Riley

The Stranger’s Pyjamas

Riley’s fingers trembled as she buttoned the oversized shirt, the fabric soft against her skin, smelling faintly of sandle wood and something undeniably masculine. She had found the pyjamas folded neatly in a drawer, along with a few other clothes that told her this place had once belonged to someone—someone who might still be out there, or worse, never coming back.

The mansion was eerily silent, the air thick with dust and memories. It was the first real shelter she had found in weeks. The apocalypse had turned the world into a place of empty cities and hollowed-out towns, and she had been running—always running. But now, she had found this place. This bed. This moment of peace.

Sliding under the heavy blankets, Riley sighed, her body aching from exhaustion. The thought struck her suddenly—who had worn these clothes before her? What kind of man had lived in this room? She imagined him tall, broad-shouldered, with a quiet confidence. Maybe he had sharp eyes, the kind that could see right through someone, but kind hands that could offer comfort in a broken world.

She bit her lip, her heart beating faster at the thought of him walking through that door and finding her in his bed. Would he be angry? Would he demand to know who she was, why she was here? Or would he smirk, lean against the doorway with amusement dancing in his gaze, and say something teasing like, "Comfortable?"

Riley squeezed her eyes shut, feeling warmth spread through her despite the cold room. The world outside was cruel, unforgiving. But here, wrapped in the remnants of someone else’s life, she allowed herself to dream of something more.

Of strong hands brushing against her skin. Of whispered words in the dark. Of the stranger who might return to claim what was his—including the girl in his bed.

And as sleep finally claimed her, she almost hoped he would.