The clock on my phone blinks 12:04 p.m. when I finally drag myself out of bed. Afternoon light spills across my room, too bright, too honest, chasing away the shadows I still feel clinging to my skin.
I tug on a black tank top and fitted jeans, half-heartedly, like I'm dressing a mannequin. My boots thump softly against the hardwood as I cross the room, phone in hand, debating.
David.
His name glows on the screen, waiting. He's safe. He's what I told myself I wanted—someone simple, someone normal.
And yet, every time I close my eyes, I see hazel eyes burning into mine. I feel Grayson's voice saying my name, the weight of him like he'd been carved out of my dreams and my nightmares both.
I shake my head hard, forcing the thought away. I want easy. I need easy.
Before I can second-guess myself, I type: Would you like to go out again tonight?
The reply comes faster than I expect: Yes. Meet me at Salazar's at 7?
I exhale slowly, staring at the screen. A restaurant. Normal. Dinner and conversation, laughter over wine. That's the path I should take.
I stand in front of the mirror, brush dragging through my dark brown hair until it falls smooth and glossy down to the middle of my back. My reflection looks steadier than I feel, lips pressed tight, eyes shadowed with hesitation.
The skimpy dress hangs over my chair, waiting—black, tight, low-cut enough that it borders on daring. Not my usual, not really me, but tonight I want a distraction. I want to feel wanted without the weight of everything else pressing in.
I slide it on, the fabric clinging to every curve, and adjust the neckline until it sits just right. My pulse flutters when I step into the heels, the added height making me feel suddenly powerful, taller, sharper.
The woman in the mirror isn't the bartender in cutoffs and sneakers, or the girl who woke up shaking from shadows she couldn't name. She looks like someone who could walk into a restaurant and pretend her life is perfectly normal.
My phone buzzes on the vanity. A text from David.
Can't wait to see you tonight.
I force a smile at my reflection, leaning close to swipe on lipstick.
"Neither can I," I whisper.
The city air is warm against my bare shoulders as I step out, heels clicking against the sidewalk. Salazar's isn't far—ten, maybe fifteen minutes—but each block feels longer than the last.
The sun hangs low, bleeding gold and crimson into the sky, shadows stretching thin across the street. My chest tightens. I hate how aware I am of it, how the sinking sun makes my pulse quicken, like some part of me already knows what the dark will bring.
Grayson.
His name cuts through me, sharp and certain. I try to shake it, to remind myself I'm on my way to something normal, something I've wanted for years. A simple dinner. A man who makes me laugh. A chance at easy.
But dread crawls over my skin anyway, prickling at the back of my neck. My steps quicken, as if I can outrun it, as if the glow of the restaurant lights spilling onto the sidewalk could shield me from whatever waits when the night fully falls.
The door to Salazar's opens with a soft chime, the warm scent of food and wine wrapping around me. Relief floods my chest when I see him—David.
For a moment, the dread eases.
I straighten my dress, let the smile tug at my lips, and walk toward him.
He stands as soon as he sees me, pulling out my chair with an easy smile. He's dressed in a fitted charcoal-gray blazer over a crisp black shirt, the top button undone just enough to soften the formality. Dark slacks and polished shoes complete the look, sharp but not flashy—elegant in a way that makes him seem older, steadier.
The low lighting catches against his watch, a subtle gleam of silver at his wrist, and for a moment, I wonder if he dressed like this just for me.
David swirls the wine in his glass, watching the color shift in the light from the candle on our table. "So… six years. That's a long time to avoid dating. What were you doing all that time?"
I shrug, letting a small laugh escape. "Avoiding disasters. Mostly me being stubborn. And work. I got busy, I guess. Life happened."
He nods thoughtfully. "I get that. I spent a few years focusing on work too, trying to prove something to myself. Didn't really leave room for much else." His smile is easy, warm, like he's sharing a truth without judgment.
We talk about the bar I bartend at, the weird regulars, the crazy nights. He teases me gently about how chaotic it must be.
"You're like… part therapist, part chaos wrangler," he says, and I can't stop a laugh from breaking free.
"And you," I counter, smirking. "What about you? Work you can brag about or just survive?"
"Survive mostly," he says with a grin. "Though I do get to travel sometimes. Chicago, Boston… I've learned to survive in cities that are way too crowded."
