Chapter 5: The morning after
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The first thing Cherry registered was the scent. Not Devon’s whiskey-and-musk this time, but the sharp, clean tang of soap and warm skin. Then came the deep, heavy ache between her thighs, a persistent throb that spoke volumes about the night before. She was on her side, facing the window where weak morning light strained through the blinds. Devon’s arm was a solid, heavy band across her waist, his breath warm and even against the back of her neck. His bare chest pressed against her spine, radiating heat.
She lay perfectly still, cataloging the feeling. Soreness, yes, a bone-deep relaxation she hadn’t felt in… years? But beneath it, coiling like cold wire in her stomach, was a sharp, familiar anxiety. Attachment. The word landed with the weight of a stone. Last night hadn't been a reckless hookup in a bar bathroom. It had spilled into her apartment, onto her couch, into her bed. It had layers now. Texture. Dangerous texture.
She needed space. Needed air that didn't smell like him and sex and the ghost of red satin crumpled on the floor. Carefully, inch by inch, she slid out from under his arm. He grunted, a low murmur in his sleep, his hand flexing against the empty sheet where she’d been. Cherry froze, heart hammering against her ribs. He didn’t wake. She slipped silently from the bed, wincing at the protesting ache in her muscles, and pulled on an oversized t-shirt and worn sleep shorts from the floor. The satin bodysuit lay tangled near the foot of the bed, a lurid splash of crimson against the faded grey rug.
She padded barefoot to the kitchen, the cool linoleum a shock against her soles. The apartment felt different in the morning light. Smaller. More exposed. The evidence of last night was everywhere – the two wine glasses, one still half-full, abandoned on the living room side table; his damp jacket draped over her reading chair; the faint indentations on the sofa cushions. She busied herself, needing the rhythm of routine. Coffee first. The gurgle and hiss of the machine filled the silence. Then she pulled out eggs, thick-cut bacon, a bag of potatoes, fresh chives from the windowsill. An omelette. Something substantial. Something… normal.
The sizzle of bacon in the cast iron filled the small kitchen, the rich, smoky aroma layering over the lingering scent of sex. She chopped potatoes into small cubes, the knife hitting the cutting board with steady thwacks. Chopped the chives, a bright green confetti. Focused on the simple act of creation. Beat the eggs with a whisk, the rhythmic scrape against the bowl a grounding sound. She could do this. Make breakfast. Set boundaries. Keep it clean.
A floorboard creaked behind her. Cherry stiffened, the whisk going still. She didn’t turn. Could feel him in the doorway, a dense presence shifting the air. The simmering tension from the bedroom hallway was back, thick and electric even before he spoke.
"Smells good." His voice was sleep-roughened, deeper than usual. He walked into the kitchen, moving with that silent, predatory grace even barefoot. He wore only his jeans, slung low on his hips, the button undone. Morning light gilded the hard planes of his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the dark trail of hair leading down. He leaned a hip against the counter beside her, watching her, his gaze heavy-lidded but alert. Taking in the food prep, the determined set of her shoulders.
"Hope you're hungry," Cherry said, her voice coming out tighter than intended. She concentrated on pouring the beaten eggs into the hot pan alongside the crispy bacon and golden potatoes. It hissed furiously, sending up a cloud of fragrant steam.
"Starving." He reached past her, his bare arm brushing hers as he snagged a piece of crispy bacon. The brief contact sent a jolt straight to her core. He bit into it, the crunch loud. "Damn. Perfect." He chewed, watching the omelette begin to set. "You cook like this often?"
"Sometimes. When I want to." She kept her eyes on the pan, gently lifting the edges of the omelette. Set boundaries. Say it.
He was quiet for a moment, just the sound of his chewing and the sizzle of the pan. Then, softer, "You okay?"
The unexpected question, the low timbre of concern, almost undid her. She swallowed hard, focusing on folding the omelette with a spatula. Too much. Too fast. The texture. The dangerous texture.
