Chapter 2: The Morning After
Jazmín wakes to Min-Joon's arm wrapped tight around her, his body molded against hers. She shifts, and he pulls her closer, burying his face in her neck. His lips trail slow, deliberate kisses along her skin. She laughs softly, arching back against him. His hand slides up her waist. A phone buzzes somewhere—persistent, annoying. He ignores it, rolling her onto her back, hovering above her with a sleepy, hungry look. "Let it ring," he murmurs, before kissing her again.
His mouth is warm, tasting of sleep and her. The kiss is deep, languid, claiming. Her hands slide into his hair, the silver strands cool and soft between her fingers. The phone stops. The silence is a blanket. Then it starts again, a harsh, digital vibration against the wooden nightstand.
“Someone really wants you,” she breathes against his lips.
“They can wait.” His voice is gravel, his hips pressing down, letting her feel the hard length of him already straining against her thigh. “This can’t.”
His mouth leaves hers, traveling down her throat, over the swell of her breast. He takes her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling the peak until she gasps. His hand slides between her legs, finding her wet and ready from sleep and his touch. He groans, the sound vibrating against her skin.
“Fuck, you’re always so ready for me.”
He pushes a finger inside her, then two, crooking them, stretching her. She cries out, her hips lifting off the bed. The phone vibrates again, skittering slightly on the wood. It was an obscene counter-rhythm to the wet sound of his fingers moving in her.
“Ignore it,” she pants, echoing his earlier command, her own need overriding everything else.
He smiles, a predatory flash of white in the honeyed dawn light. He withdraws his fingers, brings them to his mouth, and sucks them clean, his eyes locked on hers. “Delicious.”
He moves down her body, his hands pushing her thighs apart. He doesn’t ask. He just lowers his head and buries his face between her legs.
The first flat stroke of his tongue is electric. He licks her from bottom to top, slow and thorough, then zeros in on her clit, sucking it into the heat of his mouth. His hands grip her hips, holding her in place as she writhes. He fucks her with his tongue, deep and sloppy, then circles her entrance with a relentless, practiced pressure. The phone buzzes, stops, and starts again. The world narrows to the dual sensations: the maddening, exquisite pull of his mouth and the frantic, distant pulse of the device.
“Min-Joon… please…” she begs, her hands fisting in the sheets.
He rises up, kneeling between her legs. He’s fully hard, his cock jutting out, flushed and leaking. He strokes himself once, twice, his gaze burning.
“Please what?”
“I need you inside. Now.”
He lines himself up, the broad head nudging at her soaked entrance. He pushes in, not with the brutal force of the night before, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that steals her breath just as effectively. He fills her completely, sinking in until their bodies are flush. He holds there, his eyes clenched shut, his jaw tight.
“Every fucking time,” he grits out. “It’s like the first time. So fucking tight. So good.”
He begins to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that rubbed her clit with every grind of his pelvis. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The bed, her sanctuary with its handwoven textiles from Salta, became their world. The fairy lights blurred above her into streaks of gold.
The phone rang again. Not a buzz. A full, shrill ringtone—some aggressive hip-hop track.
He faltered. His rhythm broke. A shadow passed over his face, a flash of something like panic, instantly smothered by irritation.
“God fucking dammit.”
He didn’t stop, but his movements became harder, almost angry, as if he could fuck the outside world away. His thrusts lost their deliberate cadence, becoming faster, more frantic. He was chasing his own end, his focus splintered. Jazmín felt it—the shift. The intimate bubble popped. He was here, but part of him was already answering that call.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice strained. His hand slipped between them, his thumb pressing rough circles on her clit. It was efficient, not tender. “Come on, Jazmín. Now.”
The command, coupled with the brutal, focused pace of his thrusts, tipped her over. Her orgasm crashed through her, sharp and less sweet than the one in the dark, colored by the tension that had just entered the room. She choked on a cry, her body clamping around him.
He followed seconds later, his own release a harsh groan against her shoulder, his body shuddering. He collapsed on top of her, heavy and spent, but the moment of stillness was brittle.
The phone rang again.
