than Harper woke to the taste of copper and static.
It was 3:17 a.m. The television murmured in the dark, some late-night documentary about subliminal advertising, about how a single frame inserted into a film could make a theater full of people crave popcorn they didn't want. Ethan had fallen asleep on the couch again, laptop balanced on his chest, the glow of a half-finished logo bleeding into his dreams.
His skull throbbed. Not the dull ache of too much coffee or too little sleep—this was sharper, deeper. A vibration behind his eyes, like a tuning fork struck once and left to hum.
He sat up. The room tilted, then righted itself. The narrator on TV was saying something about alpha waves, about how the brain could be lulled into suggestibility with the right frequency. Ethan snorted. Bullshit.
Then he looked at his reflection in the black screen of his laptop.
His pupils were blown wide. Not dilated—*focused*. The ache pulsed again, syncing with his heartbeat. Once. Twice. Then settled into a low, steady thrum.
He stood, unsteady, and opened his apartment door to get some air. The hallway was quiet, lit by the flickering fluorescent bulb that maintenance kept promising to replace. Mia was there, locking her door across the hall, dressed for her shift at the bar downtown: black crop top, high-waisted jeans that clung to the curve of her hips, auburn curls twisted into a messy knot. She turned, startled, keys still in the lock.
"Hey," she said, smiling the small, crooked smile that always made his chest tighten. "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
Ethan opened his mouth to answer—*fine, just tired*—but the thrum surged, drowning the words. His voice came out low, smooth, not entirely his own.
"*Look at me.*"
Mia's keys slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Her gaze snapped to his, green eyes wide and unblinking. The hallway light flickered overhead, casting shadows across the freckles on her nose. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Ethan's heart slammed against his ribs. He should laugh it off. Apologize. Back away. Instead, the thrum guided him forward, one slow step, then another, until he was close enough to see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
"*You're safe,*" he said, softer now. The words felt inevitable, like they'd been waiting in his mouth for years. "*Just listen.*"
Mia's shoulders loosened. The tension in her jaw melted. She didn't move. Didn't blink.
He could smell her perfume—bergamot and something warmer, like skin after sun. Could see the faint sheen of lip gloss catching the light. His cock stirred, heavy against his thigh, but the thrum was patient. Curious.
"*When I say 'good girl,'*" he murmured, letting his hand hover over her sternum, not touching, just close enough for her to feel the heat, "*you'll feel it here. A slow, warm ache. Like you've been waiting for it all day.*"
Mia's breath hitched. A soft, involuntary sound. Her nipples tightened visibly beneath the thin fabric of her top, and a flush crept up her neck, blooming across her collarbones.
Ethan swallowed. The sound was loud in the quiet hallway. This wasn't him. This *couldn't* be him.
But the thrum said otherwise.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "*Pick up your keys. Go to work. You won't remember this. But tonight, when you're alone… you'll touch yourself thinking of my voice. And you'll come harder than you ever have.*"
Mia blinked. The spell—if that's what it was—shattered. She bent, scooped up her keys with steady hands, and smiled like nothing had happened.
"Night, Ethan," she said, voice husky, almost amused. "Don't work too hard."
She walked away. He watched the sway of her ass in those jeans, the confident click of her boots on the tile, and felt the thrum settle into a hungry, patient purr.
Inside his apartment, Ethan locked the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. His reflection in the hallway mirror looked the same—messy hair, stubble, tired eyes—but something had shifted. The thrum was still there, coiled behind his sternum like a second heartbeat.
He didn't sleep.
Instead, he opened his laptop and typed a single line into a blank document:
**What the fuck did I just do?**
Then he closed it, turned off the lights, and waited for morning.