"Last night was..." she started, then stopped. Stalled. Plated the fluffy omelette, golden brown and studded with bacon and potatoes, flecked with bright green chives. She slid it onto a plate, added a thick slice of buttered sourdough toast. "Sit. Eat." She pushed the plate across the small breakfast bar towards the stool he’d occupied the night before for wine.
He didn't move. Just watched her, his expression unreadable. "Last night was...?" he prompted, his voice dangerously soft.
Cherry took a breath, turning to face him fully. She crossed her arms over the thin t-shirt, a flimsy shield. "Intense." The word felt inadequate. "Good. Really good. But..." She met his gaze. Held it. Say it. "It can't happen again."
The silence that followed was profound. The only sounds were the drip of the coffee maker finishing its cycle and the distant hum of the city waking up. Devon didn't move. Didn't blink. His eyes, though… they changed. The sleepy warmth evaporated, replaced by something harder, flatter. Assessing. Like he was recalculating.
"Can't?" He pushed off the counter, taking a slow step towards her, invading the small space. "Or won't?"
"Does it matter?" She held her ground, though her pulse was pounding in her ears. "It was… a one-time thing, Devon. Last night. The bar. This." She gestured vaguely between them, encompassing the kitchen, the apartment, the lingering intimacy. "It changes things. Complicates things. I don't... I don't need complicated right now."
He stopped inches away. She could see the flecks of gold in his brown irises, the faint stubble darkening his jaw. Smell the sleep on his skin, mixed with the fading remnants of her own. "Complicated," he echoed, the word a low rumble. "Because it was good? Because it was more than just a fuck in a bathroom?" His gaze dropped, deliberately, to her mouth. Lingered. "Felt like a hell of a lot more than just a fuck."
Heat flooded her face. Memories surged – the press of his body, the desperate sounds he pulled from her, the way he’d watched her unravel. She forced her voice steady. "It doesn't change what I want. Or don't want. Which is... no more sex. We had our night. It was incredible. Let’s just… leave it there." She tried for a light shrug. It felt stiff.
He stared at her for a long, excruciating moment. A slight muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, slowly, deliberately, a smile touched his lips. Not warm. Not amused. Predatory. "No more sex," he repeated, nodding slowly as if filing the information. He took another step, so close now the heat from his bare chest radiated against her crossed arms. He leaned down, just a fraction, his lips near her ear. His voice dropped to a whisper, rough velvet that scraped along her nerves. "Okay, Cherry."
He pulled back, his dark eyes holding hers. The intensity hadn't lessened; it had shifted, sharpened into a challenge. "But like hell you are 'just leaving it there'." He reached past her again, this time his fingers closing around the handle of the coffee pot. He poured a cup, black, the rich aroma blooming between them. He took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving hers over the rim. "You made breakfast. I’ll eat. Then I’ll go." He finally stepped back, giving her space she suddenly didn't want, and took his plate and coffee to the small breakfast bar. He slid onto the stool, his movements fluid, controlled.
He picked up his fork, cut a large piece of the perfect omelette. Ate. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. Then he looked up at her, standing frozen by the stove. "Sit," he said, nodding to the stool beside him. Not a request. An expectation. "Eat your breakfast. We’ll talk about something else."
The casual command, the sheer normalcy of it after her declaration, was more unnerving than anger. He wasn't arguing. He wasn't pleading. He was just… there. Eating her food. Occupying her space. Acting like her boundaries were mere suggestions to be noted and then neatly sidestepped. The ache between her legs throbbed in time with her speeding heart. The 'one-time thing' felt fragile already, cracking under the weight of his presence and that loaded, unyielding gaze. He took another bite, watching her, waiting. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid, everything he clearly wasn't finished with. The fork clinked softly against the plate as he set it down, his eyes never leaving hers. The air crackled, heavy with the scent of coffee, bacon, and unfinished business.
The air crackled, heavy with the scent of coffee, bacon, and unfinished business. Devon’s gaze held hers, unwavering, as he deliberately set his fork down. The clink echoed sharply in the small kitchen. He didn’t argue, didn’t push; his silence felt heavier than any protest.
