The frustration was a living thing—coiled tight in Ethan's gut, hot and restless. It pulsed through him with every heartbeat, a second rhythm beneath his skin that refused to be ignored.
He paced the length of his room, the worn floorboards creaking beneath his weight like they, too, were exhausted by his relentless circling.
His fingers twitched at his sides, aching for something to grip—a phone that refused to connect, a body that wasn't there, anything to anchor him to the reality slipping further and further from his grasp.
The messages wouldn't send.
He'd tried a hundred times—typed out pleas, demands, half-formed thoughts that dissolved into static the moment he hit send. The screen taunted him with its indifference, blinking back error after error, as if the universe itself were laughing at his desperation. **"Find me,"** the phantom texts had said. But how? Where? The words were a hook in his ribs, yanking him toward something he couldn't see, couldn't touch, but couldn't escape either.
And the visions—God, the visions.
They came without warning, violent in their clarity. One moment, he was standing in his room, the next—her. The press of her body against his, the warmth of her breath on his neck, the scent of her hair filling his lungs like he'd been drowning and only now remembered how to breathe. Then, just as quickly, gone. Ripped away. Leaving him hollowed out and shaking, his skin still buzzing with the echo of her.
It started as an itch beneath his skin, a slow burn that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with her. The way her hips had felt under his hands in the vision—the way her breath had hitched when he pulled her closer. His sweatpants grew tight, the fabric rough against his aching cock.
Fuck.
He shouldn't.
But his body didn't care about shouldn't.
With a groan, he shoved his pants down, his cock springing free, already hard. He gripped himself, hissing at the contact. It wasn't enough. He needed—
Her.
His other hand fumbled for the lotion on his nightstand, slicking himself up in rough, impatient strokes. His breath came in ragged bursts, his hips jerking into his fist.
And then—
A gasp.
Not his.
Hers.
Ethan froze.
Because for a second—just a second—he could *feel* it. The softness of her thighs, the way her back arched off the bed, the slick heat between her legs.
His grip tightened.
"Rose."
Rose lay on her back, her body humming with something she couldn't name.
It had started as a whisper—a phantom touch skating up her inner thigh, teasing but not quite there. She'd ignored it at first, too tangled in her own frustration. But then the pressure grew, insistent, until her hips lifted off the mattress on their own, chasing a sensation that wasn't real.
Was it?
Her fingers trembled as she dragged them down her stomach, past the waistband of her panties. She was already wet, her clit throbbing under her touch.
What the hell is happening?
She bit her lip, circling slow, then faster, her breath hitching.
And then—
A groan.
Deep. Male.
His.
Her eyes flew open.
Because suddenly, she could feel him—the rough drag of his hand, the way his hips stuttered, the desperate edge in his voice when he—
"Rose."
Her back arched.
Ethan.
The name came to her like a prayer, like something she'd always known.
Is that his name?
She didn't have time to question it.
Because the pleasure was building, sharp and relentless, and she needed more.
Rose grabbed the pillow beside her, shoving it between her thighs, grinding down hard. The friction was perfect—just enough to push her higher, just enough to make her whimper.
And somewhere, miles away, Ethan gasped like he'd felt it.
They moved together, lost in the same rhythm, the same need.
Ethan's strokes turned filthy, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the head of his cock in time with Rose's circling fingers.
Rose rocked against the pillow, her thighs shaking, her moans muffled into the mattress.
"Fuck—Ethan—"
His name spilled from her lips like a secret, like a revelation.
And he heard it.
His hips jerked, his release hitting him like a punch to the gut.
Rose followed a second later, her body locking up before shattering, pleasure coursing through her in waves.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing—heavy, syncopated, like they were lying side by side instead of worlds apart.
Then—
Silence.
Reality crashed back in.
Ethan stared at the mess on his stomach, his chest heaving.
What the hell was that?
Rose curled into herself, her skin still buzzing.
Ethan.
She tested the name again, softer this time.
It fit.
The shame came later.
Ethan scrubbed a hand over his face, his stomach churning. He'd felt her. Actually felt her. That wasn't just obsession. That was—
Impossible.
Across the ocean, Rose pressed her face into her pillow, her heart racing.
She should be horrified.
But all she could think was—
Again.