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ARIA
My eyelids flutter open to soft morning light filtering through the curtains. As I stretch out beneath the covers—my body a little sore and an unfamiliar ache in between my legs—I remember that I’m in Dion’s guest room.
With a yawn, I swing my legs over the bed and pad over to the window. Peeking through the blinds, I see a quaint garden bathed in early sunlight. Birds chirp in the distance, and a gentle breeze rustles the leaves of a nearby tree. Did I wake up in a fucking fairytale? Everything about this house is so charming, it makes me want to gag rainbows. I love it.
The events of last night trickle back into my mind.
After our heartfelt moment—and the sex—Dion and I stayed up late chatting in his kitchen.
When it was time to finally go to bed, he offered to give me a change of clothes: one of his oversized t-shirts which I’m still wearing now. I laughed when he first gave it to me, because it has the face of Post Malone smoking a cigarette printed on it.
“I didn’t expect you to be a Posty fan,” I say, staring down at the tee.
He shrugs. “I’m full of surprises, especially when it comes to the range in my taste of music.”
“Is that so? Give me an example,” I taunt.
“Well, it goes from classical Chopin to Papa Roach.”
My eyes widen. “Papa Roach?”
A chuckle escapes his lips, and I can’t help but smile back, cheeks heating. The sound of his laughter is infectious. He’s cute as hell.
“Yes. Are you not a fan?” he asks, his eyes sparkling in amusement.
“Our taste in music might be the only thing we have in common,” I joke, and at that moment, I am reminded of the effortless connection we seem to be forming.
Again, he lets out an unrestrained chuckle.
I can’t stop staring at him. Despite the warmth I feel from his cheerfulness, I can’t allow myself to fully embrace it. I ignore the fluttering in my chest and close myself off.
“Well, thank you for the shirt. I should get to bed,” I say, awkwardly shifting on my feet.
He gives me a small bow. “Goodnight, Aria.”
“Goodnight, Dion.”
I’m glad he had the decency not to suggest sleeping in the same room or having sex again. Not sure I would’ve said no.
I step into the adjoining bathroom and catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. “Oh, my God.” I look terrible: makeup smudged; skin blotchy. I can’t go out there like this.
Scrambling for anything to clean my face with, I’m happy to find a container of wipes in the bottom cabinet. There’s a whole basket of bathroom essentials and skincare. Thank God.
I wipe the makeup off my face, then cleanse it with some face wash.
Feeling like myself again, I turn around to get a good look at the bathroom.
It’s huge, with a massive walk-in shower and a big whirlpool tub to the left.
I should probably take a quick shower to wash off the remnants of last night. Maybe it’ll help distract me from the flashbacks I’ve been getting of Dion’s face between my legs since I woke up.
My body feels different. I can still remember the nervous excitement that hung in the air as we explored each other for the first time.
The moment was filled with uncertainty, on my part, but I was determined to see it through. I couldn’t ignore the undeniable need to let Dion inside me. I felt raw, exposed, vulnerable—yet exhilarated.
He didn’t ask about birth control, and I didn’t even care to ask him about protection.
In that moment, nothing else mattered. We blindly trusted each other.
