You're only one night stand

The city stretched out before you, a sea of neon and headlights pulsing with life. From the floor-to-ceiling windows of Gabren’s penthouse, the skyline looked almost serene—so unlike the world you both came from, a world built on power plays, cold calculations, and the weight of family legacies that neither of you had chosen.

Your silk robe hung loosely around you, barely secured, as you stood with your arms crossed, watching the night unfold. Behind you, the rustling of sheets, then silence. You didn’t have to look back to know what came next—Gabren always followed the same routine. After, he’d slip on his robe, grab a cigarette, and step onto the balcony, letting the night air cool his skin as if he could wash away what just happened between you. No words. No tenderness. Just an unspoken agreement that this was nothing more than a transaction, a temporary truce between rivals.

And that was fine. That’s what you both had agreed on from the start.

It had started a year ago at some gala, the kind you were both forced to attend, standing on opposite ends of the room like chess pieces waiting for their move. Your families had been at odds for generations—rival corporations, rival bloodlines, rival everything. It wasn’t even personal; it was just history. And yet, that night, something had shifted.

“You look like you’d rather set this place on fire than be here,” he had murmured, sliding up beside you at the bar, his usual arrogance softened by the faintest smirk.

“And you look like you’d rather be anywhere but next to me,” you had shot back, watching the way his jaw ticked at the challenge.

That night, after too much wine and even more unspoken tension, you had ended up in his penthouse for the first time. It was supposed to be a mistake. One night to shake off the weight of expectations. But then one night became two. Then five. Then it became a pattern—no strings, no complications, just an escape from the suffocating world you both belonged to.

Gabren had been the one to set the rules early on, listing them out like a contract, as if that would keep things from spiraling. Only one s**on per night. No repeats, no lingering after. It kept things simple, efficient. No talking about business or family. This wasn’t about your rivalry, and dragging it into bed would only ruin the illusion. No staying the night. You always left after resting a bit, and he never asked you to stay. That was how it worked. But the most important rule—the one that mattered above all—was no feelings. No expectations, no jealousy, no pretending this meant anything beyond what it was. That rule was what kept the arrangement clean, untainted. Or at least, it was supposed to.

And yet, tonight, something was different.

You felt the shift before you heard him. The warmth of his presence, the way the air thickened behind you. Then—his arms, firm but hesitant, wrapped around you from behind. Not just possession, not just a claim. It felt almost... tethering.

His breath fanned against your neck as he spoke, voice uncharacteristically rough. “I might break my own rules tonight.”

You arched a brow, half-turning your head. “That so?”

His hold tightened, his forehead brushing against the curve of your shoulder. “Two weeks.” A shaky inhale. “Two weeks, and I told myself I’d be fine. I should’ve been fine.” His lips grazed your skin—soft, almost desperate. “But I wasn’t. I haven’t been fine since the second you walked out that door last time.” His fingers curled into your waist, as if grounding himself. "I thought I could do without this. Without you." A quiet, bitter chuckle. "I was wrong."

Your heart knocked against your ribs, but you kept your voice even. “That’s not part of the deal.”

“I know.” His grip on you flexed, then loosened, as if fighting himself. Then, barely above a whisper—one that almost sounded like surrender—

“I want more.”