Morning Shadows
1500 Words
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling curtains, warming the charcoal linens and casting long shadows in the penthouse bedroom. Zara woke slowly. Her body felt heavy with a dull ache that reminded her of the night before. Her skin still tingled where his hands had touched her—gentle yet possessive. She stretched, feeling the silk sheets beneath her fingers. For a moment, she forgot her surroundings.
Then reality hit her like cold water.
This wasn’t her bed. The faint scent of cedar and clean cotton lingered on the pillow beside her. Outside the glass, the Manhattan skyline loomed at dawn—sharp and indifferent. She was naked beneath the sheet, every muscle sore, especially between her thighs.
Memories came rushing back: his low voice against her skin, the way he paused when she trembled, the careful rhythm he maintained until she forgot her fear. The way he held her afterward, as if she might vanish if he let go.
Her heart raced as she turned her head.
Aiden lay on his side, facing her, eyes closed and breathing deeply. In sleep, the hard lines of his face softened. The tattoos on his arms looked almost serene against the white sheets, dark ink curling over muscle like quiet stories. His hair was tousled, and his lips were slightly parted. He appeared younger and more vulnerable—nothing like the cold stranger from the rooftop.
She stared, feeling her pulse quicken. Part of her wanted to reach out, trace the tattoos on his arm, feel his warmth again. Another part screamed to run—before he woke, before this became something real.
Carefully, she slid one leg toward the edge of the bed. The sheet slipped. A sharp pain shot through her core. She bit her lip to stifle the gasp and instinctively clutched herself.
The small sound woke him.
His eyes opened—blue and stormy, unfocused for a moment—then sharpened on her. Recognition flashed, followed by something softer and warmer. A slow, almost reluctant smile curved his lips.
“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
Zara froze, suddenly aware of her nudity. The sheet had fallen to her waist. Heat rushed to her face. “Close your eyes,” she stammered. “Or… turn around. Please.”
He didn’t move right away. His gaze wandered—slow and deliberate—taking in the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her collarbone, the faint marks his mouth had left on her skin. She saw him swallow hard. “You’re beautiful,” he said quietly, as if stating a fact.
She yanked the sheet higher, her cheeks burning. “I’m serious.”
The smile widened slightly. He rolled onto his back, folding one arm behind his head, giving her the privacy she wanted. But he didn’t look away—his eyes stayed on the ceiling, thoughtful.
Zara scrambled off the bed, wincing at the fresh wave of pain. She wrapped the sheet around herself like armor and stood there, unsure of her next move. The room looked different in daylight: vast, pristine, and expensive, making her feel small. The lamp still glowed softly on the nightstand—he must have left it on for her fear of the dark.
She glanced at him. He was watching her now, his expression unreadable.
“I should… get dressed,” she said.
He nodded once. “Your dress is on the chair.”
She spotted it—black fabric neatly folded over the arm of the leather chair. She limped toward it, each step reminding her of last night. When she reached for it, another twinge made her gasp softly.
Aiden sat up instantly. “Hey.” Concern edged his voice. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, boxers low on his hips, morning arousal evident. Zara’s eyes flicked down before she could stop herself. Heat rushed to her face once more.
“Are you okay?” he asked, standing and stepping toward her, then stopping when she tensed.
“I’m fine,” she said too quickly. “Just… sore.”
His jaw tightened. Guilt flashed across his face—brief but real. “I should have been more careful.”
She shook her head. “You were. I wanted it. I still…” She trailed off, her cheeks aflame. “I’m okay.”
He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let me get someone to help you.”
Before she could protest, he disappeared into the hallway. A few minutes later, a soft knock sounded. A middle-aged woman in a crisp navy uniform entered—Zara guessed she was the housekeeper—carrying a small stack of folded towels and a robe.
“Ma’am,” the woman said politely, her eyes kind but professionally neutral. “My boss asked me to assist you. I’ve brought fresh towels and a robe. There are toiletries in the bathroom. If you need anything else—clothes, breakfast, pain relief—just let me know.”
Zara tightened her grip on the sheet. “Thank you. I… I can manage.”
The woman nodded, set the items on the dresser, and left without another word.
Zara waited until the door clicked shut, then limped to the bathroom. The space was even more overwhelming in daylight: marble veined with gold, a freestanding tub big enough for two, a rain shower with multiple heads, and shelves lined with unopened luxury products. She brushed her teeth with one of the spare brushes, avoiding her reflection until she couldn’t anymore.
When she finally looked, her eyes were bright, her lips still swollen, and faint marks blooming on her neck and collarbone. She looked… claimed. Cherished. She touched one bruise lightly, remembering his mouth there and the way he whispered. Stranger.
She laughed softly, bitterly. “Rich people really know how to waste money,” she muttered, filling the tub and sinking into the hot water with a sigh of relief.
The soak helped. By the time she stepped out, wrapped in the thick robe, the worst of the ache had dulled to a manageable throb. She returned to the bedroom.
Aiden was there—now dressed in grey sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt that hugged his shoulders. He turned when she entered, his eyes softening again.
“You’re still here,” she said.
“I live here,” he replied, a hint of teasing in his tone. But his expression was serious. “How’s the pain?”
“Better.” She tightened the robe belt. “I should go.”
He nodded slowly. “I can drive you.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ll order a ride. I don’t want to… complicate things.”
His jaw flexed. “It’s no complication.”
She met his eyes. “Last night was… just one night. No names. Remember?”
Silence stretched between them. He looked away first, toward the skyline. “I remember.”
She picked up her black dress from the chair, dropped the robe, and dressed quickly—ignoring how his gaze lingered when she thought he wasn’t looking. The zipper stuck halfway up her back. She struggled for a moment.
He stepped behind her without asking. His fingers brushed her hair aside, his knuckles grazing her spine. He zipped it slowly, carefully, his breath warm against her neck. Shivers raced down her arms.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He didn’t step back immediately. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders. “You sure you’re okay?”
She nodded, her throat tight. “Yeah.”
He released her. She slipped on her heels, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. Every step hurt, but she refused to limp in front of him.
At the elevator, she paused and turned. “I don’t even know your name,” he said.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You will. Eventually.” She replied.
She gave a small, tired smile. “Stranger.”
“Stranger,” he echoed, his voice soft.
The doors closed.
Downstairs in the lobby, she ordered a ride, waiting barefoot on the marble bench with her heels in hand. Her phone buzzed—missed calls from Selene and Esme, worried texts flooding in.
Where are you?
You disappeared last night!
Call me now.
She typed back quickly: I’m fine. Heading home. Talk later.
The car pulled up. She slid inside, wincing as she settled.
As the tower shrank in the rearview mirror, Zara pressed her forehead to the window. Her body ached. Her heart ached more.
Part of her wished she’d let him drive her. Part of her wished she’d stayed.
Aiden stood at the penthouse window, his f
ingers pressed lightly to the glass. The morning shadows stretched long across the floor, but the room still smelled like her—vanilla, whiskey, s*x, trust.
She was gone.
But she was unforgettable.
And he wondered if he'd meet her again..
- Writer
