The Only Woman Whose Touch Didn’t Hurt

The morning light crept in like an intruder—soft, slow, and unwelcome.

The room reeked of something bitter—alcohol, regret… and something faintly sweet. Vanilla.

He turned under the sheets, his skin brushing against warmth that wasn’t cloth. Bare. Too bare.

He opened his eyes.

And realized he was alone.

He stirred slowly, his eyes blinking against the faint sunlight leaking through the dark velvet curtains. The room was quiet—too quiet. The air smelled faintly of alcohol, perfume, and something sweet like vanilla.

He sat up on the bed, confusion swirling in his mind like smoke in a closed room. The sheets slid off his bare skin. His eyes drifted downward.

He was naked.

Completely naked.

He froze.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he tried to piece together the night before. The lounge. The drink. The soft music. A woman.

His breath hitched.

Sex.

He had sex last night.

The realization dropped on him like thunder. Not because of guilt—he wasn’t in a relationship. Not because of shame—he wasn’t the type to regret pleasure.

But because… it was impossible.

He hadn’t had sex in all his 32 years of living. Not because he didn’t want it. But because his body wouldn’t let him. Because of tactile allodynia—a rare condition that turned every touch into torment.

Even a brush against fabric could set his nerves on fire.

He had tactile allodynia, a condition that made even the softest touch feel like burning. Clothes, contact, even warmth from another person — all of it hurt. He didn’t talk about it, and most people thought he was cold or broken. But really, he was just trying to survive a body that mistook love for pain.

He had lived his entire life without the warmth of another person’s touch.

Yet last night… something happened.

Someone touched him.

Someone held him.

In fact, he even had sex with that person.

And somehow—he didn’t feel pain.

He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to remember. Most of the night was a blur, scattered pieces he couldn’t arrange properly. But there was a woman. He could remember her scent—sweet, soft vanilla. And her back.

Yes.

Her back.

There was a small, beautiful birthmark on her lower waist—faint but distinct, like a kiss from nature.

He could remember how she sat on his lap, her skin brushing his, her lips trailing across his jaw.

His hands started shaking.

How?

How did she do it?

He quickly reached for his jeans, fished out a pen and notepad from the back pocket, and drew the birthmark exactly how he remembered it. That was the only thing clear in his head—the shape, the position, the curve of her waist.

His mind raced with questions.

Did he dream it?

Was he drugged?

Was it real?

He threw on his trousers and wrapped the hotel robe around himself, then stormed downstairs barefoot, wild-eyed and desperate.

The bartender was just arranging cups when he approached her.

“Please,” he said, breathless. “Touch me.”

She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“Just… your hand. On mine. I need to test something. I won’t explain right now—just please.”

Hesitant, she reached out and placed her palm gently on his forearm.

“AHHHH!” he screamed and staggered back, nearly knocking over the barstool. His face twisted in pain, his jaw clenched.

It felt like she had poured boiling oil on him.

Still the same.

Still broken.

Still untouchable.

He gasped for air, gripping the counter tightly to stop himself from collapsing.

So it wasn’t a miracle.

He hadn’t been healed.

Then how?

Who?

Was it only a dream?

He rushed to the front desk, heart pounding, head spinning.

“I need to see your CCTV footage,” he demanded. “From last night.”

The receptionist, a young woman with wary eyes, blinked. “Sir… we don’t give guests access to our surveillance footage—”

“I know. But I’m begging you.” His voice cracked. “Please. Just five minutes. I need to see who I came in with.”

She hesitated, then said, “You were here last night?”

He nodded frantically. “Room 603. The VVIP suite. I was drunk. I remember asking for a room with no cameras in the hall. But maybe—maybe the entrance, or the lounge—please, just let me check. I came in here with a lady. She took my things. I need to check her.” He lied.

The girl looked at him, searching his face for signs of violence or obsession. Then, with a slow sigh, she picked up a keycard and led him to the back office.

“You have five minutes,” she said.

He sat before the monitor, the screen already displaying time-stamped footage from the night before.

There he was.

Entering the reception—stumbling slightly, glassy-eyed, already drunk. He watched himself approach the hotel receptionist. Then a woman. Small. Curvy. Her head bowed low, standing behind him, all her hands on him like they were a couple.

He leaned in closer, trying to zoom her face better.

But her face was turned away from the camera. She stood in the corner where the lighting was dim and the angle didn’t reveal her front.

A faulty lens crackled in static just as she moved, blocking the only chance to catch her full face.

His jaw clenched.

Come on, come on…

Another clip: he was speaking to the receptionist, drunk and mumbling.

“Give me a private room,” the past version of him slurred. “I don’t like cameras. Don’t want to be seen.”

Then the two of them—him and the mystery woman—walked toward the elevator.

She was beside him, both drunk, and she was resting her head on him, making her not be seen, her hair covering most of her features.

The back camera caught her slightly as they got into the elevator. She was resting firmly on him, all her body on him like they were a couple, rough-handling him—and that made her blouse pull up and revealed her waist.

That was when he paused the video.

There it was.

That birthmark.

Exactly where he remembered it.

He pulled out his notepad and compared the sketch with the paused frame.

Perfect match.

He closed his eyes, exhaled, and whispered, “You’re real… ? You aren’t just my imagination? You touched me and I touched you ? I must definitely find you “

The receptionist watched him quietly like if he is okay . “Do you know her name?”

He shook his head.

“Did she sign in with you?”

“No.”

“Then… how did you meet?”

“I don’t know.”

She frowned. “You brought a stranger into a hotel suite and don’t know her name?”

He laughed bitterly. “That’s the least of my worries. That even I myself didn’t know when I became that type of person.”

He turned to the screen again.

The next footage showed the woman sneaking out early that morning. She was rushing—holding her bag, clothes stuffed under her arm. Her face hidden beneath a scarf as she pulled her hoodie tight.

She hadn’t even realized her identity was being protected.

The shame she tried to hide had just deepened the mystery.

He didn’t know her name.

He didn’t remember her voice.

He didn’t even know what her eyes looked like.

But he remembered how her skin felt against his.

He remembered the way she touched him—and for the first time in his life, he didn’t flinch.

He remembered the scent of vanilla… and how his pain didn’t come until after she was gone.

Whoever she was, she had done the impossible.

She had touched him—and it didn’t hurt.

He closed the notebook, tucked it into his jacket, and turned to the receptionist.

“Thank you,” he said as he left, and murmured to himself—

“I need to find her.”

He smiled faintly.

“I don’t know how yet. But I will. It is a must.”

Because now he wasn’t just curious.

He was obsessed.

And nothing—not even pain—would stop him from finding the woman whose touch didn’t burn.