The bar Izzy picks is loud, all neon and spilled drinks. We claim a sticky table, sliding into a booth that vibrates with bass. She’s dressed to kill, hair blown out, eyes lined in something glittery. I feel like a ghost beside her: tired, strung out, skin prickling every time the door opens.
Izzy orders for both of us. “You’re not going home sober tonight,” she tells me, eyes dancing. I let the vodka burn a path down my throat, but it doesn’t melt the chill in my gut.
After our third round, a man approaches. He’s tall, with hair just long enough to curl at his collar, and a dimple that deepens when he smiles. His shirt fits a little too well, rolled sleeves revealing forearms etched with faint tattoos. He asks if he can join us. Izzy gives me a look—see, I told you—and nods.
He’s charming in a practiced way, conversation smooth, but not fake. He talks to both of us, but it’s clear his interest leans my way. Izzy elbows me under the table.
“Sera’s been working too hard,” she announces. “She needs to have some fun. She’s practically a nun at this point.”
I glare at her, but the man just laughs. “I’m harmless, I promise.” His eyes linger, questioning, never aggressive. I let myself talk back: sarcasm, dry wit, the parts of me that haven’t rusted over yet. He handles it with a smile.
After a while, Izzy leans in, whispering hot against my ear. “You need this. Just for once, let yourself live a little. Don’t die a virgin, babe.”
The word stings, mostly because it’s true. I’ve never cared much about it, never found anyone I trusted enough, never wanted the mess. Still, the drinks are warm in my veins, the man is persistent but never pushy, and Izzy’s laughter is a dare I can’t refuse.
He asks if I want to get some air. I hesitate, glancing at Izzy. She rolls her eyes. “Go. I’ll be here. If you’re not back in an hour, I’ll call the police and tell them you were abducted by a male model.”
I slide out of the booth, nerves tripping over themselves. He waits for me at the door, polite, hands in his pockets. I don’t touch him. Outside, the city feels changed: lights soft, night air sticky with summer. He suggests a walk, and I let him lead.
We talk about nothing, about the city, the bar, the music. He never tries to move closer than he should. Still, I can feel the weight of his eyes, a question always on the tip of his tongue. When we stop beneath a streetlight, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I flinch before I can help it. He pulls back, apology written across his face.
“Sorry. Too much?”
I force a smile. “No, it’s fine. I just… I’m not used to this.”
He laughs, low and genuine. “You don’t go out with guys much?”
I shake my head, honesty slipping out against my better judgment. “Not really. Never found the appeal, honestly. I like things I can control.”
His smile sharpens. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right kind of trouble.”
That makes me laugh, really laugh, for the first time in days. The sound feels strange, unfamiliar.
He asks if I want to go back to his place or if I’d rather take things slow. I surprise myself by saying yes, voice steadier than I feel. Maybe it’s the vodka, maybe it’s Izzy’s dare, maybe it’s just exhaustion, but I don’t want to be alone tonight.
I text Izzy before I go, just in case:Going with him. If you don’t hear from me by morning, I’ve been murdered. Or I got lucky.
She sends back a string of laughing emojis and a warning not to get kidnapped. I take a breath, step into the dark, and let myself follow.
The ride to the hotel is a blur, city lights flickering past the window in dizzy, broken patterns. The man—Tom, he said his name was—makes small talk, asking about my job, my favorite music, even my best friend’s name.
I answer out of habit, mouth running on autopilot, nerves coiling tighter with every block we pass. Each laugh feels too loud, each question too practiced. I tell myself it’s just nerves. I tell myself I want this, something normal, something easy.
The hotel is too nice for a casual night out. Lobby marble gleams, elevators hush with expensive efficiency. He flashes a credit card, the clerk barely looking up, and we take the lift in silence.
When the doors slide open, the hallway stretches long and empty. Tom leads the way, keycard in hand, and I trail after, eyes fixed on the patterned carpet.
Inside the room, the air is cold, the scent of disinfectant sharp and clean. I try to ignore the prickle running down my back. He offers me a drink from the minibar. I refuse, claiming I’m already tipsy. He laughs, settling onto the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone, jacket tossed carelessly on the chair.
My nerves are shot. “I need the bathroom,” I murmur, already moving toward the door. He waves me off, distracted.
I lock the door behind me, hands braced on the sink. My reflection looks pale, eyes wide. I splash cold water over my face, breathing in sharp gasps, trying to steady myself. The tiles press cold against my palms. I count to ten. Something feels wrong—off-kilter, rehearsed, like a scene I’ve walked into by mistake.
When I finally step out, the room is empty. Tom’s jacket still sits draped across the chair, his phone buzzing softly on the table. The bed is untouched. The silence roars in my ears.
I call out, voice barely a whisper, “Tom?” No answer. The bathroom door hangs open behind me, the hallway door still closed. I check the locks. Everything’s in place.
A chill seeps in, prickling the hairs on my arms. I wait a minute, then five. I check the bathroom again, look beneath the bed, force myself to peer behind the heavy blackout curtains. Nothing. He’s simply gone. Disappeared, as if he’d never been here at all.