"Something else," Cherry echoed, her voice tight. She didn’t sit. Remaining standing felt like maintaining some shred of control. "Like what?"
He shrugged, a fluid roll of his shoulders. The movement pulled the skin taut over his collarbones. "The rain last night. Brutal drive." He took another slow sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving her face. "Or the terrible decor in that bar bathroom. Truly tragic."
A startled, choked sound escaped Cherry – half laugh, half gasp. The sheer absurdity of it, the casual deflection after everything, momentarily disarmed her. "The peeling floral wallpaper? Yeah, scarring."
"Exactly." A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. He pushed the empty plate away, the ceramic scraping on the laminate. "Breakfast was perfect. Thanks." He stood, unfolding from the stool with that contained power. The space between them shrank instantly. He didn’t touch her, just stood close enough that she felt the residual heat radiating from his skin, smelled the faint trace of her soap on him. "I should head out."
Relief warred with a confusing pang of disappointment. "Right," Cherry managed, stepping back instinctively, bumping against the counter. "Of course."
He retrieved his Henley from the living room chair, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. The damp jacket followed. He moved efficiently, gathering himself, filling the small apartment with his presence even as he prepared to leave. At the door, he paused, hand on the knob. He looked back at her, standing stiffly in her kitchen, clutching her coffee mug like a shield.
"One-time thing," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. It wasn't a question. His dark eyes scanned her face, lingering on her mouth, then dropping briefly to where the oversized t-shirt gaped slightly at her neck. "Got it." He opened the door. The cool, damp hallway air rushed in, mingling with the warmth and scent of them. "See you around, Cherry."
The door clicked shut behind him. Solid. Final. The sudden silence roared in her ears. She stood frozen, staring at the blank wood, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall. The scent of him – soap, coffee, that underlying musk – lingered stubbornly. Her thighs throbbed. The ache felt like a brand.
She moved fast. Threw open windows despite the chill drizzle, letting the city’s wet exhaust flood in. Grabbed every towel Devon might have touched, every glass he used, dumping them violently into the washing machine. The aggressive chug of the cycle filled the apartment. She scrubbed the breakfast bar counter where he’d sat, bleached it until her knuckles burned, erasing phantom fingerprints. Vacuumed the rug near the sofa, the bedroom floor, attacking invisible traces.
A long, scalding shower followed. She scrubbed her skin pink, trying to wash away the feel of his hands, his mouth, the memory of his weight. The hot water stung the tender flesh between her legs. She dressed in soft, shapeless sweats, wrapped herself in a blanket on the freshly vacuumed rug, and stared at a mindless baking competition on TV. The bright colors and frantic energy were a jarring contrast to the hollow feeling expanding inside her chest.
The afternoon blurred into errands. Groceries she didn’t need, browsing books she didn’t want, walking miles through damp streets until her feet ached more than the deeper, persistent ache. She bought an overpriced face mask, applied it sitting cross-legged on her bed, the cool clay tightening on her skin. The silence pressed in. Every creak of the old building made her jump. She cleaned the already clean bathroom, meticulously wiping down tiles and fixtures.
Night fell. The apartment was spotless, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and damp wool. She’d eaten toast for dinner. The TV droned on, casting flickering shadows. She was folding laundry, the rhythmic task almost hypnotic, the scent of clean cotton a small comfort. Her phone lay face down on the coffee table.
It buzzed. A single, sharp vibration that cut through the quiet like a knife.
Cherry froze, a half-folded t-shirt clutched in her hands. Her breath hitched. Slowly, deliberately, she set the shirt aside. Walked to the coffee table. Picked up the phone. The screen glowed brightly in the dim room.
One new message. From Devon.
Her thumb hovered, trembling slightly, over the notification. The clean cotton scent suddenly felt cloying. The silence screamed. She tapped the screen.
The message opened. Two lines. Brutal. Direct. Ignoring every boundary she’d tried to build that morning:
`Still thinking about that fat pussy.`
`When can I taste it again?`