The morning light spilled across the bed like a soft confession. White sheets, tousled. Hair tangled like stories untold. She lay there, still, half-conscious, the ache in her temples pulsing with the remnants of a night forgotten and a feeling she couldn't name.
Somewhere, a door clicked. Footsteps—measured, unhurried—approached.
Then, he appeared.
A man like no man she'd seen outside of a screen. Tall. Composed. His jaw sculpted in stillness, his suit tailored with quiet power. The kind of man who didn't belong in real life—or in the bed she was currently in.
He held out a coffee cup, as if offering a truce with the universe.
Her breath caught. The world slowed. Time folded into itself. She didn't know if she was still dreaming, or if this was one of those cruel mornings where reality played make-believe.
"You look like you saw a ghost," he said gently.
She blinked. "No… just a fantasy with really good tailoring."
He laughed, and the sound of it made something deep inside her stir—something dangerous, something warm.
And just like that, the story had already begun.