“You have to get that,” she said quietly, her voice small in the aftermath.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at her. His expression was conflicted—apology, frustration, a weariness that seemed older than the morning. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
He rolled off her and off the bed in one fluid motion. Naked, he stalked to the nightstand, snatching up the sleek, black phone. He glanced at the screen and his entire body went rigid. He swiped to answer, turning his back to her.
“Yeah.” His voice was cold, flat. Professional. A voice she’d never heard. “I know what time it is… No. The location changed. Tell them I’ll be there in forty… I said forty. Handle it.”
He listened, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No. That’s the final edit. I don’t care what the label wants. It stays.” He paused. “Then let them be angry. I’ll deal with it.”
He ended the call and stood there, his back muscles tense. The morning light sculpted the lines of his physique, the marks of his discipline, but now they looked like armor.
“Min-Joon?” she ventured.
He turned. The sleepy, hungry man from ten minutes ago was gone. In his place was someone guarded, already halfway out the door. “I have to go.”
“That sounded… intense.”
“It’s work.” The words were a dismissal. He began gathering his clothes from the floor—his jeans, the gray tee, the worn leather jacket. He dressed quickly, efficiently, not looking at her.
The warmth of the room, of the bed, of her body, was leaching away, replaced by a cold, mundane reality. The scent of sex and lavender was now mingled with the sharp ozone of a departing storm.
“When will I see you again?” she asked, sitting up, pulling the sheet around her.
He paused, one arm in his jacket. He looked at her then, really looked, and for a second the wall came down. She saw the conflict, the desire, the sheer inconvenience of whatever his life was. “I don’t know. My schedule… it’s complicated.”
“You said you worked in entertainment.”
“I do.” He finished putting on his jacket. He walked back to the bed, leaned over, and kissed her. It was firm, possessive, but brief. A punctuation mark. “Last night… this morning… it was real. Remember that.”
And then he was gone. The apartment door clicked shut softly.
Silence. Not the comfortable silence from before, but a vast, echoing one. Jazmín sat in the tangled sheets, in the pool of honeyed light, surrounded by the familiar fabrics of home. Her skin still hummed where he’d touched her. Her body still felt the ghost of his weight.
She looked at the empty doorway, then at her own silent phone. The two worlds—the warm, textured reality of her life and the cold, urgent mystery of his—had collided violently and then separated, leaving a rift in the morning air.
She could still smell him on her skin. She had no idea who he really was.
She had no idea who he really was. The thought was a cold stone in her stomach, heavier than the pleasant ache between her legs. She shoved the sheets aside and stood, the morning light feeling invasive now. She needed to scrub the smell of him off her skin, the phantom feel of his calloused hands.
Jazmín stands under the hot spray, eyes closed, trying to rinse away the night. It meant nothing, she tells herself. Just fun. Just one night. But her mind drifts to Min-Joon—the way he looked at her, so relaxed, so close… until the phone rang. The water beat against her shoulders, but she could still feel the exact pressure of his mouth on her nipple, the brutal, full stretch of him moving inside her. She sighed, shutting off the water. Wrapping a towel around herself, she steps out and finds Sol in the kitchen.
Sol smiled, scrambling eggs in a pan. The radio played low, some chirpy K-pop tune. “You’re up late. Or early, depending.” Her eyes, sharp and medical-student perceptive, scanned Jazmín’s face. “Good night?”
Jazmín nodded, forcing a small smile. “Be right there.” She retreated to her room, the forced casualness tight in her throat. She leaned against the closed door. Her room still smelled of sex and him. She dressed mechanically in soft jeans and a worn sweater, the fabric a bland comfort against her hypersensitive skin.
She returned to the kitchen, pouring herself a large coffee. Sol slid a plate of eggs and toast across the counter.
“So?” Sol prodded, taking a seat with her own mug. “The silver-haired guy from your texts? You vanished with him.”
“Yeah. Min-Joon.” Saying his name felt like admitting to a crime.
“And? He was…?”
Jazmín took a long sip of coffee, buying time. “Intense. He left in a hurry. Some work emergency.” The word ‘work’ tasted flat and false.
“What does he do, that he gets frantic calls at dawn?” Sol asked, spearing a bite of egg.
