After watching him leave and lock up, the room feels big and chilly all of a sudden. I shake off the sensation and gather my things to take a shower.

Time to wash off the stress of the day.

I enter the old shower, which has weak water pressure and unpredictable temperature control. As the water flows over my skin, it calms me, easing the stress of the day.

I scrub my skin vigorously, repeatedly, attempting to erase any remnants of memories from those who betrayed me.

I stumble out of the shower, grab a beer, and quickly drink it all at once. But the beer doesn’t banish the haunting demons. I want something strong, like drugs, but they’re too expensive for me, especially if I want to stay alive.

Bitterness floods me. Even the years in jail couldn’t make me forget the taste of the luxurious life I once had.

I sigh, feeling depressed, and dry myself off. Then I put on sweatpants and tie my long, damp hair into a messy bun.

I wonder how long wonder boy will take to get back. How much time does it actually take to grab basic first aid supplies?

I try to make myself comfortable in my shitty apartment as I wait for him.

I’m shirtless, and the city lights shine through my window, casting a shadowy glow on my tattooed chest. Some of the tattoos were done before, while others were acquired during my time in prison. Each one carries memories from different periods of my life, both good and bad. They make me feel like an unfinished canvas, awaiting skilled hands to add the final touch. But will the outcome reflect a happy ending or drown others in the intense emotions depicted on the canvas of my life?

I wonder if the goody two shoes cop has any tattoos hidden on his large body, or if he’s as pure and innocent as he appears.

I wonder how satisfying it would be to corrupt him.

To disrupt his clean slate.

I wonder what secrets I could uncover if I fully exposed him.

The thought makes me groan, realizing how messed up it is to desire tarnishing a pure soul like his.

The locks click. Wonder boy enters with his arms full of things. I quickly stand up to help him. “Did you buy the entire store or something?”

He laughs nervously as he takes the bags in the kitchen.

I close the door behind him.

“No, but I noticed your kitchen was empty, so I got some basics. I also got more beer and first aid supplies. I think we should handle the first aid supplies first,” he replies.

He glances at my hand, which is bleeding fresh blood after the shower. However, his eyes linger a bit too long on my bare chest. I suppose he’s not as innocent as he appears.

I grab a beer and a bag of snacks, then sit on the edge of the bed. Opening the beer and snacks, I have a little of each. Herc joins me, sitting down with the medical supplies and an open beer, as I extend my banged-up hand towards him.

He places everything on the crappy wooden crate, which I use as a coffee table. His touch is gentle as he takes hold of my hand. I can sense his carefulness, even though his large hands appear awkward as he tends to my knuckles.

“You shouldn’t hit someone, you know. It’s a crime,” he lectures me while tending to my wounds.

I smirk and ask, “So, officer, why aren’t you arresting me?”

His hand pauses briefly before he continues, saying, “I wasn’t speaking as an officer. I was concerned about you. Also, considering how tough you appear, I have a hunch you avoid unnecessary trouble, so I assume this was an act of self-defense.”

I try to hide the wince on my face when the ointment stings. I ask, “What if it was more about revenge than self-defense?”

He looks up at me, his thick blond lashes framing his gaze. For a moment, I sense curiosity and a desire to learn more in his eyes. “Well, in that case, I hope it brought you some satisfaction, although I wish you hadn’t harmed yourself in the process.”

I snort and let out a laugh. “Is that what an officer should say to me?”

“Well, sadly, I’m no healer. All I can do is patch things up like this. I can’t heal deep emotional wounds. If only I had known you sooner, maybe I could’ve protected you from it,” he replies. His words stir up a mix of longing and fear within me.

He doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him. Fuck, we only just met today, and I had intended to have sex with him and let him go tonight, but now I don’t want to corrupt him.

He truly belongs in a brighter world than mine.

I want to push him away. But there’s a part of me that wants more of his attention and care, and the desperate, lonely part of me also wants his pity.

“I’m used to emotional wounds. After all, my mother set me up from the moment I was born,” I tell him.

Herc’s eyebrows arch, suggesting he wants to hear more. It’s as if he’s eager to learn about me, as I am to learn about him.

“I know my name sounds like a girl’s. Mom wanted a daughter, and Dad just wanted a capable heir. I guess neither of them got what they wanted,” I explain.

He gently strokes my cheek, like he wants to wipe away my childhood tears. I’m tempted to let him.

Unaware of my inner struggle, he continues treating my hand. I want his touch on my cheek again, despite my painful past. But I’m scared to let him get closer, except physically.

And yet I am so drawn to him.

I drink half of my beer before he finishes bandaging up my hand.

I put down my drink and reach for the snacks. His fingers on my hand make me stop and look back at him.

He pauses, looking into my eyes. “Sorry, I don’t…” he starts.

“Don’t apologize,” I interrupt, gently lifting his chin to redirect his attention. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” I assure him.

Leaning closer, my lips hover against his. “If you don’t want this, you can leave,” I offer, giving him a choice.

He swallows, causing his lips to lightly touch mine, and I can no longer hold back.

I lean in for a gentle kiss. A press of my lips on his. He responds, releasing his initial hesitations. In response, my instincts take over, and I deepen the kiss.

As I touch the back of his head and flick my tongue across his lips, everything shifts from warmth to confusion.

Herc pulls away before I can react. “I’m sorry, I can’t…not like this,” he says.

He stands up, places my keys on the table, and stumbles out of my apartment, closing the door behind him.

My shoulders slump, and I bury my head in my hands.

“What were you thinking? He’s different from you. He’s too good for your messy life, even if it’s just for one night. You’re such an idiot, Meg,” I scold myself.

I know I probably won’t see him again, and it’s likely for the best.

I collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, attempting to disregard the small flicker of hope that sparked in me during our time together.