HER MOANS, MY NAME

Roxy's pov The morning light slipped through the sheer curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the white walls of my new bedroom. It was quiet, unnaturally quiet, the kind of silence that came not from peace, but from disorientation. I blinked slowly at the unfamiliar ceiling. The crisp air smelled like polished wood, lemon cleaning spray, and something faintly masculine — cologne, maybe. It hit me all at once: I wasn’t in Los Angeles anymore. I was in New York. My new home was nothing like the house I'd grown up in. This apartment was all sleek angles and clean space, tucked high above the city on the twelfth floor. A skyline stretched outside my window, glass and steel and blue sky. My mother’s funeral had been two weeks ago. My body still felt heavy with the loss. Now I was here — in the home of my estranged father, Richard Harper, a man who had vanished from my life when I was seven, only to reappear now, offering me a bedroom and a chance at college. I sat up slowly, brushing my dark long hair from my shoulder, the silk sheet sliding down my skin. My nightshirt — thin, old, too short — clung to my body in all the wrong places. Or the right ones. Depends on who was looking. I stood and stretched. My reflection caught in the long mirror by the closet. I paused. New country. New life. Same body — but it felt different now. I had grown so mature since the last year. My curves had blossomed, my legs long and toned from dancing, my waist narrow, my chest fuller than I was used to. I was 19, but sometimes I looked older. I knew the stares I got on the street. I knew what power looked like — and felt like — when it shifted the air in a room. Still barefoot, I padded to the window and looked down. Cars rushed past below, horns blaring, people bustling along sidewalks like ants. America felt colder, faster, lonelier. --- Later that day. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. I stepped in, hoodie unzipped, tiny black shorts clinging to my hips, a coffee cup in hand. I’d only meant to run downstairs and get oat milk from the little shop on the corner, but jet lag had turned into insomnia, and insomnia had turned into restlessness. Now I was on my way back up, yawning, hair loose, and legs bare. As the doors began to close, a firm hand reached between them. They slid back open. I looked up. And up. A man stepped in — tall, broad, and quiet as shadow. His presence filled the small space instantly. He smelled like musk and rain and something woody. His gray T-shirt stretched across a sculpted chest and arms that didn’t belong to a man who worked in an office. His jaw was sharp with a dark stubble, his hair slightly damp as if he’d just come from a shower. He glanced at me briefly, eyes a deep stormy gray. Unreadable. Cool. “Morning,” he said, voice low. I blinked. My mouth opened, but the words caught. “M-Morning,” I managed, too soft. The doors closed. The elevator hummed upward. I could hear her my heartbeat. He didn’t glance at me again, but i could feel him. His presence was like static in the air. Tense. Quiet. Controlled. I recognized him now. It had to be him. Professor Cole.My Father's roommate and also my future Literature professor at NYU. I arrived at New York late at night which didn't give me any chance to get introduced properly to him but I still recognized him. And, apparently, very real in the flesh. The elevator jolted suddenly as it passed the sixth floor. I stumbled with a soft yelp, my coffee cup tipping slightly, and my balance giving out. I pitched forward — straight into him. His hands caught me. Large, steady hands. One gripped my waist, the other landed instinctively against my chest — flat against my breast. Time froze. His palm stayed there, stunned. I gasped. My lips parted, eyes wide as i looked up at him. His face changed slightly — a flicker of heat, of restraint snapping. Then he dropped his hands like he’d been burned. “I—” he muttered. “Sorry.” I could barely breathe. I was still pressed close to him. My face was at his chest, where his shirt clung damp to his skin. I could feel the solid muscle beneath it. My own body was buzzing — heat blooming in my belly, breath shallow. “No. It’s fine,” I said softly, pulling away. “I slipped.” We stared at each other. The silence was thick. He cleared his throat and stepped back, hands now folded tightly behind him, like a soldier at ease. But his eyes… they lingered on my lips. The elevator stopped. “Twelfth floor,” the soft voice announced. The doors opened. He let me step out first like a gentleman. I walked toward the apartment, aware of his eyes on me the entire time. My shorts felt shorter. My skin felt hotter. I fumbled with my keys, my fingers trembling slightly. I got into our unit the only one in the hall and was about to go into my room when the sound of his voice made me stop on my track “You must be Harper’s daughter,” he said. I turned. “I’m Roxy.” He nodded once. “I’m Cole. I teach at NYU and I'm also your father's roommate.” I smiled slowly. “I know.” He lingered a beat too long. Then he stepped inside his room, the door clicking shut behind him. I stood alone in the hallway, heart racing, coffee forgotten in my hand. Apparently out rooms were across each other. God, i thought. What was that? My lips curved. I unconsciously hoped to talk to him more often. Maybe next time… i wouldn’t fall by accident. I thought smirking slightly. ---