chapter 4

I was halfway up the steps to my apartment when I heard my name.

"Tara! Wait!"

The deep, familiar voice sent a shiver down my spine. I turned just in time to see Paris jogging toward me, something clutched in his hand.

"My phone!" I gasped, relief flooding through me.

He smirked, holding it out. "Almost lost it."

I exhaled sharply, taking it from him. "Thank you, Paris. I don't know what I would have done without it."

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stood there, hands slipping into his pockets, watching me. The silence between us felt thick—charged with something I couldn't quite define.

I hesitated before blurting out, "Would you like to come in for a meal? I was about to cook something."

Paris arched a brow. "Are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose."

I smiled. "You just saved my phone. I'd say that deserves at least dinner."

His lips curled up. "Then I'd be a fool to say no."

I turned, leading him inside, my heart pounding in my chest. The apartment felt warmer than usual, the faint scent of lavender from my candles lingering in the air. I took a deep breath, trying to shake the nervous energy buzzing beneath my skin.

Paris leaned against the kitchen counter, watching me with that lazy smirk that both annoyed and intrigued me.

"What's on the menu?"

"Pasta," I said, busying myself with the ingredients. "Simple, but good."

"Sounds perfect."

I kept my hands moving, chopping, stirring—anything to keep my focus from drifting to the man standing so close. But as we talked, the tension that had been lingering between us melted into something else.

Something… easy.

He was witty, intelligent, and far too charming for his own good. The way he spoke, the way he listened—it was effortless. And before I knew it, the meal was over, yet neither of us made a move to leave the table.

Paris leaned back in his chair, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns on the wood. His gaze locked onto mine, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

"You know…" he mused. "I don't usually do this."

I tilted my head. "Do what?"

"Spend the night talking to a woman about The Iliad instead of trying to take her to bed."

I laughed softly, but my stomach flipped at his words.

"And yet," I teased, "you're still here."

His smirk deepened. "I am."

A heavy silence stretched between us. My pulse thrummed against my skin. Then, in a movement so natural it felt inevitable, he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly along my jaw.

My breath caught.

"Tell me to leave if you want me to," he murmured, his voice low.

I swallowed, my heart hammering. "Stay."

The word had barely left my lips before his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was slow, deep, consuming. Paris's hands slid to my waist, pulling me onto his lap. I gasped at the firm press of his body against mine, heat pooling low in my stomach.

"I've wanted to do this all night," he murmured against my lips.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.

The rest was a blur of heated touches, whispered words, and tangled sheets. Paris took his time with me that night, his touch patient yet electrifying. Every kiss, every caress, sent fire rushing through my veins. And when he finally claimed me, it wasn't just passion—it was something more. Something I didn't have the words for.

We made love three times, each more intense than the last, until exhaustion pulled me under.

I fell asleep in his arms, my body sore yet completely satisfied.

I had never felt so connected to anyone before.

The Morning After

Sunlight streamed through the curtains, warming my skin. I stretched lazily, a soft smile tugging at my lips as memories of last night flooded my mind.

Paris.

I turned to the other side of the bed.

Empty.

The smile slipped from my face. My stomach twisted.

Sitting up, I glanced around the room. The sheets were slightly rumpled, but there was no other trace of him. No note. No goodbye.

Panic started to rise in my chest. I scrambled out of bed, rushing into the living room.

Nothing.

He was gone.

My phone.

I grabbed it, my hands shaking as I unlocked the screen, hoping—praying—for a message.

No new notifications.

The breath I had been holding whooshed out of me. A sharp pain twisted in my chest.

Paris had left.

Just like that.

My legs gave out, and I sank onto the couch, my mind struggling to process the cold reality. He hadn't even given me his number.

I felt stupid. Used.

Tears blurred my vision before I could stop them.

I had just finished telling them everything—every detail of that night, and the heartbreak that followed.

By the time I was done, my voice was raw, my cheeks damp with silent tears.

Anna, who had started out angry, now looked close to crying herself.

Sophie squeezed my hand. "You should have told us sooner."

"I thought…" I hesitated, my voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe I was stupid to think he'd stay."

Anna clenched her fists. "That bastard. He didn't even leave a damn note? Not even a fake excuse?"

I shook my head, my throat tight.

"Men," Sophie muttered bitterly.

Anna's expression softened as she looked at me, really looked at me. Her gaze flickered to my stomach, then back to my face.

"And now… you're pregnant?"

A small sob broke past my lips. I nodded.

Anna's anger vanished, replaced by something deeper—understanding, protectiveness.

"We're here for you," she said firmly. "Always."

Sophie nodded. "You're not alone, Tara."

I wiped my tears, taking a deep breath.

For the first time in months, I believed it.