Genevieve gazed quietly out the car window as the cityscape of New York blurred past. The dazzling glow of neon signs and towering skyscrapers lit up the night sky, yet she sighed softly, her mind drifting back to the tranquil star-filled evenings of her childhood. New York had never been a place she felt at home in. When her father uprooted her to this sprawling metropolis during her teenage years, he had promised excitement and adventure. But for Gen, it had only ever felt stifling, a concrete cage that pressed down on her spirit. She had escaped as soon as college was behind her, fleeing to Boston—a city that, while still bustling, carried an air of history and a slower, more respectful pace. Here, people didn’t glare or scowl if you hesitated at a crosswalk.

Her eyes flicked to the driver beside her. Matteo seemed lost in his own world, his presence almost invisible to her in that moment. She noticed the tension in his hands, knuckles pale and strained as they gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“Your knuckles are bleeding,” she finally said, her voice gentle but curious.

His grip relaxed slightly, and he glanced down with a detached expression before returning his gaze to the road ahead.

“It’ll stop soon,” he replied quietly.

Gen studied him for a moment longer. What kind of man could be so accustomed to pain that he barely noticed his own bleeding hands? She guessed it was someone familiar with hardship, someone who didn’t flinch at bruises or wounds. A shiver ran through her, involuntarily, and she folded her arms against her chest. Turning back toward the window, she realized they were driving into a charming, leafy neighborhood near Central Park, the kind of place where old brownstones stood proudly, their facades rich with history.

Without a word, Matteo pulled the car to a stop at the curb and stepped out. Gen followed, her gaze drawn to the pristine white brownstone he approached. She watched as he produced a keyring, unlocking not one, but three separate locks on the heavy front door. Then, with practiced ease, he entered a code and pressed his thumb to a scanner, the door clicking open.

“Jesus Christ, who the hell are you?” Gen blurted out, her voice a mixture of awe and disbelief.

Matteo turned his head, a dangerous smirk curling his lips as he glanced over his shoulder. Then, without answering, he pushed the door wide and stepped inside. The interior was as impressive as the exterior—original hardwood floors gleamed beneath their feet, and the walls were painted in rich shades of deep green, navy blue, and crisp white. Antique furniture, carefully preserved and historically accurate, filled the rooms visible from the entryway. Gen’s eyes widened in admiration as Matteo shrugged off his coat.

“May I?” His voice was soft, almost intimate, as his breath brushed against the sensitive skin at her neck while his hands reached for the sleeves of her coat.

She could only nod, the knot in her stomach tightening and sinking deeper. His fingers grazed her collarbone as he gently pulled the coat from her shoulders. She watched as he carried her coat and purse to a nearby closet by the door, then leaned casually against the closet door, his eyes scanning her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.

“Having second thoughts?” he asked, a teasing edge in his voice.

“No,” Gen replied too quickly, her arms crossing defensively. She took a slow, steadying breath. “I’ve just… never done this before.”

He pushed off the doorframe and moved toward her with deliberate slowness. She fought the urge to retreat, planting her feet firmly on the floor. His hands slipped into his pockets as he said, “Neither have I. Come on.”

As he began ascending the staircase, the weight of what she was about to do crashed over her like a tidal wave. A one-night stand with a complete stranger—something so bold, so unlike her usual cautious self. Doubt gnawed at her mind. Was she really ready to cross this line? Alone in this unfamiliar place, her thoughts spun wildly. She needed to escape, to breathe fresh air, to…

Suddenly, bare feet appeared at the top of the stairs. Matteo descended slowly, his hands still in his pockets. He had shed his black suit jacket, vest, tie, and cufflinks; his white shirt hung untucked, soft fabric draping past his waist. He stopped before her and exhaled deeply.

“You’re panicking over nothing,” he said quietly, with no trace of irritation.

Gen met his gaze, and instantly regretted it. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion—the kind born from deep sorrow and loss. “I’m just not sure what to do,” she confessed.

His gaze roamed over her face, and for the first time that evening, a faint smile softened his features. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Just come upstairs… if you want. If not, the door unlocks easily from the inside. It’ll send me an alert, so I’ll know you’ve made your choice,” Matteo explained, then turned and climbed the stairs once more.

Left alone in the foyer, Gen paced back and forth, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished wooden floor. Her mind wrestled with indecision until finally she let out a frustrated groan. Screw it. She followed the soft glow of light at the end of the hallway and stopped at the doorway of his bedroom.

Inside, a grand four-poster bed dominated the room, draped in rich linens. Landscape paintings adorned the walls, and a window offered a view of the quiet street below, where his car waited patiently.

Matteo emerged from the bathroom, dressed only in his dress pants. Gen’s breath caught at the sight of his sculpted torso. She imagined the hours he must have spent in the gym to carve such defined muscles. Her eyes traced the contours of his arms, the sharp lines of his chest and abs, and then the thin trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. Her gaze finally settled on a tattoo etched on his left pec—a family coat of arms, positioned close to his heart.

“Have you made up your mind?” he asked, sliding his hands back into his pockets.

Gen’s eyes locked with his, and she swallowed hard, sensing the vulnerability beneath his confident exterior. He wanted her to stay. She could see the flicker of fear that she might walk away.

“I’ll… stay,” she whispered.

“I left some clothes for you in the bathroom. You can shower, take off your makeup, whatever you want,” Matteo offered kindly.

She glanced toward the bathroom door and then watched him move to the bedside table, pulling out his phone and typing. The idea of a one-night stand where he encouraged her to freshen up rather than dive into passion puzzled her. Weren’t these encounters supposed to be wild, messy, urgent? Clothes torn off, breathless moments, and then a hurried escape at dawn?

Gen continued to watch him, but he simply sat on the edge of the bed, absorbed in his phone. She decided to accept the invitation and quickly slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. The marble surfaces gleamed under soft lighting, and the rain shower promised a soothing escape. She ran her fingers over the hoodie and boxer briefs laid out for her, cheeks flushing at the thought of wearing his clothes.

She bundled the hoodie and boxers together, shook her head to clear her nerves, and piled her hair atop her head in a messy bun. Using toilet paper and a bit of lotion, she wiped away most of her makeup before stepping under the hot, cascading water. The warmth calmed her jittery nerves and gave her a sense of control she hadn’t felt all night.

Once dry, she studied the clothes again. She decided to put her bra back on and slip into the oversized hoodie. She inhaled the faint scent lingering in the fabric—a mix of tobacco and honey—that made her head spin slightly. Because the hoodie extended well past her hips, she opted to wear her own underwear rather than the boxers, which felt too intimate to her.

She gave herself one last look in the mirror, fluffing her hair and nodding with quiet determination. Returning to the bedroom, she found Matteo sitting upright against the headboard, the blankets pulled up over his waist and legs. His eyes immediately traveled over her, lingering with a mixture of anticipation and something softer. He set his phone down on the nightstand beside him.

“Are you ready for bed?” he asked, his voice low and velvety, stirring something deep inside her.