Alison wakes up in Scott's shirt, haunted by what they did, confused by how she feels. She left, but the heat of that night clings to her skin and silence becomes her only shield.
The city is quiet early morning haze outside.
Alison clutches the collar of his over \sized shirt, holding her red dress folded in her lap.
Flashbacks of the night keep hitting her in waves the mirror, his whisper, the way he looked at her after.
She can still feel him on her skin.
Driver asks, " Are you okay?"
She just nods. Silent. Too full, too shaken to speak.
The cab pulls up outside her apartment. She pays and walks in barefoot.
As she creeps into her shared apartment, Myles is already in the kitchen.
He sees the shirt. The messy hair. The silent walk of someone who didn't sleep home.
"Alison?" he calls out, concerned.
She avoids his eyes, mutters, "I'm tired."
"Is that… someone's shirt?" He asked.
She shrugs, walks to her room.
"Ali… talk to me."
She closes the door in silence. She can't talk about it.
In her room, she drops the shirt to the floor and stares in the mirror.
Finger-shaped bruises on her thighs.
Bite mark on her collarbone.
She runs fingers down her skin still flushed.
She whispers to herself, "Who was he?"
I don't even know his name.
But she remembers how he held her. Like she was something more than a girl in a red dress.
She searches her phone for an unknown number nothing.
Checks social media tags or mentions nothing.
That man whoever he was has no trace.
"Maybe that's the point," she mutters.
But part of her is aching to hear from him.
She scrolls through her gallery. She didn't take a single photo. It's like it never happened.
Except her body remembers everything.
Later that night, Myles corners her in the hallway.
"You disappeared. You didn't call. You came back wearing someone else's shirt."
She tries to walk past him, but he grabs her hand.
"Who was he?"
Alison snaps: "It was just one night, okay?"
His eyes flash with something she doesn't expect — hurt? Jealousy?
"Doesn't look like it was just one night to you," he says, then walks away.
She takes his shirt the one she wore home and holds it against her chest.
It smells like him: expensive, dangerous, unforgettable.
She considers throwing it away.
Instead, she folds it carefully and hides it under her pillow.
Alone in bed, she stares at the ceiling.
She whispers out loud:
"I don't even know his name… but I don't think I'll ever forget the way he made me feel."
She curled into silence with his shirt all around her.
Her phone buzzes once a random notification. Not him.
She closes her eyes but sleep doesn't come easy.