Arianna’s mind exploded into static, her heart hammering against her ribs, completely beyond her control.

She was teetering on the edge of losing it.

The night was thick and suffocating. Outside the kitchen window, the world was a void of darkness, save for the rhythmic, rustling whisper of leaves against the second-story balcony. They were tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, shielded from the light of the living room. Maxwell’s long legs were stretched out, blocking her exit as if he were terrified she’d bolt at the first opportunity.

His towering frame loomed over her, closing off the world, caging her in.

He kissed her with an almost obsessive fervor—from her forehead to her eyes, down to the bridge of her nose, and finally, her lips. Every inch of her skin seemed to be branded with his touch.

The suffocating intensity of the atmosphere was too much for Arianna. Her breathing turned shallow, ragged. She pushed against his chest, her voice breathless. "Maxwell, you… that’s enough. I…"

Maxwell frowned, clearly displeased by her restlessness. He caught her wrists, his thumb tracing soft, rhythmic circles over her pulse point—a gesture that was supposed to be soothing, but only made her nerves fray further.

The heat of his kisses migrated from the corner of her mouth to her chin, then trailed down to the sensitive shell of her ear.

A sudden, hot breath brushed against her skin, making Arianna shiver uncontrollably. "Maxwell, don't…"

He tilted his head, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Just one more, hm? Would that be alright?"

Arianna had completely lost the power of speech.

She thought, fleetingly, that perhaps she had been infected by his drunken haze; she felt just as intoxicated as he was. Her mind was a blank slate, her cheeks flushed a deep, burning crimson. Her gaze was unfocused, anxiety replaced by a hazy, intoxicating numbness. Every bit of her remaining logic was shattered.

"Darling," Maxwell whispered, his voice a gentle, honey-coated trap. "Just one more."

He knew exactly what worked on her.

Maxwell’s voice was naturally cold, like snow falling on a frozen winter night—sharp and detached. But now, he had dropped the register, his voice laced with a raw, husky rasp that melted directly into her eardrums. In the heavy, suffocating silence of the night, it didn't sound like a request. It sounded like a confession, or perhaps, a soft, desperate plea.

Arianna crumbled.

But she had overlooked one crucial detail.

Maxwell was drunk. His judgment was compromised. And when a man like him said "one more," there was no guarantee what the time frame actually looked like.

Five minutes later, Arianna was left standing there, breathless and dazed.

Maxwell stopped kissing her, but he didn't pull away. He folded her into his arms, his forehead resting against hers. "Arianna," he murmured.

The sound was low, magnetic, and unfairly seductive.

Arianna pressed her cheek against his chest, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart. "Yeah?"

He pulled his lips away, his breathing still unsteady. He let out a dry, awkward cough, his tone suddenly shifting. "I’m tired."

"Tired?" The sudden pivot in the conversation caught her off guard. "Are you going to bed now?"

Maxwell gave a muffled, wordless hum of agreement. He tilted his head, observing her expression with a guarded look, testing the waters. "Do you still want to be kissed?"

Arianna stared at him. *Are you hearing yourself right now?!*

"No, no," she stammered, her hands hovering in the air, completely flustered. "I’m just… curious. You said you weren't tired, that you wanted me to stay and chat. Why the sudden shift?"

The question died in her throat.

Her eyes widened in realization. Maxwell was still holding her, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She had shifted her weight, and in doing so, she became intimately aware of… a certain undeniable, rigid evidence of his desire pressing against her.

It was unmistakable. Even through the layers of fabric, the presence was impossible to ignore.

Arianna stood frozen. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but the words failed her. After a long, agonizing beat, she blinked rapidly, feigning a yawn. "Right, bed. Let’s sleep. I’m tired, too."

"Yes. Let's go."

Maxwell took her hand, leading her toward the stairs.

They walked side-by-side, but Arianna couldn't help but steal a glance at his lower half. Her heart skipped a beat, and she quickly jerked her gaze away, staring fixedly at the wall.

Maxwell, however, seemed perfectly composed, even offering her a hollow comfort. "It’s alright. Don't worry about it."

*Don't worry?*

How was she supposed to not worry?

Arianna didn't dare probe further. She muttered a weak, "Oh, okay," and kept walking.

"It’s too early for this," Maxwell said, his tone matter-of-fact as he ascended the stairs, though he gave her fingers a gentle, lingering squeeze. "I won't touch you. Not unless you're the one who wants it."

With that, he turned and disappeared into his room. His silhouette, usually so imposing, had a faint, rare trace of frantic desperation to it.

Arianna stood motionless in the hallway. A moment later, the sound of the shower kicking on behind his door reached her ears. She turned on her heel and headed for her own room.

Once inside, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Maxwell was the one who had been drinking, yet she looked like the one who was smashed. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes soft and vulnerable, and her lips were swollen and stained a deep, provocative red.

She replayed the night’s events in her head, feeling a profound sense of helplessness. How on earth was she supposed to face him tomorrow?

She hoped, desperately, that he wouldn't remember a thing. If he had a blackout, then everything would be fine. They could go back to being polite and distant, acting as if the entire night had been a fever dream that never happened.

But if he remembered?

Arianna stared into the mirror, racking her brain for a solution and finding nothing.

Then, as she went through her skincare routine, a thought struck her.

Wait.

Why was she the one agonizing over this?

She was the "victim" here. Maxwell had been the one to cross the line; he had been the one to initiate. If anyone had to figure out how to handle the morning after, it was him.

With that realization, Arianna straightened her posture. A wave of righteous indignation washed over her, and for the first time all night, she felt like she might actually be able to breathe.