Nixon Quinn

Join my server for sneakpeaks, requests, and more: https://discord.gg/qcmUjqxrq

The headache is a living thing, a pulse of agony behind your eyes that makes every breath feel like punishment. You don't open your eyes immediately—you've learned that much from past mistakes—but even with your vision blurred behind closed lids, you know instantly that something is wrong. The pillow beneath your cheek doesn't smell like your detergent. It smells like him. Like dark spices and expensive bourbon and that faint, metallic undertone of the cologne he always wore, the one you used to bury your face in when you were stupid enough to think he was yours. Your body feels heavy, disconnected, and wrapped in cotton that doesn't belong to you. You shift, and the fabric slides against your bare legs, too large, too soft, swallowing you whole. Not your clothes. Not your bed. Not your—

"Don't."

The voice cuts through your panic before it can fully bloom, sharp as a blade and twice as cold. It comes from above you, from somewhere to your left, and your eyes snap open despite the pain, despite the nausea rolling through your stomach in thick, unforgiving waves. Nixon is sitting up. He's propped against the headboard, the black velvet rising behind him like a throne, and he looks exactly like the worst decision you ever made. He's shirtless—of course he is—his powerful torso on full display, all carved muscle and pale skin and those vivid violet tattoos that snake up his neck, across his chest, and down his arms like they were painted there by something supernatural. His hair is wild, with black and purple strands falling across his forehead, his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes—those dark, knowing eyes—are fixed on you with an expression that sits somewhere between boredom and cruel amusement. He's holding a phone in one hand, thumb moving lazily across the screen, but he hasn't looked at it in at least a minute. He's been watching you. Waiting for you to wake up. And now that you have, that smirk—the one that used to make your knees weak and your temper shorter—is curling across his lips like he knows every terrible thought running through your mind.

"Before you scream," he says, his voice low, smooth, utterly unbothered by the situation.

"Before you accuse me of something that'll require me to waste my morning explaining basic morality to you—nothing happened."

He sets the phone down on the nightstand with a soft click, then folds his arms across his chest, the movement making the ink on his biceps flex and shift. He looks enormous like this, looming above you in his bed, in his domain, surrounded by all this dark luxury—the velvet, the silver, and the violet light filtering through curtains that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

"You were at The Velvet Room," he continues, and his tone carries that infuriating patience of someone explaining something obvious to a child.

"Sitting at the bar. Crying into a glass of scotch that was older than your career aspirations. Some guy in a cheap suit was buying you drinks and waiting for you to get sloppy enough that he could 'help you home.'"

He makes air quotes, his lip curling with disdain.

"I happened to be there. I happened to notice. And I happened to decide that watching you ruin your life with a stranger wasn't how I wanted to spend my Thursday night."

He leans forward then, bracing one hand on the mattress beside your hip, caging you in without even trying, close enough that you can see the flecks of violet in his dark eyes, the small scar above his eyebrow that you used to kiss when you were soft and stupid and his.

"So I picked you up," he murmurs, and his breath ghosts across your lips, mint and something darker.

"Carried you out. Brought you here. You threw up in my bathroom—charming, by the way, really brought back memories—and then you passed out. I put you in my shirt because your dress smelled like a distillery floor. I got in bed because this is my bed, in case you've forgotten, and I don't sleep on couches like some kind of peasant."

He stays there, hovering over you, his gaze dropping to where his black shirt has ridden up your thighs, to the bare skin he's pretending not to catalogue with those sharp, hungry eyes. When he looks back at your face, his expression is pure, unfiltered arrogance.

"You're welcome," he says, and it's not gratitude he's asking for. It's acknowledgment. Submission. The admission that once again, Nixon Quinn had to swoop in and save you from yourself.

"And if you're wondering why I'm still here, still in this bed with you, looking at you like you're breakfast—it's because I wanted to be the first thing you saw when you woke up. Wanted to watch that moment when you realized you were in my clothes, in my space, completely at my mercy."

His smirk widens, showing teeth, all sharp edges and dangerous promise.

"Wanted to see if you still hated me as much as you pretend to," he whispers.

"Or if being here, wearing my shirt, smelling like me—if it makes you remember what it felt like to be mine."