Sierra made it halfway to the elevator before her mind caught up to her body. Her heels clicked too loud on the carpet, every step a gunshot in her skull. She stopped short, chest heaving, and pressed her back to the wall.
She was a mess—hair wild from yanking it out of the ponytail, skirt crooked, her perfume and his scent tangled on her skin. She crouched, hands trembling as she tried to breathe.
"Oh my God..."
Something warm slid down her thigh. The sight of it nearly buckled her knees.
Her blush deepened as she yanked her skirt back into place. For the first time in her life she felt ashamed of what she'd chosen to wear. The crop top. The too-short skirt. It all looked like a costume now.
"I can't believe I came to his room dressed like this," she whispered. "Like a whore. Why do I keep throwing myself at him? He's such an herbivore! Why do I keep trying to get him to eat me? What's wrong with me?"
The words came louder than she meant, echoing down the empty hall.
No one was there to hear them.
No one—not even Deon.
Part of her had expected him to come charging after her, grab her wrist, drag her back inside, and finish what they'd started. Then she could tell herself a story later. He pushed. I just went along.
But he hadn't followed.
And that silence cut deeper than any touch could.
A wave of disappointment rolled through her, hot and heavy—followed by self-loathing sharp enough to burn.
"Whore," she whispered, the word falling from her lips like a stone.
She stepped into the elevator, eyes stinging, fighting back tears as the doors slid shut. Her hand drifted to her abdomen, pressing there as if to erase the memory, but it only made it worse.
"I can still feel it," she breathed to the empty cab.
The elevator hummed to life, carrying her away from the beautiful nightmare she'd just created.
⸻
Meanwhile
The door clicked shut, and silence swallowed the room.
Deon lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might hold an answer. His chest rose and fell, the ghost of her weight still pressing down on him.
He hadn't hesitated. That was the worst part. He'd completely frozen. His body had risen to the occasion, sure—but his mind? His hands? Nothing. He'd just lain there, letting it happen. Letting her grind him down until—
"Fuck," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face.
Was it PTSD? Some twisted hangover from years of wanting her but never letting himself have her? Because in the one moment he could've reached out—claimed her—he locked up like a rookie. Let her slip away. Again.
And yet... he could still feel her. The way she'd wrapped around him, hot and tight. The softness of her thighs, the firmness of her hips. Familiar. Too familiar.
"How the hell..." He laughed bitterly. "No. No way."
Some stupid part of him wondered if bodies could sync up—that if you loved someone long enough, maybe your body just... learned theirs.
He shook his head. "Nah. That's anime logic. Gotta lay off the shounen tropes."
Still, the thought lingered. If that phone hadn't gone off, she'd still be here—pinning him down, working those hips like there was no tomorrow.
His fists clenched. "Shit, she's sexy..."
And Keyon got to see her like that every night.
Anger flared white-hot, ugly, raw. Then he shoved it down. He had no right.
None.
What right did he have to be upset? He'd made his choice years ago.
"I need to graduate from this crush," he muttered, pushing off the bed. His legs felt weak, like he'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight.
They both needed to.
Keyon didn't deserve that kind of betrayal. Yeah, the man had his flaws, but he was still Deon's day one. His brother.
Deon stared at his reflection in the dark TV screen, jaw tight.
"I can't fall to that level. I won't be the man who backdoors his homie." He shook his head. "Never."
The silence pressed in. He laughed once—humorless—and fell back onto the mattress.
But the echo of her body against his wouldn't fade.
Except you did, didn't you? The voice in his head was merciless. This isn't even the first time. Just the first time it's gone this far.
Deon exhaled hard.
"There's no way to win a fight with yourself, is there? ...Damn."
⸻
Elsewhere
Keyon wasn't the type to sit in a hotel room and brood. Not his style. While Sierra had dragged Deon off for whatever "catch-up time" she claimed she needed, he'd slipped into the streets. Night markets, bars, side streets—it didn't matter. He was in Okinawa, and life was too short not to taste everything once.
He lit up every room he stepped into, the same way he always had. Drinks on the house, smiles from strangers, women leaning closer than they needed to. He fed off it like oxygen.
One bar bled into another until he stumbled out into the cool night air, a grin still plastered on his face.
That's when he saw her.
For a second, he thought it was Sierra—the hair, the skin, the eyes. He almost called her name.
But when she looked up from under messy bangs, hoodie half-zipped, expression flat as a coin toss, he realized it wasn't Sierra at all. Same face. Different energy.
She barely gave him a glance before disappearing into the crowd, tote bag bouncing against her hip. He stood frozen, watching her vanish like a ghost.
"What the hell..."
⸻
Back in the Hotel Room
Keyon flopped onto the bed, kicking off his shoes, running a hand over his face. Sierra sat by the vanity, pretending to check her makeup though her eyes kept flicking toward the door.
"You'll never believe this," he said, chuckling.
"What?"
He propped himself up on an elbow, grin lazy. "Swear to God, I just ran into a chick that looked exactly like you. I mean exactly. Thought you'd beat me out the door."
Sierra's lips twitched, but not into a smile. "Guess everyone's got a look-alike out there somewhere." She waved him off, eyes back on the mirror.
He didn't notice the stiffness in her shoulders. Or the way her hand brushed over her skirt, as if trying to wipe something away.
"Yeah, wild though," Keyon went on, already losing interest. "World's a crazy place." He stretched, yawned, grabbed the remote. "What you wanna do tomorrow? Heard there's a beach party—"
But Sierra wasn't listening. Her mind was back in Deon's room, on the heat of his body and the shame still clinging to her skin.
Keyon wasn't worried. Not about her. Not about Deon.
He knew his wife might still get those little flutters for her old flame. Hell, Deon might even feel the same. But so what?
Deon was Deon—passive to a fault. The man wouldn't so much as brush a woman's hand without permission in triplicate. Keyon had never seen him flirt, never seen him lean into the chase. At thirty, Deon still gave off that quiet, awkward energy that made Keyon wonder if he was even interested in sex at all. Asexual, maybe. Or just terminally shy. Either way, not a threat.
So yeah, Sierra hanging around Deon didn't bother him. If anything, it freed up his schedule.
And in Okinawa? On the other side of the world? Women practically lined up to test the foreigner. The stares, the giggles, the way even language barriers turned into invitations—it was like being back in high school, except now he had money and the body to match.
Keyon grinned, remembering the girl from the bar, her laughter muffled against his neck, her perfume mixing with whiskey. He couldn't recall her name. Didn't need to. Didn't matter.
It wasn't cheating if you didn't even share words.
If it was just skin, sweat, and forgetting.
He stretched out on the hotel bed, the city lights painting his grin in gold.
Sierra could have her little games with Deon. Nothing would ever come of it.
Meanwhile, he'd enjoy the local delicacies.
Because that's what life was about, wasn't it?
Winning.
Always winning.