kind that made you aware of your own heartbeat.
I didn’t open my eyes right away. The warmth of the sheets still clung to my skin, a soft envelope around sore muscles.
His name echoed in the silence like I’d said it aloud. He was here all the same, burned into my consciousness, painted before my eyes.
I should’ve gotten up.
This was the part where I usually reset. Get out of bed, make coffee, stretch, and get a head start on training or catching classes. Clean the slate. Control the narrative.
Instead, I pulled the blanket tighter over my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined him sprawled on my bed. He had my address. He had my invitation. Any day now, or night, he would be here.
When I finally dragged myself out of the warmth of the bed, I moved through my apartment like I was underwater, slow and clumsy and half-aware. My body went through the motions, turning on the kettle, opening the fridge, pulling eggs and spinach for a quick scramble, but my brain lagged behind like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the night was over.
The water didn’t even finish boiling before I turned it off. I cracked two eggs straight into a cold pan and stood there staring at them, yolks intact in a puddle of clear, unmoving whites. I forgot to oil the pan. Forgot to turn on the burner. I rubbed a hand down my face and started over.
My back ached from sleeping off-center, too long on one side of the mattress. Stretching usually helped. This morning, I forgot half the sequence and skipped right past the hamstrings. Didn’t breathe through the shoulder hold.
I’d slept like a man who didn’t want to wake up.
Little flashes kept cutting through the routine—Lennox, topless, grinning like he couldn’t help himself. The soft rasp in his voice when he said my name. The way he had drifted off beside me without armor, one hand loosely resting on my stomach like he’d forgotten there was a boundary there at all.
None of this was supposed to happen.
I leaned over the counter and stared at the tile, gripping the edge until my knuckles went white.
It was a mistake. That’s what I told myself. That was the deal going in. I needed release, he was there, we had chemistry, fine. I was allowed that much. One night. One outlet. No stakes.
But then he had kissed me like we were falling. And I had kissed him back like I didn’t care if we landed.
I tried to reason it out: my body had needed it, the pressure had built too high, and I’d cracked for a second. Nothing permanent. A lapse in control. But the excuses felt thin and flimsy like wet paper slapped over a fracture in concrete.
Anyone could have given me that release. The truth was, I didn’t want just anyone. I wanted him.
His voice, his stupid smirk, the way his fingers curled around the edge of my shirt like he couldn’t quite let go. I wanted the way he laughed without reservation and the way he looked at me like I wasn’t just an athlete or a name on a scoreboard.
That scared the shit out of me.
Because Lennox Ellery wasn’t a fling. He wasn’t a distraction I could shove back in a drawer when it got inconvenient. He was a complication I had invited into my bones, my very soul.
And I didn’t know how to walk away from him without leaving pieces of myself behind.
So I stood there in my kitchen, eggs ruined, routine shattered, heart thudding against a chest I’d spent years trying to keep locked up. And for once, I didn’t know how to fix it.
My phone buzzed on the counter while I was rinsing out the ruined pan.
I dried my hands, not expecting much, probably a reminder from my calendar app or a nudge from my coach about tracking macros, but it wasn’t either of those.
Lennox:Still alive? Or did I ruin your training schedule forever?
I staredat the message for a second longer than I should’ve. It was so him. Casual, a little cocky, perfectly timed. I smiled despite myself. It crept in before I could stop it, curling the edge of my mouth until my cheeks ached.
I opened the reply field and hovered. The pressure hit immediately—should I be funny, too? Clever? Cold? Nonchalant?
I drafted something about my heart rate monitor needing therapy. Deleted it.
I typed,You wish, paused, then erased that, too.
Third try, I just went with the truth.