We swap stories about ridiculous coworkers, awful coffee, tiny victories in our mundane lives. David's laughter is easy and genuine, and I find myself leaning in a little, caught in the rhythm of conversation.
"So," he says after a pause, "Sasha told me a little about you. That you don't do blind dates often."
"Not in six years," I admit, shrugging. "I was… cautious."
"You were cautious," he repeats, nodding, "and I respect that. But I'm glad you said yes to yesterday." His gaze meets mine, steady, warm.
My lips twitch into a soft smile, and for a moment the rest of the world—the ache beneath my skin, the shadow of Grayson lingering at the edges—feels distant. There's ease here, a safety I haven't felt in years.
We talk about books we've read, movies we've loved, places we hope to travel. He's articulate, thoughtful, and the conversation flows naturally. My hand twitches occasionally, brushing against the stem of my glass as I fight the rising tension in my body, reminding myself to stay present.
We finish the appetizers, laughing at a story David tells about a disastrous work trip, and the wine slides smoothly down my throat. I focus on him—his smile, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the warmth of his hand brushing mine briefly as we reach for the breadbasket.
But even as I immerse myself in the ease of conversation, the ache beneath my legs presses insistently. It hums through me with every sip, every laugh, every tiny touch that brushes my thigh or shoulder. My stomach twists, and I feel my pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with the wine.
Grayson.
The thought creeps unbidden into the edges of my mind, his name echoing in a rhythm that matches the pounding between my legs. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound, forcing my attention back to David. He's telling me about a movie he loves, gesturing animatedly, and I nod along, trying to anchor myself in the normal, in the safety of this ordinary evening.
I shift in my chair, thighs pressing together, hands clenched slightly in my lap. The need is sharp, insistent, like fire trapped behind my skin. Every laugh, every word from David, every flicker of movement across the table makes it worse. My mind flickers to an impossible thought: what if I invited him over? What if just having someone—anyone—near me could ease this burning, however briefly?
The ache is relentless. I can feel it throbbing with the pulse of the restaurant lights, the soft music, the way the city darkens beyond the windows. The low hum of Grayson's presence, the tether between us, coils tighter with every passing minute.
I steal a glance at David as he laughs, and the contrast between him and Grayson—safety and danger, warmth and fire—feels like a physical weight pressing on my chest. I want easy. I want safe. I want the pull to fade so I can enjoy this night, this first step back into something normal after six years.
By the time dessert arrives, the sun has fully slipped below the horizon, leaving the city bathed in deep indigo. The ache beneath my legs has grown from a persistent thrum to a relentless pulse, making it impossible to sit still. I twist slightly in my chair, pressing my thighs together, stealing breaths between bites of chocolate cake.
David notices my distraction and tilts his head.
"Everything okay?" he asks, concern in his voice.
I force a smile, trying to anchor myself in normal. "Yeah… actually, do you want to come over for a drink? I mentioned that movie tonight—remember? You've never seen it."
He grins, leaning back in his chair. "Sure. Sounds perfect. I don't have to be in until the afternoon, so we have time."
I exhale a little too loudly, relief mixing with the ache that still coils low in me.
As we step out into the evening air, David slips his hand into mine, fingers curling around mine with an ease that makes my chest flutter. The simple contact grounds me, and yet every brush of his skin against mine sends sparks of heat up my arms and down to the ache that won't quit.
Every movement is electric—my body humming in sync with the growing tension beneath my legs—but the ordinary comfort of holding his hand keeps me tethered to something normal.
Inside his car, the ride is quiet, the low hum of the engine filling the spaces between us. I shift in my seat, thighs pressed together, clutching my purse in my lap as the need pulses sharply, making my stomach flutter.
David glances at me, his expression curious but patient. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I whisper, voice tight, as if even admitting the truth would make it worse.
By the time we reach my building, the ache has reached a point where I can barely concentrate on anything else. My fingers fumble with the keys, the apartment door finally clicking open, and I step inside, trying to steady my breath.
I slip into my bedroom, eager to shed the confines of my dress. The soft fabric of an oversized t-shirt and shorts embrace my skin, providing a sense of comfort and relief. As I change, the ache within me continues to throb, a constant reminder of the strange events that have unfolded. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves, before stepping back out to face the uncertainty that awaits me in the other room.
