I followed him not because I thought it would make things better, and not because I believed he wanted me to. I followed him because my legs moved before my pride could stop them, because the thought of him standing alone in the dark after everything that had just happened pulled at something deep in my chest I didn't know how to silence.
The air outside hit me with a bite, sharp and clean, brushing against my bare arms like judgment. Denzel stood near the railing, his silhouette framed by the glow of the city, a cigarette burning between his fingers. I paused for a moment in the doorway, watching him. He didn't look like the man who had once whispered in my ear, promising me a world of pleasure and control. He looked like someone weighed down by things he didn't speak of, smoke curling from his mouth like confessions he refused to let escape.
Quietly, I walked to him, closing the distance inch by inch. My arms slid around his waist from behind, my body pressing into his back as I buried my face into the fabric of his shirt. He smelled like fire and cologne, like the remnants of something both beautiful and dangerous. I held him tighter, just for a moment. Just long enough to feel him breathe.
But he didn't respond.
He didn't lean into me. Didn't say my name.
He reached up instead and took one last drag of the cigarette before removing it with a slow, almost absent motion. Then, without looking at me, he took my wrists and peeled them away from his body with the same care he might use to remove lint from his sleeve. There was no tenderness in it—just precision, like he couldn't afford to feel anything at all.
He dropped the cigarette to the ground, stepped on it, and finally spoke.
"Go wait for me in the bedroom."
There was nothing in his voice but command. No heat. No affection.
Just steel.
I didn't ask questions. I didn't plead. I turned and walked back inside, trying not to let the door's quiet click behind me sound like a coffin lid closing.
The bedroom felt colder than it had when I left. I moved through it in a daze, like I was floating in the space between guilt and surrender. I stood in front of the bed and slowly began to undress. My dress slipped off my shoulders and dropped to the floor in a soft heap. I unhooked my bra, the straps sliding down my arms, then stepped out of my panties, letting them fall like a whisper onto the rug.
Naked, I sat on the edge of the bed, spine straight, legs crossed at the ankle, trying to hold onto some scrap of dignity even as everything inside me crumbled.
Minutes passed. Long ones.
My mind spiraled through what I wanted to say, what I should have done differently, how it all came down to one night and one mistake I couldn't erase. I told myself I could explain it better if he'd only let me speak, that I wasn't that girl—not anymore. But all of it sounded hollow when I tried to imagine the words coming out of my mouth.
By the time the door opened again, I had memorized the silence.
Denzel entered like a storm at a funeral—impeccably composed, but full of wreckage just beneath the surface. His eyes swept over me, but there was no desire in them. Just a quiet, unreadable intensity. He was already unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it off slowly like the sight of me undressed didn't stir him at all.
"Stand up," he said, his voice as cold as marble.
I stood.
"Turn around."
I obeyed, my body tightening as I faced the window, heart hammering in my chest. I felt him step behind me, the heat of his presence prickling along my back before his hands found my waist and slid upward to cup my breasts. His fingers were rough, his touch claiming rather than caressing, and I sucked in a breath when he leaned down and spoke against my ear.
"You don't get to party with strangers, dance like that, post pictures like that, and then expect me to be soft with you."
I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak.
He turned me toward him and kissed me—hard, bruising, punishing. His tongue forced its way into my mouth, dominating rather than exploring. I could taste the remnants of smoke on his lips, bitter and raw. When he pulled back, I was breathless, dizzy, my lips aching from the force of it.
"Get on the bed," he ordered.
I climbed onto the mattress, positioning myself on my knees at the center, feeling the mattress dip beneath me. He undressed without a word, his movements calm, efficient, completely detached. There was no hurry in him, but no warmth either. This wasn't about passion—it was about control, about stripping me of whatever illusion I still held onto about what we were.
When he entered me, there was no tenderness, no prelude. Just heat and power and rhythm. He drove into me with relentless force, and I let him. I moaned, not from pleasure, but from the way my body betrayed me and responded anyway. My nails clawed at the sheets, my thighs burned from the effort of keeping up with him, and my thoughts scattered like birds in a storm.
It wasn't lovemaking.
It wasn't even sex.
It was a punishment wrapped in silk sheets and soft lighting, and I took it because I knew I deserved it—at least in his eyes.
When I came, it happened fast and hard, leaving my body trembling. He groaned behind me, low and deep, then thrust once more before releasing into me. His body tensed, then collapsed against my back for a fleeting second.
And then he was gone.
He withdrew, stood, and reached for his clothes in one fluid motion. I stayed on the bed, watching him dress. He didn't look at me, not even once. His face was hard, his jaw clenched, the lines around his mouth drawn tight.
"Denzel…" My voice was soft, almost a whisper.
He didn't answer.
He fastened the final button on his shirt, smoothed down the collar, and walked to the door without a single glance in my direction. When it clicked shut behind him, it was the loudest sound I had ever heard.
I lay back on the bed, drawing the sheets around me, suddenly cold. My body ached in places that had nothing to do with the physical. I stared up at the ceiling, blinking back the tears that refused to fall. My skin still tingled from his touch, but my heart felt hollow, like a room no one lived in anymore.
He had taken everything from me in that moment—my guilt, my apology, my body—and left me with nothing but the quiet echo of absence.
And I hated how much I still wanted him anyway.