“Entertainment, he said. Vague.” Jazmín looked down at her plate. The eggs were perfect, fluffy and yellow. They seemed absurd. Her phone buzzed on the counter—a notification from her abuela about wool shipment schedules. The mundane reality of her own life was rushing back in, a tide threatening to erase the strange, vivid footprint of the night.
She picked at her food. Her body was a traitor, softly throbbing with memory. She could feel the exact shape of him, the sheer impolite reality of his cock. The way he’d groaned “fuck” into her skin like it was a prayer. It hadn’t felt like nothing. It had felt like being known, and then, abruptly, like being a secret.
“You liked him,” Sol stated, watching her carefully.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jazmín said, the words too quick. “He’s gone. It was a one-night thing.” She forced a brighter tone. “Tell me about your shift. Anything grotesque?”
Sol launched into a story about a resistant patient, but Jazmín only half-listened. The fairy lights in her bedroom were probably still on. His silver hair would have caught in them if he’d stayed. She pushed the image away. It meant nothing. Just fun.
Her phone buzzed again. Not her abuela this time. An unknown local number. Her heart did a stupid, hopeful lurch. She stared at the screen, the eggs turning to paste in her mouth. The phone vibrated against the granite, insistent.
Sol’s story trailed off. “Are you going to get that?”
Jazmín’s hand hovered. It meant nothing. She told herself that again. But her finger swiped to answer before the final ring.
But her finger swiped to answer before the final ring.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice, clipped and efficient, spoke quickly in Korean. “The edit is done. I convinced the bosses. It’s locked.”
Jazmín blinked, switching mental gears. “I’m sorry,” she said, her Spanish accent coloring the Korean words. “You have the wrong number.”
There was a pause. A shuffling of papers. “Is this not Min-Joon’s phone?”
The world slowed. The steaming mug of coffee in front of her. Sol’s curious gaze. The muted chatter from the radio. It all receded into a muffled hum. Her eyes dropped to the device in her hand. It was a sleek, black phone, its screen now lit with the active call. It was not her textured, fabric-covered case. It was cold, smooth, impersonal.
Min-Joon’s phone. He left it.
Her throat tightened. “This… this is his phone,” she managed, the words feeling thick. “He isn’t here.”
The man on the line exhaled, a sharp sound of frustration. “Tell him Director Park needs the final confirmation by ten. The shoot at the Hongdae warehouse is at two. And to charge his damn phone.”
The call disconnected.
Jazmín lowered the device slowly, as if it were radioactive. She placed it on the counter. It stared back at her, a black rectangle of everything she didn’t know.
“Who was that?” Sol asked, her fork poised mid-air.
“Wrong number,” Jazmín whispered. The lie was automatic, a defense against the sudden vertigo. She picked up her own phone, her fingers numb. She opened her messages. Their thread was empty. They hadn’t exchanged numbers. He had just vanished, leaving this piece of his hidden life in her tangled sheets.
A notification lit up the black screen. A preview text, in Korean: ‘08:47 - Manager Kim: Where are you? Car is waiting. The label is furious about the edit. Call me.’
Then another. ‘08:49 - Unknown: Riven-ah, the dancer from Black Crown says you never showed last night. What’s going on?’
Riven.
The name meant nothing to her, and everything. It was a code, a key to a parallel world. Entertainment. The edit. The label. The warehouse shoot. The urgency, the secrecy, the way he’d shut down the moment that first call came. It wasn’t just work. It was a life. A life he’d carefully kept partitioned from the woman he’d fucked against a wall, whose bed he’d just left.
Sol was still watching her, a concerned line between her brows. Jazmín stood up abruptly, the stool legs screeching against the floor.
“I have to… I need air.”
She walked out of the kitchen, the cold phone clutched in her hand. In her room, the bed was still a wreck. The smell of sex and his cologne was still potent. The fairy lights were still on, stupidly cheerful.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, the fabric of her poncho blanket scratchy under her palms. She stared at the black screen. It lit up again. ‘08:55 - Director Park: The concept is “rebellion.” Remember that. Look like you want to burn it all down.’
