The air still smelled of steam and sin. She could taste him on her lips, feel the echo of his touch ghosting down her skin long after the water had gone cold. When she finally stepped out of the shower, the mirror was a blur of fog, her reflection lost somewhere between guilt and satisfaction.
She wrapped herself in a towel, but it did little to cover the truth, her hands still trembled, her heart still raced, and her soul felt heavy with the weight of what she couldn't undo.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, shirt still unbuttoned. The lamplight painted him in gold and shadow, a fallen saint in a world that had already condemned them both.
"You should go," she said softly, tightening the towel around herself.
He looked up, his eyes finding hers, tired, wanting, dangerous. "You don't mean that."
"Maybe not," she whispered. "But I have to."
He stood, slow and deliberate, like he was moving through thick air. Every step brought him closer until she could feel the warmth of him again, the reminder of everything they'd just done. "You think walking away makes you holy again?" he asked quietly.
She gave a faint, humorless smile. "There's no holiness left in me."
He reached for her wrist, his fingers tracing the droplets still clinging to her skin. "Then don't pretend."
The words hung between them like smoke. Thick, intoxicating, dangerous.
She wanted to say no. She wanted to step back. But instead, she closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her forehead against his chest. The quiet between them was too intimate, too fragile.
"Tell me this doesn't ruin us," she whispered.
He exhaled, long and broken. "It already has."
Her grip on the towel faltered, her breath catching. "Then why does it still feel like the only thing that's ever been real?"
"Because it is," he said. "Because everything else we've ever done was just pretending."
The words struck something deep, a wound and a truth all at once. She wanted to hate him for saying it, but instead, she found herself trembling again, not from cold, but from the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice whispering her name under the hiss of the shower.
"I don't want to be your mistake," she said finally.
He brushed a wet strand of hair from her face. "You were never a mistake," he murmured. "You were the reason."
That was the moment she knew nothing about this could be undone. Not the kiss, not the touch, not the hunger that still lingered in the air like electricity.
When he finally left, the room fell silent again. The sheets were tangled, the floor wet, and her towel slipped loose as she sank onto the edge of the bed.
Outside, dawn crept through the blinds, pale, merciless, revealing. She pressed her palms to her face, her body still humming with the memory of him, her conscience heavy with the cost.
In the quiet morning light, she whispered the only truth she had left.
"No saints here. Not anymore."
And somewhere beyond the city's hum, thunder rumbled faintly, a promise that this sin was far from over.
The thunder rolled again, closer this time, as if the sky itself wanted to echo her guilt. She looked toward the window, the city still asleep, unaware of what it had witnessed in that small room above its streets. The air was thick with the scent of rain, sweat, and something unspoken.
Her fingers trailed absently down her arm, as if she could erase the ghost of his touch, but the warmth lingered stubbornly. The bed behind her still carried the imprint of his body, a hollow reminder of the chaos they'd created between the sheets and the silence that followed.
A knock startled her. Three soft taps, familiar, careful. She froze, heart in her throat. He had come back. Of course he had.
When she opened the door, he stood there again, rain-soaked, eyes wild. "I forgot something," he murmured.
Her breath trembled. "What?"
"You."
The word undid her. Before she could think, he was inside, closing the door with a quiet click that sounded too much like surrender. The towel slipped from her shoulders; he caught it before it hit the floor, his gaze never leaving hers.
"I told myself I'd walk away," he said, voice low, rough around the edges. "But you make leaving feel like a lie."
Her pulse stuttered. "And staying?"
He took a step closer, until she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin. "Feels like sin. But maybe that's the only thing that's real anymore."
His hands found her waist, hesitant for only a second before pulling her closer. The kiss wasn't gentle this time, it was desperate, reckless, a collision of everything they'd tried to bury. She gasped against his mouth, her body betraying her resolve as her hands tangled in his damp hair.
The thunder outside cracked, loud and electric, but inside, all she could hear was the rhythm of his heartbeat against hers, fast, unsteady, alive.
When they broke apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, breath mingling in the charged air. "This isn't redemption," she whispered.
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried both ruin and devotion. "I know. But it's honest."
And then his lips found hers again, softer this time, slower, a final confession in a world that had already judged them both.
Outside, the rain began again, steady and forgiving. Inside, wrapped in the echo of thunder and their shared breath, they found something neither holy nor pure, but real, and burning, and theirs.