Melting the Ice King

The night had teeth.

It bit the inside of her thighs through silk and whispered against the back of her neck like temptation. Rome was not soft. Not sweet. It was ravenous.

The rooftop burned with string lights and Prosecco. Laughter swirled like perfume, drifting between dancing guests and shadowed corners. Somewhere across the city, a bell tower chimed, but here-up here-time was suspended. Viviane Clarke leaned against the rail, one heel off the ground, her skin humming with the kind of heat that had nothing to do with temperature.

She wasn't supposed to be here. She wasn't supposed to be wearing anything strapless or drinking anything expensive. But her cousin had insisted. Come to Rome, Vivi. Escape for a weekend. Pretend, just once, that your life is yours.

So she did. She came to Rome with a carry-on full of regrets and a dress that fit like a sin. And tonight, she decided: no guilt. No answering texts. No fixing things for everyone else.

She let the city crawl under her skin.

Her empty glass trembled slightly as she set it on a marble ledge. Her phone buzzed in her purse for the fifth time, and she didn't check it. She watched strangers instead, couples who twirled under warm lights, faces flushed, bodies close, everything about them carefree. Foreign. Unreal.

She had danced earlier. Alone. Just to feel like her feet still remembered joy. But now her muscles ached, and her mask was slipping.

Then...

She saw him.

Shadow-draped, off to the far end of the rooftop. He didn't blend in. Not because he was tall or broad-shouldered. But because he was still-unnervingly so. While everything else moved, he stayed perfectly, deliberately unmoving.

Dark suit. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Glass untouched in his hand.

His eyes found hers, and something inside her chest tightened. She meant to look away. She didn't.

His stare wasn't a flirt. It wasn't hungry. It wasn't safe, either.

It was still.

Heavy.

Claiming.

Viviane dropped her gaze. Looked at the crowd. At her purse. At the door.

Then looked back.

He hadn't moved.

She took a breath.

And walked toward him.

"You shouldn't be alone," he said as she stopped three feet from him.

His voice hit low and quiet, like a cigarette after midnight-American, but smooth and practiced.

She arched a brow. "Neither should you."

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. He was older than she thought mid-thirties, maybe. The kind of man who didn't have to try. The kind who could silence a room without raising his voice.

"I don't do small talk," he said.

"Then don't."

"I don't do names either."

That surprised her. Not the words, but the fact that she believed them.

She smiled for the first time all night. "Good. Neither do I."

A beat of silence.

Then, he extended his hand not a handshake. Not formal. Not even flirtation.

Just a quiet offering.

She placed her fingers in his.

No introductions. No context.

Just heat.

The hallway blurred. The elevator was silent. Neither of them spoke. Her dress whispered as she moved. His scent-something woodsy and clean, clung to the space between them.

In the suite, the lights were dim. She didn't need them. She could feel him behind her, watching.

She let her clutch drop to the floor.

Unzipped her dress slowly.

She didn't ask where he came from. She didn't ask why his eyes looked tired or why he hadn't touched his drink all night. She didn't want to know.

This wasn't about discovery. This was about disappearance.

She turned around, the dress slipping from her shoulders.

His jacket hit the floor.

They reached for each other at the same time.

No words.

Just mouths. Hands. Breath.

He didn't undress her like she was fragile. He peeled her apart like a secret-each touch reverent, deliberate. His hands were cool. His mouth was not.

He was controlled. Coiled. And yet something about him felt starved, like he hadn't allowed himself to want in a long, long time.

She didn't ask who had taught him to be so careful.

She was careful too.

Later, after, she lay stretched on her back, limbs warm and weightless, the sheets tangled around her knees. The window was cracked, letting in the sound of Rome whispering to itself. Horns. Voices. A saxophone from somewhere on the street below.

He sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, watching the skyline.

She watched him.

Not because she was curious.

Because he looked like a man who had forgotten how to stay.

His eyes were dark and unreadable.

His chest rose slow.

And then he looked at her-just once.

It didn't feel like a mistake. It felt like the kind of thing two ghosts might do, just to remember they used to be human.

She reached for him.

And he let her.

In the morning, he was gone.

No note. No lie. Not even the smell of coffee or the soft sound of a shower.

Just the empty space beside her. A faint scent on the sheets.

Viviane sat up slowly. Her head didn't hurt, but something deeper did, a muscle in her chest she'd forgotten she had.

She stared at the pillow. Then the ceiling.

And smiled.

No regrets.

She rose, pulled the sheets around her body, and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. The whole city stretched beneath her. Unbothered. Gorgeous.

She didn't remember the suite number. She didn't care.

She was leaving with her dignity intact, and that was more than most women got.

She showered, dressed, and painted on a face the world couldn't question. She pulled her hair into a slick bun, reapplied her lipstick, and checked her purse.

Twelve missed calls.

Three from her mother.

Five from Matteo's clinic.

A voicemail from the landlord.

Welcome back, reality.

She reached for the door handle.

Paused.

Then whispered, barely loud enough to be real:

"Thank you... for letting me disappear."

She hit the elevator button.

The doors opened with a hiss.

She stepped inside.

Just before the doors closed.

A voice. Low. Close. Behind her.

"Viviane."

Her name.

Her real name.

She froze.

He was supposed to be gone.

He didn't know her name.

She never told him.

The doors slid shut before she could turn around.