They lay tangled together in the massive bed. Sheets pulled haphazardly over their cooling bodies, damp with sweat and the lingering slick of their passion, clinging to marked skin. Patricia's head rested on Eros's chest, her blonde hair spread across his skin like silk, golden strands catching the faint glow of city lights, tangling with the dark curls of his chest hair.

His arms wrapped around her—one hand stroking her back absently, fingers tracing the ridges of her spine, brushing over bruises and bite marks with reverent care, the other holding her close, palm splayed possessively over her hip, thumb grazing a fresh welt.

Both still breathing a little hard, chests rising and falling in a slowing rhythm, hearts thudding in unison, echoes of their frenzy.

Both covered in marks and sweat and completely satisfied, bodies glistening, skin flushed, the air thick with the raw, musky scent of their union.

The room was quiet. Just their breathing, soft, uneven, mingling in the hush. The occasional distant sound of the city fifty-one floors below—a siren's wail, the low hum of traffic, faint echoes of life far removed.

The lights of LA glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sprawling constellation of gold and white, casting soft shadows across the bed, dancing over rumpled silk, highlighting the contours of their entwined forms.

Patricia felt... weightless. Like something heavy she'd been carrying for years had finally lifted, a crushing burden dissolved in the fire of his touch, her soul unburdened, floating. But beneath the satisfaction, beneath the afterglow, there was something else. Something restless.

Something that wouldn't quiet, a gnawing ache, stirring in the depths, refusing to be silenced.

Eros felt it.

Felt the tension in her body that had nothing to do with exhaustion, a subtle coil of muscle, a faint tremor beneath her skin.

Felt the way her breathing wasn't quite even, hitches, pauses, betraying turmoil.

Felt something beneath the surface that wasn't sexual hunger—something deeper, older, more painful, a wound festering in silence.

His hand moved from her back to her hair, threading through the blonde strands gently, fingers combing with care, soothing, inviting.

"What's on your mind?" he asked softly, voice a low, tender rumble, vibrating through his chest into her ear.

Patricia stiffened slightly against him, a reflexive guard, her body tensing. "Nothing. Just... thinking."

"Patricia." His voice was gentle but knowing, a quiet insistence, piercing her defenses. "I can tell something's eating at you. Something that has nothing to do with what we just did. Something you haven't talked about in a long time. Maybe ever."

She was quiet. Her fingers traced absent patterns on his chest—circles, lines, nothing deliberate, nails grazing lightly, unconscious, seeking anchor.

"You're a stranger," she finally whispered, voice fragile, barely audible. "We just met few days ago. Doesn't that sound stupid? Wanting to tell a stranger things I've never told anyone?"

"No," Eros said simply, voice steady, reassuring. "Sometimes strangers are easier. They don't have history. They don't judge the same way."

Patricia laughed softly—the sound bitter, a cracked, hollow note. "Or maybe I'm just desperate to tell someone. Anyone. Get it out of my head before it eats me alive."

"Then tell me," he said, voice warm, open, a safe harbor. "Whatever it is. I'm listening."

She was quiet for so long he thought she wouldn't speak. The silence stretched, heavy, charged, her breath catching. Then she took a deep breath—shaky, like she was preparing to jump off a cliff, chest expanding against his.

"I had two best friends growing up," she started, her voice distant, layered with memory, thick with emotion. "Maria. Linda. The three of us... we were inseparable from the time we were eight years old. Did everything together. Sleepovers every weekend. Passing notes in class. First crushes." She chuckled...

"First heartbreaks. We were going to grow old together. Be in each other's weddings. Raise our kids as cousins even though we weren't related."

Eros felt a shiver run through him. Maria. Linda. His mothers. His real and then adoptive mother. They'd been childhood friends? Best friends since they were eight?

No one had ever told him this. Yes, he knew they were all friends but not so much to this extent. Linda never talked about Maria—not beyond the basics everyone already knew.

She'd shut down any questions about his mother like the subject was forbidden. And his grandmother, before she died, had made it clear that Maria's name wasn't to be mentioned. Especially not around his birthday—November 26nd, the day his mother died and the day he was born.

He'd always felt like he deserved to know something. Anything. But every door had been closed. Every question deflected. And he'd stopped asking because he didn't want to hurt Linda, didn't want to push when she clearly couldn't handle it.

