The ride home was a slow burn I wasn’t ready for.

Alora sat in the front passenger seat, happily filling the air with chatter about school, our history together, and embarrassing things I never asked her to share. I was in the backseat, pressed against the cold leather, dripping rainwater, trying not to exist.

Rayan’s hands on the wheel were steady, his knuckles sharp against the dark leather. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, his voice sank into the car’s silence like a drug—low, accented, rich. I didn’t care about the words. I couldn’t. Every syllable felt like it was poured straight into my bloodstream.

He glanced at me once through the mirror. Just once. My chest clenched. I didn’t dare look back. My thighs pressed together, my face turned to the window. I wanted to scream at myself for being this way—horny, embarrassed, and achingly aware of every inch of my skin.

When the car rolled to a stop, I realized it wasn’t my house. The tall gates and long driveway of Alora’s mansion told me exactly where we were.

“Wait, this isn’t—”

“You’re soaked,” Alora cut me off, twisting in her seat. “Come change first. You’ll catch pneumonia if you go home like that.”

“I don’t think pneumonia works that fast.”

“Don’t argue.” She was already out of the car.

I stayed a second longer, pretending I didn’t need the extra breath before stepping out. But when Rayan opened the back door for me, his eyes flicking briefly to mine before darting away, my whole body tightened again.

Inside, the house smelled like lemon wax and smoke from whatever Alora’s mom had tried to cook earlier. I followed Alora upstairs, my sneakers squeaking on polished tiles.

“Go Change…You need to shower,” she ordered, tossing me a towel before heading into her bathroom. “Don’t even try to say no.”

I sighed but obeyed. My dress peeled off heavy and wet, slapping to the floor. I wrapped the towel around myself and sat on her bed with my phone.

Most people don’t believe that I and Alora are best friends. I mean talk about Princesses and the paupers like the barbie movie I saw while growing up.

Kevin’s name lit the screen. My boyfriend. My normal. My safety.

Dinner by 7, don’t be late ️ I had texted earlier.

No reply.

Was he in practice? I had checked his schedule and it seems like a pretty free time for him to be with his phone.

So why isn’t he replying.

I typed “Still on?” then deleted it. Instead, I dropped the phone beside me, chewing on my lip.

Maybe he is practicing late. I just have to go home and dress up.

From the bathroom, Alora’s voice echoed over the hiss of running water. “So? Do you believe me now?”

“About what?” I called back.

“My stepbrother! The prince! You practically drooled when he showed up.”

“I did not!”

“You so did! You looked like you were about to faint.”

“Shut up and rinse your hair. I’ve got a date with Kevin, remember?”

“Mm-hm. Sure. Pretend all you want. I saw your face.”

I groaned, flopping onto the bed. My towel slipped slightly, and I yanked it tighter around my chest. My body still felt hot, humming in places I didn’t want to admit.

The door creaked open.

I sat up, startled.

And froze.

Rayan stood there, framed in the doorway like he owned the air in the room. His presence filled it instantly, heavy and sharp. His gaze flickered down, then away, quick but too late—I’d already seen it.

I clutched the towel tighter, crossing my legs. My throat went dry.

“Apologies,” he said, his voice calm, as if he hadn’t just walked in on me half-naked. “Alora asked me to bring these.”

Two fresh towels, folded neatly, warm from the dryer.

He stepped forward, and I caught his scent—spice, leather, something faintly smoky. My fingers brushed him when I took them. The touch was brief, but it shot through me like heat.

“Thanks,” I whispered. My chest tightened. My pulse spiked.

He didn’t leave immediately. His eyes met mine, steady, unreadable, and for a moment the room felt smaller, charged.

Then he said it.

“It’s nice to see you, Miss Nightingale.”

The words were simple. But the way he leaned—slow, deliberate—made my stomach twist. Like he wasn’t talking about catching me wrapped in a towel. Like he meant something else. Something deeper.

Before I could form a reply, he turned, closing the door behind him.

I sat frozen, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. My towel felt thinner, my skin hotter.

“See me?” I muttered under my breath. What the hell did that mean?

Was it a greeting or something else?

My phone buzzed. I snatched it up, relief flooding me when I saw Kevin’s name. Finally. But it was only a short text:

Sorry, busy. Still on for 7.

I stared at it, thumb hovering.

Kevin. My boyfriend. The one I should be thinking about. Not the prince with storm-colored eyes and a smirk that still burned me hours later. Not the man who’d just walked in and looked at me like he could read every filthy thought in my head.

I flopped back on the bed again, dragging a pillow over my face. God, I was screwed.

I wanted to throw it across the room. My stomach churned. My body burned. My head spun. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about the man who had barely said two words but had me feeling like I was on fire.

I turned lying on my stomach face planted into the bed, surrendering.

God, he was a storm I couldn’t control.