Rebellion. The silver hair. The leather jacket. The sharp, defiant angles of his face. The way he’d looked, whispering “fuck” into her skin like a rebellion against the world calling him away.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. She didn’t know the password. She didn’t need to. The truth was flooding in through the cracks. Kang Min-Joon was Riven. Riven was an idol. The realization was cold, clinical. The man who had carried her to this bed, who had tasted her, who had pushed into her with a desperation that felt like truth, was a product. A performance.
The phone buzzed in her hand, a continuous vibration. An incoming call. The screen flashed: Manager Kim.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. The device was a live wire, a direct line to the machinery of the man who had left it. She could let it ring. She could silence it. She could throw it against the wall.
Instead, driven by a sharp, painful curiosity, she swiped to answer. She said nothing. She held the phone to her ear, her breath held.
A stressed, older male voice filled her ear. “Riven? Finally. Listen to me. You cannot blow off the final fitting. The stylist is having a panic attack. The company is already livid about the video edit. Where are you? The car has been circling for twenty minutes.”
Jazmín opened her mouth. No sound came out.
The voice sharpened. “Riven? Are you there? Do you have any idea the trouble you’re in?”
She disconnected the call. Her hand was trembling. She placed the phone carefully on the bedside table, as if it might detonate. The rumpled sheets beside her still held the indent of his head.
From the kitchen, Sol called out, “Jaz, you okay?”
“Fine!” The word was too bright, too high. She wasn’t fine. She was holding a stranger’s secrets in a room that still smelled of his sweat. The warm, honeyed light of dawn now felt like an interrogation lamp.
She had to give it back. The thought was clear and desperate. This object, this portal, did not belong in her world of fabric swatches and video calls with her abuela. She had to return it. She would see him again. The thought sent a jolt through her—part dread, part electric anticipation.
But how? She had nothing. No number. No address. Only a first name that might not even be the one he used.
Then she remembered. The warehouse. Hongdae. The shoot at two.
The phone buzzed again, skittering on the wooden surface. Another text preview. ‘09:02 - Unknown: The warehouse address is 127-9 Hogang-ro. Don’t be late. They’re threatening fines.’
An address. A time. A thread.
She stood up, her body moving on a decision her mind hadn’t fully formed. She would take the phone to him. She would see the performance up close. She would look into the eyes of Kang Min-Joon, the man who whispered filthy things in her ear, and Riven, the idol who had to look like he wanted to burn it all down.
She dressed with deliberate speed, her fingers fumbling with the buttons on her jeans. She pulled on a simple black sweater, tying her hair back in a practical knot. The raw, well-used feeling between her legs was a constant, aching reminder of the night. It was a conflict now. A mark left by a ghost who was very, very real.
She picked up the black phone again. It was cool and heavy in her palm. The last piece of him.
“I’m going out,” she announced, walking back into the kitchen. She grabbed her own phone and bag, shoving Min-Joon’s device deep inside.
Sol eyed her, the concern now plain. “Everything alright? You look…”
“I’m fine,” Jazmín said, cutting her off. “I just have to return something. To… the guy from last night.”
Sol’s eyebrows shot up. “He left his wallet?”
“Something like that.”
The address led her to a converted warehouse in Hongdae, its industrial facade punctuated by a single, unmarked steel door. Jazmín pushed through it, her heart hammering against her ribs. The space inside was cavernous, a cathedral of concrete and exposed ductwork. Banks of stadium lights illuminated a chaotic symphony of activity: crew members lugging cables, stylists fussing over racks of distressed clothing, camera operators adjusting lenses. The air smelled of dust, hot electronics, and spilled coffee. She scanned the organized chaos, her eyes searching for a familiar shape—the set of his shoulders, the silver fall of his hair. He wasn’t there.
A young man with a headset and a clipboard materialized in front of her, his gaze harried. “Hey, are you the new intern? Catering’s that way,” he said, jerking his thumb towards a folding table laden with water bottles and snack boxes.
“No, I—” She held up the sleek, black phone like a talisman. “I have Riven’s phone.”
He blinked, his efficiency stuttering. He leaned closer, peering at the device. “Wait here.” He spoke into his headset, his voice low, and hurried away.
Minutes dragged by. Jazmín stood frozen in the river of bustling people, feeling profoundly out of place in her simple sweater and jeans. Finally, a woman in a sharp black blazer walked over. Her demeanor was calm, but her eyes were observant, scanning Jazmín head to toe in a single, efficient sweep. “I’m the manager,” she said. “You said you have Min-Joon’s phone?”