I pull the bottle of rum from the cabinet and twist the cap off, letting the aroma fill the kitchen. David sinks into the couch, stretching his legs out, comfortable and relaxed, the picture of normalcy. He slides out of his blazer, tossing it over the armchair.
"Can I get you a glass?" I ask, trying to sound casual, though every nerve in my body is ablaze.
"Yeah," he says, grinning. "Thanks."
I pour, the liquid sliding into the glass like a promise of ease. Setting it on the coffee table, I let myself sink onto the edge of the couch, close enough that my thigh brushes his. The ache between my legs is unbearable now, coiling tight, demanding, insistent—but I force myself to focus on the rum, on David's laugh as he settles in.
Everything about him is ordinary, safe. But every pulse in me whispers danger, whispers Grayson, whispers a hunger I can't quiet with alcohol or conversation.
Our fingers graze as David, on the verge of handing me the remote, passes it my way. I feel that familiar pulse deep in my veins, the ache coiling tighter despite my attempts to focus on normal.
The movie starts light and simple, but I barely register. My eyes keep flicking to him—his lips, the way his chest rises and falls, the warmth radiating from his arm as he stretches across the couch. Every brush of his hand, every accidental touch against mine, sends a shiver down my spine.
The movie flickers softly on the screen, casting warm shadows across the living room. David shifts slightly closer, his arm brushing mine. My pulse stutters at the contact, and I realize I've been holding my breath.
He glances at me, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips. "You're really quiet. Everything okay?"
I nod, though my throat feels tight.
"Yeah… just… paying attention to the movie," I murmur, though I'm not really watching.
He leans a fraction closer, eyes meeting mine, searching, and I feel a spark crawl up my spine. The space between us shrinks until our knees touch, then our thighs. Then his hand brushes mine, fingers intertwining naturally with mine. The warmth of his touch spreads through me, grounding me but also igniting a thrill I can't ignore.
He leans in a little more, and my breath catches. Our faces hover inches apart, his eyes darkening, lips parting slightly. I tilt my head, a mix of nervousness and desire, and he closes the final distance.
His lips meet mine, soft at first, testing, and I respond instinctively. The kiss deepens quickly, slow and hungry, yet tender all at once. My hands press against his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as he tilts my head slightly, capturing my lips more insistently.
The world narrows to the press of his body against mine, the warmth of his mouth, the gentle pressure of his hands on my arms and back. My heartbeat races, and I can feel the heat pooling low in my body, a reminder of everything I can't yet quiet.
I sigh against him, a soft sound of surrender, letting the kiss carry me, even as my mind buzzes with the ache and the pull.
When we finally pull back, breathing heavy, our foreheads rest together, and I manage a shaky laugh. "Wow…"
"Yeah," he murmurs, thumb brushing my cheek. "Wow."
And just for a moment, in the quiet between breaths, the world feels like it's only us—normal, warm, dangerously close.
He kisses me again, this time with a fierce tenderness that steals the breath from my lungs. His lips move against mine, coaxing and pleading, as if trying to convey all the words left unsaid between us. I feel the scrape of his stubble against my skin, the warmth of his breath mingling with mine. His mouth is warm, searching, and I lean into him, my fingers finding the edge of his shirt. I unbutton it between kisses, my hands trembling just a little as I undo the last button. His skin is warm under my touch, and I trace his shoulders, feeling the way his breath catches, like he's as nervous as I am.
His hands find my waist, slipping under the fabric of my t-shirt, slow and careful, like he's asking permission with every inch. He slides the t-shirt upward, the soft material gliding over my skin until it's lifted over my head and falls to the floor beside the couch. His fingers brush my bare skin, sending sparks skittering through me. I arch into him, a quiet gasp slipping out as his hands explore, mapping me with a care that makes my pulse race. It's like he's trying to memorize me, and I want him to.
My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling just enough to draw a low groan from him, a sound that lights a fire in my veins. His lips leave mine, trailing along my jaw, then down my neck, where his teeth graze my skin, teasing. The sensation hits me like lightning, sharp and electric, and I tremble, my breath breaking into uneven bursts. I cling to him, chasing the warmth of his body, the promise in every touch.