But now... Patricia was offering the information freely. Without knowing who he was. Without knowing she was giving him the answers he'd been dying for his entire life.

His heart hammered. Pulse thundering in his ears, chest tight with anticipation, a lifetime of questions surging. But he stayed quiet. Let her talk, his hand still stroking her hair, steady, unchanging, a silent encouragement.

"We were about to enter college," Patricia continued, her voice thick with memory, tears welling, spilling onto his skin. "Nineteen years old. The whole world ahead of us. Plans to room together. Graduate together. Everything."

Her fingers clenched, nails digging into his chest, a tremor rippling through her body, the weight of unspoken grief pressing down.

She pressed closer to him, seeking warmth despite the sheets, her body molding against his, skin still fever-hot, trembling faintly, her cheek flush against his chest, blonde hair spilling like a golden veil. "And then Maria just... disappeared."

Eros's arms tightened around her instinctively, muscles coiling, a protective cage, his heart a sudden, thunderous drum, pulse racing as the name Maria sliced through him.

"No warning. No explanation. One day she was there, the next she was gone. She left a message—just one message—saying she was fine and she'd be back someday. That was it. Years passed. Linda and I waited. Worried. Hoped. But she never came back. Not really."

Her voice cracked, tears welling, spilling hot trails down his skin, salty against his chest.

"Why is this bothering you?" Eros asked carefully, voice low, measured, threading through the storm, his hand still stroking her hair, fingers gentle, soothing. "After all these years?"

Patricia let out a long, shaky breath, chest heaving, a tremor rippling through her. "Because Maria did come back. Just... not the way we thought she would."

She was quiet for a moment, the silence heavy, charged, her breath hitching. Then the words started pouring out like a dam breaking, raw, unfiltered, a torrent of pain.

"Two years after I married Richard. Two years after I had Jack. I started noticing things. Richard pulling away. Coming home late. Being distant. The sex became... mechanical. Like he was going through motions. And then it stopped altogether." Her fingers curled against his chest, nails digging in, clenching, a physical echo of her anguish.

"I thought he was having an affair. So, I hired a private investigator. Told him to follow Richard. Get proof. And when he came back with photos..." Her voice cracked, splintering, a sob choking her. "The escort was Maria."

Tears started falling—hot, scalding against his skin, soaking into him, each drop a blade.

"My best friend. The girl I'd known since I was eight. Who I'd worried about for years. Who I'd missed so much it hurt. She was working as an escort. And she was fucking my husband." The pain in her voice was raw, fresh despite the years, a wound torn open, bleeding anew.

"I didn't just lose my husband that day," she whispered, voice trembling, barely audible. "I lost everything. My marriage. My sex life. My friend. My trust. Everything I thought I knew about the people I loved."

She laughed bitterly, a hollow, shattered sound. "When I confronted Richard about it, you know what he said? He said he could only see one woman—Maria. That she'd ruined him for anyone else. That no matter who he was with, no matter what he did, he could only think about her."

Her body shook with silent sobs, convulsing, tears streaming, her fingers clawing at his skin, seeking anchor.

"Years, Eros. Years of being invisible because my husband couldn't stop thinking about my dead best friend. Years of knowing that when he looked at me, he was seeing her. Years of feeling like I wasn't enough because she destroyed him so completely that nothing I did mattered."

Eros held her tighter, arms a steel band, cradling her, his hand stroking her hair, her back, trying to offer comfort, to absorb her pain, his own heart fracturing with every word.

"I was so angry," Patricia continued, her voice breaking, splintering into sobs. "So, betrayed. I needed answers. Needed to understand why. Why she would do that. Why she would betray me like that. So, I tried to find her. Tried to confront her."

She took a shuddering breath, chest rattling, tears choking her. "But by the time I tracked her down, she was gone again. Off the grid. And then..." She sobbed, a gut-wrenching sound. "Then I got a call from Linda. Maria had shown up at her house. Pregnant."

Eros's heart stopped. His mother. Pregnant with him. At Linda's house.

The world tilted, his breath caught, a lifetime of locked doors crashing open, truth flooding in, raw, unforgiving. He held her closer, silent, his soul reeling, but his touch unwavering, letting her pour out the storm.

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