Jazmín handed it over. “He forgot it. That’s why he’s not answering. Please don’t be mad at him.” The plea slipped out, naked and revealing.
The manager’s perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted a fraction. She studied Jazmín for a second longer. “How did you get this?”
Jazmín’s pulse quickened. She could smell the stale soju and grilled tteokbokki from the bar, feel the ghost of his arm around her shoulders as he pointed at the menu. “He helped me with the bar menu last night. At my workplace. He must have left it on the table.”
The manager nodded slowly, a professional smile appearing on her lips. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you for bringing it. It’s a huge help.” She pocketed the phone. “As a thank you, want to meet the band? I can take you backstage.”
Her chest tightened. Meet them? Meet him, here, in this world of lights and managers? See the performance up close, watch the mask slide into place? The idea was a seductive poison. She imagined walking into some greenroom, finding him amidst the other members, his posture different, his eyes guarded. What would he say? What would she see in his face?
She shook her head gently, forcing her own smile. “I appreciate it, really. But I have class.”
The manager didn’t push. She gave a slight, understanding nod. “Another time, maybe. Thanks again.” She turned and melted back into the hive of activity.
Jazmín nodded to no one and walked out, the heavy door sighing shut behind her. Only on the sun-drenched street did she exhale, the noise of the city rushing back into her ears. She had seen the machinery. She had touched the edge of his other life. It was enough. It was too much.
Back at the apartment, it felt hollow. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock anchoring her in her own reflection. Her eyes looked back, wide and unsettled. She grabbed her bag and her own familiar, fabric-covered phone. She told herself to focus. Class. Normal life. Right.
The lecture on sustainable textile sourcing passed in a blur. Her notes were sparse, her mind replaying the manager’s assessing look, the industrial smell of the warehouse, the weight of the phone in her hand. She walked home through the late afternoon, the city’s energy feeling like a shell around a quiet, private confusion.
Her own phone buzzed in her pocket just as she reached her building’s lobby. An unknown number. A local prefix. Her breath hitched. She accepted the call.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed in the tiled space.
“It’s me.” Two words, low and rough. Min-Joon. No, Riven. Both. “You came to the warehouse.”
She leaned against the mailboxes, the cold metal biting through her sweater. “You left your phone.”
“I know.” A pause. She could hear noise behind him—distant, tinny music, the echo of a large space. A practice room, maybe. “The manager described you. Said you ran away.”
“I had class.” It sounded weak, even to her.
“You’re a terrible liar.” There was no malice in it. Just a flat statement. “Where are you now?”
“Home. Just got back.”
“Are you alone?”
The question landed like a physical touch. “Yes.”
“Stay there.” The line went dead.
Twenty minutes later, her intercom buzzed. She pressed the button without speaking, her palm slick on the plastic. She didn’t ask who it was. She just unlocked the main door and stood in her open apartment doorway, listening to the determined, heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
He appeared on the landing, dressed in all black—tight jeans, a hoodie pulled low over his forehead, a mask covering the lower half of his face. Only his eyes were visible, intense and dark. He walked past her into the apartment, pulling the door shut behind him with a definitive click. He tore off the mask and shoved the hood back. His silver hair was tied up in a messy knot. He looked tired, wired, buzzing with a contained energy that filled her small foyer.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said, but there was no force behind it.
“You shouldn’t have gone to the warehouse.” He stepped closer, crowding her against the wall. The scent of him—clean sweat, fabric, and that faint, indefinable spice—wrapped around her. “But you did. Why?”
“To give you your phone.”
“Bullshit.” His hands came up, caging her head. His thumbs stroked her temples. “You wanted to see.”
She didn’t deny it. She looked up at him, at the sharp line of his jaw, the exhaustion and defiance in his eyes. “I saw. The manager. The lights. ‘Riven’.”
He flinched, just a tiny tightening around his eyes. “That’s not me.”
“It’s part of you.”
“It’s a costume.” His voice dropped, gravel scraping on gravel. “This is me.” He closed the last inch and kissed her.
