His Voice Alone

Chapter 6

Leia’s POV

My dorm room feels like a crime scene that's been sanitized by obsessive-compulsive detectives. Everything's precisely where it should be—textbooks stacked by size, pens arranged by color, not a single item out of place.

I've been keeping the window locked tight enough to require a crowbar, checking my drawers twice before bed like some kind of security ritual.

But here's the thing about feeling safe: it's complete bullshit when the danger lives inside your own head.

I wake up every morning twisted in my sheets like I've been wrestling invisible demons, thighs clenched, skin fever-hot, pulse hammering between my legs like someone spent the night fingering me in ways that would make a porn star blush.

Except no one ever has.

Not since that night in the orphanage years ago when he said my name for the first time, in that certain voice that's apparently tattooed itself onto my brain's audio cortex.

The worst part? No one else gets to hear him speak. Ever.

Which somehow makes it feel intimate in a way that should probably require therapy, not whatever this is.

I keep telling myself it's a trauma. PTSD from growing up in a psychological minefield. That this obsession is just my brain's way of processing years of emotional warfare.

When I open my locked drawer and find the thumb drive.

Small, silver, sitting there like it's been waiting patiently for me to discover it. No note, no explanation, just that particular brand of silence that screams louder than actual screaming.

I didn’t put it there. I saw it for the first time.

My hand shakes as I plug it into my laptop because apparently I'm the kind of person who investigates mysterious electronics left by potentially unstable family members.

The screen flickers—once, twice—then goes black. Then a sound.

Static first, like an old radio trying to find a station. Then comes breathing, rough and deliberate. A single breathless word: "Leia."

Ezra’s voice, deeper than I remember, slower like he's savoring each syllable.

And then—oh fuck, then come the moans. Soft at first, then rougher, more desperate, accompanied by the wet, rhythmic sound of skin against skin.

My entire body goes rigid.

He's jerking off. To my name. For me, because of me—either way, I'm frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights if headlights were made of pure, concentrated sexual tension.

My thighs clench instantly, and for a full ten seconds I’m frozen. Not breathing. Not blinking. Just listening, like a sinner in church, clutching my earbuds instead of a rosary.

I should stop. I should rip the earbuds out, delete the file, toss the whole damn thumb drive out the window and go pray or something.

But instead... I press play again.

By the third replay, I’ve slid down in my chair, hips tilted forward, legs parted. My breath is coming in soft, sharp gasps, and my hand—God help me, my hand—is already between my legs.

My underwear’s soaked, my fingers slick as I circle my clit with desperate little motions that match the sound of his rhythm.

“Leia,” he groans again, and it’s too much.

I bite my bottom lip. Then clamp my palm over my mouth to smother the moan clawing up my throat.

My other hand is moving faster now, slipping inside, fucking myself to the sound of his voice. His breath. His moans. That filthy, wet sound of him touching himself, thinking of me.

I arch against the chair, body tense, heart hammering. My clit throbs under my fingertips while my legs start to tremble.

I'm close, so fucking close, and I can’t stop now, even if I wanted to.

His voice breaks, guttural and raw, “God, Leia— Fuck—” right before he moans deep, low, like he's coming for me.

And I shatter. The orgasm hits like lightning—sharp and immediate.

I choke on a sound, muffled into the palm still pressed hard against my mouth. My body jerks while my toes curl. I don’t even realize I’m crying until a tear slides down my cheek and drips onto my shirt.

Shame and heat twist together in my stomach, making me feel sick and desperately turned on in equal measure. It's like being poisoned by something that tastes incredible.

My phone buzzes, and for one heart-stopping second I think it's him. Instead:

Tyler: Coffee?

Right. Tyler. The human embodiment of uncomplicated masculinity, who I've been avoiding all week because maintaining normal human relationships requires energy I don't currently possess.

But now, with Ezra's voice still echoing in my head like an auditory aphrodisiac, I text back:

Me: Sure.

It's not about Tyler. It's about needing something—anything—that isn't this psychological quicksand I'm slowly sinking into.

I put on tight jeans that make my ass look criminal, dark makeup that could probably be seen from space, and a sweater that dips low enough to be legally questionable.

Tyler's already at the café when I walk in, probably been there for twenty minutes because he's the kind of guy who shows up early to everything.

He stands up fast enough to knock his chair back slightly, brushing his hands down his jeans like he's nervous about something.

"Hey," he says, flashing that golden retriever grin that probably gets him laid on a regular basis. "Didn't think you'd actually show."

I force a smile that feels like wearing a mask made of plastic. "Yeah, sorry for disappearing."

He shrugs like it doesn't matter, which is sweet in that aggressively wholesome way that makes me feel like a fraud. "No big deal. Midterms, right?"

"Something like that."

He orders our drinks without asking what I want, which should annoy me but doesn't. He remembers—vanilla latte, extra shot, oat milk—like he's been taking notes on my caffeine preferences.

When he hands me the cup, his eyes do this quick once-over that's trying to be subtle and failing spectacularly.

"You look... different," he says, like he's solving a puzzle.

"Different how?" I take a sip just to keep my mouth busy, because apparently I'm not capable of normal conversation anymore.

"I don't know. Just... good. Like, confident or something. Did you do something new?"

I laugh, quiet and flat. "Change is inevitable, right?"

We sit across from each other, and I go through the motions—smile, talk, even laugh at his jokes that aren't terrible but aren't exactly comedy gold either.

It feels like wearing someone else's skin, like I'm playing a character in a movie I don't remember auditioning for.

When he touches my arm, I flinch. He probably thinks it's nerves, but it's not.

I'm thinking about Ezra's hands, how they'd feel wrapped around my throat, his breath in my ear telling me things that would make Tyler's innocent flirting sound like children's bedtime stories.

"You okay?" Tyler asks, because apparently my internal monologue is showing on my face.

"Yeah, just tired." The lie slides out smooth as silk. "Midterms are killing me."

There's a moment of silence filled only by the café's ambient soundtrack—steaming milk, muffled conversations, someone's laptop playing what sounds like lo-fi study music.

Then he leans forward, elbows on the table, and I can practically see the lightbulb going off over his head.

"Hey, there's this party Friday. Off-campus thing. Chloe mentioned it—bonfire, music, the whole deal. You should come."

I hesitate for exactly the right amount of time to seem normal, then smile like I mean it. "Sure. Sounds fun."

Except it doesn't sound fun. It sounds like another performance in a play I never wanted to star in.

But Tyler grins like he's won something, and I sit there pretending I'm not counting the hours until I can go back to my room and listen to that thumb drive again.