Called out by a stranger in my own bed.
“Your turn,” I say. “Last name?”
Something flickers across his face. Hesitation maybe. Or calculation.
“It’s not important,” he says finally.
Because this is a one night stand.
Isn’t it?
But I don’t say that.
“I suppose it’s not,” I agree. “But still, it would be nice to know.”
He purses his lips, but still doesn’t say it.
“Who’s the guarded one now?” I taunt.
He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”
“You act like we’ll see each other again,” I tell him. “Are we?”
His face darkens. “We’ll talk about that in the morning.”
“You’re staying until morning?” I ask, not quiet believing him.
“Why not? Unless you don’t want me to.”
“You can stay,” I tell him. I try very hard to hide the relief I suddenly feel.
We talk through the rest of the night. Between rounds two and three. In the shower together when he somehow makes me cum again against the pink tiles. While we’re tangled in my sheets at three AM with my leg thrown over his hip and his fingers drawing patterns on my thigh.
I learn that he built his company from almost nothing. That he has an older brother he’s complicated about. That he reads poetry sometimes when he can’t sleep. That he agrees most philanthropy is performative bullshit but he does it anyway because some good is better than no good.
He learns that I want to see the northern lights someday, preferably from Iceland. That I have this fantasy about doing work that actuallymatters, not just pays the bills. That I’m stupidly idealistic about nonprofits even though I know most of them are just as messy as corporations.
At 5:30 AM, my alarm goes off because I forgot to cancel it and we both groan.
“Coffee?” I offer.
“Please,” he says.
I pull on his discarded dress shirt because my clothes are scattered across the apartment and stumble to my tiny kitchen.
He appears a moment later in his pants and nothing else, his hair all sleep-rumpled, and devastatingly leans against my counter while I fumble with the coffee maker. His forearms and shoulder muscles cord, and his biceps swell.
God.
“So,” he says as I distractedly hand him a mug. “This was—”
“A mistake,” I finish. “Definitely a mistake.”
Because I’ve already come to terms with the fact I’ll never see him again. A guy like him, and a girl like me?
It’s just not possible.
“But a really good one,” he adds.
