The footsteps were never real.
Grace wakes tangled in wet sheets and her own sweat, limbs aching, thighs sore with pleasure that still echoes in muscle memory—but she’s alone. The pool is empty, silent beneath the swelling morning sun. No signs of movement, no open door, no hastily snatched towel. Only her breath catching in her throat and the dull throb between her legs to prove that any of it happened.
She lets her fingers drift under the water again. Finds herself still open, still tender. Not a dream, then. Just a ghost of a moment now swallowed by daylight.
He’s already inside.
She doesn’t look for him. Doesn’t need to. He’ll come.
Because he always does now.
**
The sheets are cream. Her mother’s favorites—Egyptian cotton with the faint scent of rose and talcum from her hoarded
