The sunlight was cruel that morning. It sliced through the blinds of the penthouse suite like judgment itself, spilling across the rumpled sheets still warm with what they'd done. The room smelled of wine, sweat, and bad decisions, the kind that lingered on the skin long after the pleasure faded.
He woke first, eyes burning from the lack of sleep and the weight of memory. The imprint of her lipstick still stained the corner of his mouth, a mark of proof and regret. The side of the bed where she'd lain was already cold, her perfume the only trace that she'd ever been there.
He ran a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. "No saints here," he muttered to himself, the same words she'd whispered before disappearing into the dawn.
But the truth was, he hadn't wanted a saint. He wanted her, reckless, intoxicating, and entirely off-limits.
The phone buzzed on the nightstand, snapping him out of thought. One message blinked across the screen:
Her: Don't call. Don't text. Pretend it never happened.
He stared at it for a long moment, then typed back before he could stop himself.
Him: Too late. I already can't.
The message stayed unsent. He deleted it, tossed the phone aside, and went to the shower.
Steam filled the glass enclosure as he stepped under the spray, trying to wash away the scent of her. But when he closed his eyes, she was still there, the way her breath had caught when he touched her, the way she'd whispered his name like a secret she hated herself for keeping.
And just as the water grew hotter, so did the ache that rose in his chest.
Across town, she stood in front of her mirror, hair damp, lipstick gone, eyes swollen from more than just exhaustion. Her wedding ring glinted mockingly under the bathroom light.
She turned it slowly on her finger, once, twice, before sliding it off entirely. It left a pale band on her skin, a ghost of a promise already broken.
The mirror didn't lie. What stared back at her wasn't the woman she'd vowed to be. It was someone else, someone who had let temptation win.
She thought of his hands, his mouth, the sound of her own heartbeat when their worlds had collided in that hotel room.
Her phone vibrated.
A new message.
Him: You left your earring.
She almost smiled. Of course I did. Maybe she'd left it on purpose, a piece of herself he could never quite forget.
Her reply came seconds later:
Her: Keep it. You always did like trophies.
There was no going back now. Not to her marriage. Not to the version of herself who believed she could walk away clean.
She pulled on her coat, stepped into the cold November air, and whispered the only truth she still believed:
"No saints here."
Then she disappeared into the morning, leaving behind the wreckage of what they'd done, and the beginning of what neither of them could undo.
She disappeared into the morning, leaving behind the wreckage of what they'd done, and the beginning of what neither of them could undo.
The city was still half-asleep, its pulse slow and quiet, as if it too was holding its breath for the secrets it kept. Her heels clicked against the pavement, sharp and steady, a sound that didn't match the tremor in her chest. Every step away from that hotel felt heavier, as if the air itself was tugging her backward.
She paused at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and in the glass of a bakery window caught her reflection, disheveled hair, smudged eyeliner, and a mouth still swollen from his kiss. She looked like a stranger dressed in guilt.
Inside, a couple laughed over coffee, their hands brushing in the kind of touch that didn't need to hide. It hurt to look at them, not because she envied them, but because once, she'd been that woman. Once, love had been simple. Honest. Not something that happened between stolen hours and whispered lies.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, she didn't check it. She already knew who it was, and she couldn't afford to let herself see his name again. Not when she was trying so hard to pretend that the night hadn't followed her into the day.
But pretending never changed the truth. It only delayed it.
She hailed a cab, climbed in, and gave her address with a voice so steady it almost convinced her she was fine. As the car pulled away, her thoughts drifted back to his touch, the way his breath had found her neck, the way he'd said her name like it meant something.
And then she hated herself all over again for remembering.
Back in the suite, he stood by the window, a towel around his waist, staring at the city below. The glass was fogged with his breath, and beyond it, the skyline glittered like temptation itself. He wanted to believe he could move on, return to the version of himself who didn't ache for what he shouldn't have.
But the bed behind him still looked like a confession, sheets tangled, pillows marked by the ghost of her perfume. He'd spent his life chasing perfection, control, appearances… yet one night with her had undone it all.
The knock at the door startled him. Room service, he thought, until he opened it.
It was her earring. In a small envelope. Left at the reception desk with his name on it.
No note. No explanation. Just the gold curve of memory staring back at him.
He laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that didn't belong to the man he'd been yesterday.
He poured a drink, too early, too strong, and sat down in the chair where she'd once sat, legs draped over his, laughter spilling like sin.
And in that quiet, hungover morning, he realized something he hadn't wanted to face:
he wasn't waiting for her to call.
He was waiting for her to fall, again, right back into the same fire that had burned them both.
Because some sins don't end at sunrise.
They just wait for the next night to begin.