The bar is too bright. Neon clings to the sweat on Elladyn’s upper lip, the air thick with newsroom laughter and the musk of spilled whiskey. She sips her gin, pulse skittering every time Rivan’s gaze finds hers across the wobbly table. He tells a story so filthy even the bartender leans in, his laughter echoing riotously—but beneath the bravado, his eyes keep darting her way, searching for something only she can give.

Rivan’s hand dips under the table, brushing hers in a wordless dare. She lets her fingertips tangle with his, a silent promise that tonight, she’ll stop running. On the far side, Onai watches every movement with the cool scrutiny of someone who learned long ago what happens when you reach for what you shouldn’t have. Hadris, scotch in hand and jaw tense, glances at Onai—his eyes flicker, then harden, calculating and wounded all at once.

It’s supposed to be a team-building night, but the air vibrates with secrets and confessions skirting disaster. Jokes tumble between them, but Elladyn’s laughter is a shield. Rivan sees it—feels it, maybe. Much later, half-drunk and flushed from the warmth of too many confessions, Onai drags Hadris outside under a jaundiced streetlight. He says nothing as she lights a cigarette, the flame trembling minutely. Their gazes lock; challenge wars with want. She leans in and murmurs, “No one needs to know,” before crushing her mouth to his, fierce and possessive. He yields, but his fingers remain tight, as if afraid of letting go.

Inside, Elladyn’s hand is now in Rivan’s lap. He glances around—the copy chief is ordering shots at the bar, nobody paying them any mind. “You’re trouble,” he murmurs, voice rough from too many late nights. “Maybe I want trouble,” she replies, nails grazing his thigh. The tension is a live wire between them, stretching, snapping.

After midnight, the bar empties. Outside, rain threatens—Elladyn and Rivan stumble onto the empty sidewalk, laughter dissolving into silence. He leans against the cold brick, face shadowed, eyes unreadable. “You ever wish you could start over?” he asks, words slurred with something rawer than alcohol. She nods, fingers tracing his jaw. “Every single day.”

He lets the mask slip—a confession spills out about the story that haunts him, about a name that "shouldn’t be in the ground." Tears prick at the edge of his voice. Elladyn listens, heart aching, wanting to tell him about the lies and the ex and the identity that isn’t really hers, but the words knot in her throat.

Later, in her tiny apartment, rain tapping at the window like impatient fingers, Rivan kisses Elladyn with a hunger that borders on desperation. They fall together onto her bed, laughter and pain mixing as clothes scatter. His hands are gentle at first, tracing the old scars on her hip, then rougher, greedier, as if he can erase the past with touch. She gasps—soft, vulnerable, her defenses melting away as their bodies align, skin on skin. He worships her body, lingering at every freckle and bruise. She arches against him, needing more, nails digging into his back as he thrusts inside, a joining as frantic as it is tender. Their movements grow wild—her name tangled in his breath, his shoulders shuddering beneath her hands, both of them riding the edge between laughter and tears.

Afterward, they lie tangled, hearts pounding. He traces idle circles on her bare spine, finally at peace, if only for tonight. “Don’t disappear on me,” he whispers. She promises nothing—she never does—but presses a kiss to his shoulder, breathing him in like hope.

In another apartment across the city, Onai stands at her window, cell phone pressed to her ear. “You got the information?” The voice on the line is static, dangerous. She glances back at her sleeping lover—Hadris, shirtless, oblivious. “I’ll deliver. But this better be worth it.” She hangs up, guilt warring with ambition, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Back at Elladyn’s, she wakes a few hours before dawn, Rivan’s arm heavy around her waist. Her phone glows with a new message—a photo, someone’s face circled in red ink, and beneath it, a single question: “How much do you really know about him?”

To be continued...