Love Me In The Dark

I can’t sleep. My mind just won’t shut up, replaying a list of unpaid bills and deadlines that seem to get closer with every second that passes. My body is restless, tangled in sheets that feel too warm. I’m thinking about work, about the leak in the bathroom ceiling, about how empty my savings account is. This is my life: a constant, buzzing anxiety, a hamster wheel of stress that never stops.

And then, the feeling in the room changes.

It’s not a sound. It’s more like the air gets heavier, a sudden weight that makes all the noise in my head go quiet. I don’t need to open my eyes to know he’s here. When he's here, the world goes silent.

The first touch is always light, just a hand on the small of my back. It’s so warm it’s like a shock against my skin, and the sheets slide down my body, pooling at my hips. He runs hotter than any normal person; sometimes I think his blood is made of fire. Knowing him, I wouldn't be surprised if it were true.

It’s dark. It’s always dark when he comes.

And every time, I get a chance. A clear moment where my brain, the sensible, scared part of me, starts yelling orders: Breathe. Sit up. Open your mouth. Tell him to go. It’s the right thing to do. The smart thing. The choice a woman who still has some self-respect would make. This man is a ghost, a handsome nightmare who walks through locked doors and into my bed like he owns it. Like he owns me.

I know he would listen. If I said that one simple word—go—he would. He’s always silent, and he would leave with that same creepy stillness. He would disappear from my life as easily as he appeared.

And he would never come back.

I actually think about it. I imagine saying the word, thinking about what it would feel like to be free. Safe. Back to the boring loneliness I had before him.

But then the mattress sinks with his weight beside me. His body stretches out, long and powerful, and he pulls me against him. His chest is a hard wall at my back, his arm a strong band around my waist. I open my lips to speak, to finally do the smart thing, to take back some control.

Before a single word comes out, his mouth is on mine. The kiss isn't just a kiss; it wipes my brain clean. A total reset. He silences the noise, the deadlines, the stress, the whole idea of being "smart," with a deep, demanding pressure.

My thoughts are gone. For the next two hours, I don’t think.

I only feel. And god, everything he makes me feel is good.

* * *

It’s still dark when his shadow peels itself away from the shadows of the room. The air is thick with the smell of sex and his cologne, an expensive scent that probably costs more than my rent. My arms and legs feel heavy, tired in the best way, my skin still buzzing from his touch.

I’m on my stomach, my face turned towards him, watching through sleepy eyes. The only sounds are the rustle of clothes, the soft clink of a belt. Even as a dark shape against the city lights from my window, he moves with a dangerous kind of grace, like a panther getting dressed after a successful hunt.

I should sell tickets to this. The Midnight Lover’s After-Sex Show. A private performance right here in my small Naga City bedroom. But then I’d have to share, and fuck that. The thought that I might already be sharing him is a bitter one. I picture him doing this same thing in a fancy condo in Manila, or a huge house in Alabang. I imagine other women watching this same shadow-dance, all of us part of his secret life, his silent collection of girls. It’s a bad thought to get stuck on: he comes, I let him, he makes me come, he comes. Repeat. I don’t want to think about adding more women to that messed-up picture.

I watch him slide a watch onto his wrist; the face catches the light for a second, a circle of quiet, crazy wealth. He moves back to the bed, a silent hunter coming back for one last touch. He kneels, his hand finding my knee, his fingers wrapping around the back of it like he’s done it a thousand times. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my hip. The roughness of his stubble against my skin makes my whole body jump. He finds the edge of the blanket and tugs it up to my waist, a caring gesture that doesn’t fit with the raw power from moments before.

I’m mostly turned away from him, my face buried in the pillow that smells like him. He settles in behind me, his fingers sliding under my hair to gently grip the back of my neck, holding me still. His lips brush against my ear.

“Later, baby girl,” he breathes. It’s a promise and an order.

“Later,” I whisper back into the pillow. A promise I know I’ll keep.

His mouth moves to the soft skin behind my ear, his tongue tracing a slow line that gives me one last shiver. He pulls the blankets up to my shoulder, tucking me in like I’m something special.

Then he’s gone.

No sound from the door, no creak on the floor. He just… isn’t here anymore. Like he was never real in the first place.

It’s insane. And I’m completely addicted to it.

I lie there for a long time, staring at the closed bedroom door, my body warm, satisfied, and tired. My mind, though, is starting to wake up, and the cold, hard truth of it all comes rushing back. He’s a total mystery. A man of opposites. He’s rough and demanding one minute, then soft and gentle the next. He’s a stranger who tucks me into bed.

I try to fill in the blanks. What’s his name? I call him different things in my head. The Architect, for the way he takes my world apart and puts it back together. The Ghost, for obvious reasons. Or just Sir, because that’s what my body wants to call him when he’s over me.

But they’re all just nicknames for a blank space. He’s a man who knows every inch of my body, every sound I make, but I don’t know the first thing about him. Not his job, not his age, not the color of his eyes.

Not even his damn name.

I roll onto my back, pulling the blankets tight around myself like armor. I stare up at the ceiling, and the full, ugly truth of my situation hits me with a quiet thud.

“Jesus,” I whisper to the empty, silent room. “I’m such a fucking slut.”

The Thursday morning light that cuts through the blinds of my Chicago bungalow is thin and gray, holding all the warmth and promise of a final demand letter. It illuminates the dust motes dancing in the air, each one a tiny witness to the fact that I am, once again, not working.

On my laptop screen, my Asana board is a bloodbath of red-flagged deadlines. I’m a freelance editor, which is a polite way of saying I get paid to polish other people’s literary turds. It’s a simple, brutal economy: no hours logged, no money transferred. And I need money. My Zara addiction isn't going to fund itself, my taste for twenty-dollar cocktails is a problem, and this house—this beautiful, crumbling, gothic-revival money pit—is actively trying to bankrupt me.

So, I should be working. Instead, I’m sitting with one foot tucked under me, staring out the window at the brick wall of my neighbor’s house, and running my favorite fantasy.

Him. The Ghost. The nameless, facele