Target clearance rack, probably. But I love it anyway.
The little things, right?
The drive takes fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of me being acutely aware of every breath, every glance, every molecule of spacebetween us. The car smells like leather and... Marco.
I want to bottle that scent and huff it like a drug.
Stop being so creepy, Jess.
We pull up to my building. It’s not terrible, but it’s definitely not the West Village. My apartment is a studio in a walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen. The kind of place where the elevator works half the time and the superintendent is perpetually “working on it.”
Marco parks. Cuts the engine. Looks at me.
“Last chance to back out,” he says quietly.
“Areyoubacking out?”
“Never.”
“Then neither am I.”
We get out. The follow vehicle idles at the curb but doesn’t follow us to the door.
Thank God.
The last thing I need is witnesses to my walk of shame.
Except it’s not a walk of shame if he’s coming to my place, right? It’s a... walk of... I don’t know... confidence? Desperation? Bad judgment?
All of the above.
I unlock the main door. We climb three flights because of course the elevator is broken tonight. By the time we reach my floor, I’m trying not to breathe too hard because I don’t want him to think I’m out of shape. Even though I am.
Cardio is not my friend.
It’s at times like these I envy the Tatiana’s of the world.
“Here.” I stop at 3C and fumble with my keys.
My hands are shaking.
Why are my hands shaking?
Because you’re about to have sex witha literal billionaire who looks like he was carved by Italian sculptors and probably has a very large—
Stop.
I get the door open. We step inside.
My apartment is exactly what you’d expect from an unemployed former influencer: small, cluttered with ring lights and tripods I haven’t used in months, IKEA furniture that’s holding on for dear life, and a general vibe of “trying really hard to be aesthetic but failing.”
“It’s not much,” I start, already apologizing.
“It’s everything. It’s you.” Marco closes the door behind him. Locks it.
The sound of that deadbolt sliding into place does something to my nervous system. It’s final. Intentional.
He fills my doorway. Six-two of well-dressed danger in my tiny studio, and the space feels even smaller. Like the walls are closing in. Like there’s not enough air.