It wasn’t like the kisses before. This was claiming, desperate, a conversation without words. It was an apology and a demand all at once. His tongue pushed into her mouth, tasting of bitter coffee and mint. She kissed him back, her hands fisting in the soft cotton of his hoodie, pulling him closer. All the confusion, the distance, compressed into this frantic connection.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “I can’t stay long.”
“Then don’t waste time talking.”
A sharp, surprised breath huffed from his nose. It was almost a laugh. He took her hand and pulled her towards her bedroom. He didn’t carry her this time. He walked her backwards, his movements stripped of all previous hesitation or playful delay. The fairy lights were off; the room was shadowed in the slate-blue of approaching evening.
His hands went to the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head in one swift motion. He didn’t pause to admire her. His mouth was on her neck, sucking hard enough to mark, his teeth scraping her collarbone. He unclasped her bra, letting it fall. His palms covered her breasts, his thumbs rubbing over her nipples until they were tight, aching points.
“You drove me fucking crazy today,” he growled into her skin, his hands dropping to the button of her jeans. “Thinking of you there. In my world. Holding my fucking life in your hands.”
He yanked her jeans and underwear down her hips. She kicked them off. He pushed her back onto the bed, following her down. He didn’t bother removing his hoodie or his own pants. He just shoved them down far enough to free himself, his cock springing out, already fully hard and angry-red.
He was on her in an instant, his weight pinning her, his knees forcing her legs wide. He positioned himself at her entrance, the blunt head pressing against her. She was wet, her body thrumming from the aggressive, focused energy radiating from him.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a raw scrape.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze. There was no sleepy hunger there now. It was pure, unadulterated need, sharpened by frustration and secrecy.
He pushed inside. No sweet, slow burn. It was one deep, brutal thrust that filled her completely, that stole the air from her lungs in a punched-out gasp. He was bigger than she remembered, a burning, glorious stretch. He held there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling. His eyes were wild on hers.
“This,” he hissed, withdrawing slowly until just the tip remained, then slamming back in, “this is real. Not the lights. Not the fucking manager. Not the name they give me.”
He set a relentless pace, each drive of his hips jarring her up the bed. The headboard knocked a dull rhythm against the wall. His thrusts were hard, deep, punctuated by the wet slap of skin and his ragged grunts. He fucked her like he was trying to erase something, to brand himself into her memory and scrape away every other version of himself.
One of his hands tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. His mouth latched onto the sensitive skin below her ear, sucking, biting. The mix of pleasure and sharp pain made her cry out, her nails digging into the fabric of his hoodie, clawing at his back.
“Tell me you feel me,” he demanded, his voice rough against her damp skin.
“I feel you,” she gasped, the words breaking on a moan as he angled his hips, hitting a spot that made her see stars.
“Tell me you know who this is.”
“Min-Joon,” she cried out, arching against him.
“Yes.” He fucked into her harder, deeper, his rhythm losing all finesse, becoming primal, animalistic. His balls slapped against her with every thrust. “Fuck. Yes. Only you call me that.”
His words, the possessive raw hunger in them, shattered her last thread of control. Her orgasm built like a wave, deep in her core, tightening, coiling, before it broke over her with a violence that ripped a scream from her throat. Her body clamped around him, convulsing, milking him.
The sensation broke his own restraint. With a guttural roar, he drove into her one last time, so deep she felt him in her womb, and came. His release pulsed inside her, hot and endless, his body shuddering as he collapsed his weight onto her, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
They lay there, a tangled, sweating mess, his softening cock still nestled inside her. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of Seoul traffic. The scent of sex, of him, was thick in the air, overwhelming the familiar lavender.
After a long moment, he shifted, rolling onto his back beside her. He didn’t let go of her, one arm slung heavily across her stomach. He stared at her ceiling, at the faint string of fairy lights he’d refused to turn on.
“They’ll be looking for me,” he said, his voice now hollowed out, empty. “I have a rehearsal in forty minutes.”
She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. In the dim light, the sharp lines of his profile looked etched from stone. The post-coital softness was gone, replaced by a rigid tension. The fidget in his left hand was back, his fingers tapping a silent, complex rhythm on his own thigh.
He was already leaving.