I texted him on the twenty-eighth.

I’m going to be short again.

The reply came twelve minutes later.

I’ll be there at eight.

At 7:55 I left the chain off and sat on the edge of the bed in a soft T-shirt and nothing else. My body was already tight with anticipation. When the knock came—three short, certain taps—I opened the door without checking the peephole. Roman stood in the hallway in a dark sweater and jeans, the same calm expression he had worn the first night. He stepped inside, locked the door, and looked at me.

“T-shirt off. On the bed. Same position as last time.”

I pulled the...