Piece by piece, our remaining clothes come off, each moment punctuated by hungry kisses. My hands roam his chest, his stomach, feeling the strength beneath his skin, while his fingers trace my sides, my hips, growing bolder with every shiver he pulls from me. The couch is our world now, its worn softness cradling us as we press closer, the movie's sound fading into a distant hum.
His touch is deliberate, lingering, like he's afraid I'll slip away if he doesn't hold on. I arch into him, the ache inside me sharpening, a storm building with every sweep of his fingers. The room blurs, fades, until it's just us—heat, weight, the unspoken language of our bodies.
He pauses for a moment, his breath heavy, and reaches for his discarded slacks, pulling out a condom. His hands are steady but careful as he puts it on, his eyes meeting mine with a quiet reassurance that makes my heart stutter.
When he enters me, it's overwhelming, like a wave crashing through every part of me. It's raw, real, grounding, and consuming all at once. Our breaths collide, frantic and uneven, our rhythm desperate but perfect. My fingers dig into his shoulders, holding him close as we move, the tension coiling until it breaks, leaving me trembling, my heart pounding against my chest.
We collapse together, tangled on the couch, the movie still playing, unnoticed. Our breaths slow, hearts hammering in uneven unison. But even as I lie there, wrapped in his warmth, a quiet hunger stirs deep inside me. It's still there, unquenched.
He rises from our tangled embrace, his voice a husky whisper. "Where's the bathroom?"
The question hangs in the air, a mundane necessity interrupting our passionate trance. I point down the dimly lit hallway, my arm brushing against his bare chest. He walks away, his bare form illuminated by the TV. I watch as he moves with a quiet confidence, each step measured and purposeful. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his skin, a testament to the strength that had held me so tenderly just moments ago. As he disappears into the bathroom, the movie continues to play, forgotten, as I grapple with the hunger that lingers, an insatiable need that refuses to be ignored.
He returns, his presence filling the room as he sits on the edge of the couch. His eyes, dark and intense, lock with mine, and I'm drawn into their depths. With a gentleness that belies the hunger within, he leans in, his lips brushing against mine in a series of tender kisses. Each touch is a promise, a whisper of the passion that simmers just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.
Then his phone buzzes sharply against the coffee table. "Hey… what's up?"
I watch him as he listens, brow furrowing. His eyes widen slightly, and he runs a hand through his hair.
"Oh, yeah. Right now? Okay… I'll be there in ten. Yeah. No problem." He hangs up, letting out a frustrated sigh. "My friend's at the bar. He's drunk. I need to go get him."
He starts to get dressed, pulling all of his clothes on quickly. His movements are hurried, as he tugs on his slacks and buttons his shirt up. The fabric stretches taut across his shoulders as he yanks it down, his eyes darting around the room, searching for his keys. He grabs them off the coffee table, the metal jangling in his hand, and shoves them into his pocket.
I sit up, adjusting the blanket around my shoulders. He looks at me, the familiar warmth in his eyes softening the abruptness of the interruption.
"I'm sorry. I hate leaving like this."
He leans over, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to my lips, careful, familiar.
"Goodnight, Cass," he murmurs, his hands cupping my face lightly. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. I promise."
I nod, forcing a smile even as the pulse in me throbs relentlessly.
"Okay. Tomorrow," I whisper.
He pulls back reluctantly, grabs his blazer, and heads for the door. I hear the soft click behind him as he leaves, and the apartment suddenly feels too quiet, too empty.
I slump back onto the couch, the warmth of him gone, and the ache between my legs pulses harder, insistent. No wine, no movie, no human touch—not even his—can quiet it.
I'm slouched on the couch, naked, tangled in the soft blanket that does little to soothe the ache coiling low in my body. My pulse is a frantic drum, every nerve alight.
A sharp knock at the door jolts me upright, heart hammering. I grab the blanket, clutching it tightly around me, and stumble toward the door.
Something in me—irrational, impossible, magnetic—pulls me forward. My body trembles, not entirely from fear, as though some invisible force is drawing me to the door. The ache between my legs pulses violently, demanding release, and I can't stop my feet from moving.
The door swings open, and he's there. Grayson.