**Chapter 6** **Dahlia** Heat envelops me like a warm blanket, a sensation that seeps into my skin and urges me to burrow deeper into its embrace. A weight rests firmly against my back—solid and unyielding—Xander's chest pressing against me, our limbs intertwined in the most intimate of ways. His arm is slung protectively over my waist as if he fears I might slip away in the stillness of the night. His hand spreads across me, the rough warmth of his palm marking me through the thin cotton sheet in a way that feels possessive. Even in the depths of sleep, he clutches me close, a silent assertion that I am his. The gentle rise and fall of his breathing dances over the back of my neck, warm enough to coax a shiver that has nothing to do with the chill of the night. I feel each exhale as it drifts against my hairline, the way his chest expands and compresses against my spine, creating a rhythm that seems to pulse in sync with my own heartbeat. Part of me knows I should peel myself away, begin the day that awaits us both. Yet, here I lie, ensnared by the weight and warmth of his body, indulging in this stolen moment just a little longer. Memories of last night flood my mind—the way he moved with me, each deliberate thrust igniting a fire within me, how effortlessly he shattered my defenses. The security that followed his embrace—the sheer solidity of him against my back—quieted the internal chaos that had roiled in my mind for what felt like years. The room is still shrouded in the deep gray of pre-dawn, a liminal space suspended between night and day. With caution, I shift to carve out distance, careful not to disturb the arm draped protectively around my waist. In the murky light, Xander’s features lose their sharpness, revealing an almost boyish softness. Dark lashes cast gentle shadows across his cheeks, and his lips part ever so slightly, warm breaths fanning against my skin and ruffling the fine hairs at the nape of my neck. A flutter grips something deep within me, a tug of emotions I am reluctant to confront. How many others have had the privilege of witnessing him like this? How many have felt the weight of his form against their bodies, felt safe within the warmth of his skin in these quiet hours before the dawn? Then a sharp pang of heat coils low in my stomach, unwelcome but persistent. I have no right to feel the way I do, but the sensation lingers, a ghost of desire that refuses to fade. For a fleeting moment, I let myself imagine that I could stay here until the sun undeniably rises, the weight of him shielding me from the uncertainties of the world outside. It’s easy, so blissfully easy, to entertain thoughts that this could be more than just one night. But reality swoops in fast, chilling the warmth that envelops me. Bradley. A visceral jolt comes with his name, and I feel my stomach drop like a stone. The acid rise in my throat conjures the memories of last night—the way Bradley’s complexion paled when he realized I had caught him red-handed, the moment of guilt that flashed before the inevitable denial crashed over him. I used to feel guilty for longing for more of his time, wrestling with the notion that I was selfish for missing him. But deep down, my instincts had been screaming at me, warning me of the late nights and sudden shifts in plans, the way his phone always seemed to be just out of reach. Pressing my palm to my forehead, I battle against the headache brewing there. The signs had been evident, and yet I had clung to him foolishly. And then came his voice—tinny and furious—leaking from my phone while Xander held me in a different kind of ecstasy. The venom in Bradley’s words had cut deep, casting me as the villain in our unraveling. Xander had forced him to listen, had held me down and given me something Bradley never could. At that moment, it was intoxicating—a thrill of justice that resonated in my bones, reclaiming an part of myself I had feared lost forever. Now, in the hushed stillness, the memory flares hot and bittersweet. I shove the lingering thoughts aside and wrestle with a bitter reminder—this was merely a one-night stand. Nothing more. Men like Xander didn’t do relationships. They took what they wanted, when they wanted it, and left. Just like that. Yet, the ache in my belly remembers the way he had made me feel: safe, cherished, seen in a way that had eluded me for far too long. Each touch of his last night felt charged, as if he were crafting a tapestry of promises with his hands, and surprisingly, he had kept every single one. Drawing a slow, steady breath, I brace myself. I won’t make this awkward for him. He gave me something beautiful, and I refuse to ruin it by pretending it could blossom into something more. Xander shifts behind me, his arm tightening instinctively as if his body knows I’m awake. The warmth of his weight sinks deeper into the mattress, grounding me as the comfort of him tantalizes the edges of my consciousness. It feels all too good, too easy, to seek solace in his presence. With calculated movements, I begin to ease my hips away from the weight of his arm, inching toward freedom. The mattress shifts under my movements, and instinct draws his hand toward me, searching for warmth in the space I once occupied. My pulse quickens, and in a burst of resolve, I snatch the nearest pillow and thrust it into his grasp. His fingers curl possessively around it, pulling it close as his breathing remains steady and undisturbed. The scent of soap lingers on my skin, a reminder of his care that wasn’t there when I succumbed to slumber. A rush of emotion tightens my chest—the sweetness of his tenderness presses against something fragile within me. The echo of his words about ruining me for everyone else start to resonate ominously. I rise, holding my breath as I place my feet onto the plush carpet. Each sound feels amplified in the stillness as I retrieve my shirt from the floor, buttoning it up with trembling fingers before bending down for my skirt. The wool drags against my skin, catching on tender areas still recovering from the passionate exchange of the night before. Casting a glance toward the bed behind me, I notice he hasn’t stirred. The pillow remains clutched to his chest as if it were a lifeline. A pang sharpens in my chest, but I shove the feeling down as I scour the room for my missing panties. They are nowhere to be found. At the desk, a pristine pad of hotel stationery lies next to a heavy black pen. Hovering above it, I scrawl two simple words: "Thank you." I begin to sign my name, but the pen stills midway through the first letter. He never asked for my name—not once. A sharp sting pierces through my chest, spreading a slow burn that feels too overwhelming for something so small. My throat tightens. I try to convince myself it doesn’t matter, that it was never meant to be anything significant. Just one night—nothing more. Gripping the pen again, I force the tip to scratch out my name—Dahlia. Each letter feels weighty, final, as if I’m leaving behind more than just a note. Setting the pen down, I smooth my palm over the paper one last time before I turn away. Choosing the stairs to evade the embarrassing walk of shame through the lobby, my steps are quick and quiet against the cold concrete. Upon reaching the bottom, I push through the metal door into the alleyway outside. A strangled moan reaches my ears from my right. A man lies curled on the ground, three others tower over him like shadows, their presence menacing and oppressive. Time seems to freeze for a heartbeat, just enough for the icy tendrils of fear to pierce through my chest. My instincts scream at me to get out, fast. They haven’t noticed me yet. I shift back a step, balancing lightly on my heels, desperate not to draw attention. Just a couple more feet, and I can retreat back inside. But the door clicks shut behind me, the echo reverberating through the narrow alley, sealing my fate with a resounding finality.