Rose’s POV

The address led to a second-floor loft above an old print shop.

No lobby. No intercom. Just a metal staircase and a door left cracked open. I climbed it in a long coat and nothing else, the plug shifting with every step, a constant thick reminder of the night before. By the time I reached the top my thighs were already slick.

Jeff was waiting inside.

The space was mostly empty—exposed brick, a wide mattress on a low platform, a single lamp throwing warm light across the floor. He stood near the window in the same dark jeans, shirt discarded this time. The second he saw me he...