When she woke, it was still dark in the room. It had happened again last night.

His ebony bedsheets were softer than anything she had ever slept against before, a material she didn't know. The thick, downy covers were bunched around her head and warm on her bare skin. It still smelled like him.

Another night in his bed. Another night in his arms. Another morning of conflict.

He walked around the corner, his hair still damp. She watched as he slid a tunic over his head, over his shoulders, down his back, and add a robe over top. He turned to her, expressionless, and she felt a ripple of desire.

Her eyes followed him, feeling that mix of fear and longing, as he left the room, no doubt headed for the bridge. She pressed them closed as the door slid shut behind him, and found herself wondering how she had gotten here.