I type back quickly, thumbs moving faster now. I stare at the screen, pulse in my throat. He’s opened it, he was typing and then the three dots disappear.
He’s typing again.
Flynn.
What?
You can call me Flynn.
But is that your name?
I bite my nail, waiting for his response.
It’s one of them.
Okay, that’s better than nothing, I’ll take it.
Goodnight, Flynn.
I set my phone down and finish my food. The movie flickers across the screen, a familiar comfort filling the living room.
I wake the next morning with the sun filling my bedroom. Thank the heavens I’m off today because it has to be at least noon.
The cats' insistent meows tell me its way past breakfast time.
I roll over and grab my phone from my nightstand.
1:15 p.m.
Holy.
Good morning, babydoll.
Flynn. That was at 7:30 this morning.
Good afternoon masked stranger.
“I know, I know.” I tell the cats. As I get up and walk to the kitchen, filling their bowls.
My phone buzzes again.
Pumpkin spice or apple crisp? Hot or iced?
Huh? Is he asking me my coffee order?
Hmm. Either. If I had to pick. Pumpkin spice, hot.
The hot water steams up the bathroom, as I step into the shower. I wash the sleepy haze away, the hot water relaxing my sore muscles.
Between dancing, running and fucking—my body aches.
The walls of my femininity throb with a soreness. And yet, I’m still craving him. I can’t help myself from wanting more of him.
By the time I’m dressed in my softest black leggings and a thick knit sweater, I’m feeling refreshed. My phone buzzes.
Check your door.
My brows pinch together. Confused I pad barefoot across the apartment and undo the lock.
