Chapter 4: The Morning After
The first sensation was heat. A solid, unmistakable warmth where their bodies were still fused. Consciousness returned to Erling in a slow, gentle tide, bringing with it the weight of Juda’s thigh thrown over his hip, the soft crush of her breasts against his side, and the deep, quiet rhythm of her breathing against his neck.
He was still inside her.
The realization was not shocking. It felt, in the pale gold light seeping around the blackout blinds, inevitable. A fact of the universe. His body, however, had its own oblivious agenda, responding to her closeness with a stiff, aching fullness that made him grit his teeth.
He tried to make slow motion to remove himself from inside of her. It was a tactical operation requiring immense control. He shifted his weight infinitesimally, bracing his forearm on the mattress to lift his hips a fraction. The separation was a sweet, sharp pang. He was successful in someway, sliding free with a soft, wet sound that seemed obscenely loud in the quiet room.
However, while he was doing so, the motion caused her to moan in her sleep. It was a low, throaty sound of protest, her body arching subtly into the space he’d vacated. Her eyelids fluttered. In her sleep-addled state, her body, still affected from the night before, started to shadow and pleasure, a series of faint, involuntary clenches around nothing, chasing the ghost of him. It was an agonizing release to witness—private, unconscious, and utterly trusting.
He froze, watching her face. A small frown knitted her brows before her features smoothed back into placid sleep, one hand curling possessively around the pillow he’d just left.
A spear of guilt, sharp and cold, lanced through him. He shouldn’t be leaving. The plan had been pastries and terrible coffee. The plan had been not answering the phone. But the digital clock on her nightstand glowed 5:17 AM. His phone, buried somewhere in the wreckage of his jeans, would be buzzing soon with the first reminders of a world that demanded him back. A cross-town medical check, a team breakfast, a flight to catch. His coach’s voice, a grating, persistent echo in his mind: Professionalism is what happens when no one is watching.
Even now, he thought, especially now.
Erling quickly and quietly got dressed to the best he could. It was a comical, graceless ballet. Stepping into his boxer briefs without rustling the sheets. Locating his jeans halfway across the room, one leg inside-out. His shirt was a lost cause, torn beyond repair from the night before. He found it in a ball near the armchair, the silky fabric snagged. He held it for a moment, then draped it over the back of the chair, a white flag on the battlefield of their night.
He pulled his own plain black t-shirt over his head, the scent of her, of them, rising from his skin. He pocketed his phone, wallet, keys. The actions felt like betrayals.
He stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her. She was a landscape of shadows and gold. Her braids were a wild corona across his pillow. The duvet was pooled at her waist, revealing the elegant line of her spine, the toned muscles of her shoulders, a faint red mark high on her neck where his stubble had rubbed her skin raw. She looked peaceful. She looked like a promise he was actively choosing to break.
He knew he should write a note. Something clever and tender to soften the blow. But words failed him. Anything he put on paper would be inadequate. Had to run. Last night was… It was what? There was no word. It was the quiet desperation in her voice asking what happens tomorrow? It was the feel of her hair wrapped around his fist. It was everything.
He backed away, one silent step at a time, until he felt the cool handle of her bedroom door under his palm. He slipped out into the vast, cool silence of the penthouse living area. The city was just waking up, a pale, pinkish haze smudging the horizon beyond the windows. Empty glasses stood sentinel on the marble counter. The pink pastry box from two days ago sat unopened.
He left without a sound, the heavy front door clicking shut with a finality that echoed in his bones.
He left without a sound, the heavy front door clicking shut with a finality that echoed in his bones.
JUDA WOKE TO AN EMPTY BED. The space beside her was cool, the sheets dented but vacant. She knew before she even opened her eyes, a sudden, hollow chill settling in her stomach that had nothing to do with the morning air.
She rolled over, inhaling the scent on the pillow—warm spice, clean sweat, him. Her body ached in a deep, satisfying way, a map of the night etched into her muscles. She stretched, a smile tugging at her lips as the memories replayed in vivid flashes: the counter, his hands, the hair-pulling, the armchair, the whispered plans for pastries.
Then her foot brushed something cold and slick on the sheet.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking against the light. The smear was faint, translucent, drying. It wasn’t hers. The reality of it, the biological evidence of his finish, seeped into her sleepy consciousness with a slow, sickening clarity. Her gaze darted across the rumpled duvet, the floor, the nightstand.
AS SHE CAN’T RECALL WHO SHE JUST SPENT THE NIGHT WITH HIM TO MAKE IT WORSE YOU REALISED THAT WASN’T ANY USED CONDOMS ANYWAY LAYING AROUND MEANING DID IT WITH OUT ANY PROTECTION. The thought arrived fully formed, a cold spike of adrenaline. No foil wrappers. No tell-tale discarded latex. Nothing. They had been reckless, catapulted by years of tension into a raw, unprotected freefall.
She shoved the duvet back, the movement too sharp. A throbbing pang between her legs confirmed everything. She’d been so lost in the feel of him, in the rightness of it, that the practicalities had vaporized. The condom talk, the clinical conversation they’d never had, because he was Erling and she was Juda and it was supposed to be safe.
AND SHE DIDN’T GET THEM TO SIGN A CONSENT FORM. The internal voice was brittle, sarcastic, a defense mechanism. Her agent’s tedious lectures on brand protection and contractual intimacy for endorsements bled into this deeply personal chaos. This wasn’t a commercial shoot. This was her life. And yet, the principle felt violently applicable: she had no documentation, no proof of the terms, just the echoing silence of his absence and the physical consequences warming her sheets.
“You idiot,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice raspy from disuse. “Stupid, brilliant idiot.”
She swung her legs out of bed, wincing as she stood. Her torn shirt—his shirt—lay draped over the armchair like a monument. The pink pastry box on the kitchen counter across the vast space seemed to mock her. The promises felt like something she’d hallucinated.
She padded to the bathroom, turning the shower to scalding. Steam fogged the mirrors, but not before she caught her reflection: the mark on her neck, the sleep-softened eyes, the unmistakable look of a woman thoroughly loved and abruptly abandoned. The water pounded her skin, a futile attempt to scrub away the confusion. She catalogued her body, the soreness, the faint bruises on her hips from his grip. Evidence, not of violation, but of a mutual fervor that had simply… overlooked everything else.