The Alley

She shouldn’t be here. She knows it even as she steps off the main road and into the narrow alley behind the bar, where the streetlight flickers like it can’t decide whether to show mercy or not. Her boots crunch on broken glass, her breath ghosting in the cold night air. Somewhere, music thumps through the brick walls — the bassline of a night that pretends to be innocent.

He’s waiting for her in the shadows, back pressed against the graffiti-stained wall, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. The glow catches the sharp line of his jaw, the corner of his mouth curling when he sees her. There’s no greeting — there never is. Words don’t live here.

She comes closer, her pulse loud enough she’s sure he can hear it. He drops the cigarette, grinds it out under his boot. When he reaches for her, it’s not gentle. He fists a hand in her hair and drags her mouth to his — teeth first, then tongue. The taste of smoke and want. She gasps, and he swallows it down like a thief hoarding stolen gold.

She shoves him back, only for him to spin her around, her palms hitting the cold brick. Rough. Perfect. His mouth is on her neck now, stubble scraping her skin raw in a way that makes her bite her lip to keep from crying out too soon. His hands slip under her coat, over her ribs, down her hips, finding the heat she’s hidden all night under layers of bravado.

Cars pass on the street behind them. She can hear people laughing, oblivious. She should care. She doesn’t. She wants the scrape of stone against her palms, the press of his body pinning her to this filthy wall, the thrill of being half-exposed where anyone could see — or join.

When he slides his hand between her thighs, she’s ready — always ready. And when she tips her head back to meet his eyes, there’s no fear there. Just the same dark hunger reflected right back at her — the promise that tonight, the alley will remember them long after they’ve left it behind.

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