That word—last—lands hard.
I study her, the curve of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders. There’s something about the way she’s sitting, composed but retreating, that makes me move before I can think.
I step closer, blocking out the crowd. “Olivia, we’re not done.”
And then I kiss her.
Reckless? Probably. But I’m done with reason or doing the smart or right thing for the night. Her lips meet mine, soft yetcertain, and the world collapses into the space between us—heat, breath, heartbeat.
She tastes like trouble wrapped in promise, like something that could wreck me if I let it. And I already know I will. Because in that single breath between us, I feel it—the quiet, startling sense that I’ve just found the one thing I didn’t know I was looking for.
When I pull away, she’s staring up at me, breath caught, hand pressed to her chest as if to keep her heart from spilling out.
Then I turn and leave, before I say or do something that makes it impossible for me to leave.
Outside, the cold air burns my lungs. Yasmine’s already waiting by the curb, pouting like a child.
“You left me,” she whines as I open the door to the Uber I’d ordered.
“You fainted,” I remind her, more sharply than I intend.
She tilts her chin. “I needed you.”
I close my eyes for a beat and count to three. “You needed a ride home. You have one. Let’s go.”
The drive is short but might as well be endless. She talks the entire time about Paris, about her friends, and about howPapaadores me. I nod where necessary, my thoughts stuck on the bar, the kiss, and the woman I still can’t believe I walked away from.
When we finally reach Yasmine’s apartment building, she leans in, hand grazing my arm. “You’re a good man, Sam. I like that about you.”
“Goodnight, Yasmine.”
Her mouth tightens at the dismissal, but she gets out, slamming the door with more force than needed.
The driver glances at me in the mirror, expression neutral but knowing. I ignore it. When the car finally pulls away, I text Anton.
Me: Where’s Olivia?
Anton:Left w/her friends a few minutes ago. U okay?
Me: Yeah. Just tired.
It’s a lie. I’m not tired. I’m agitated.
Back in my apartment, I pour a scotch and stare out the window at the city. The lights of Old Montreal shimmer against the water, the kind of view that usually calms me. Not tonight.
I can still feel the press of her lips, still hear her voice sayinglast night.
It shouldn’t matter this much. We’ve had a couple of meals, a few hours between service and sleep. But it feels like more, like something I wasn’t expecting and don’t know how to name.
I finish the drink, place the glass into the sink, and start pacing. My phone stays stubbornly silent.
At midnight, I cave and text her.
Me: You home safe?
No reply. I can’t even tell if she’s at the very least read my text. All I have is delivered. She might have her read texts notification turned off. Brilliant.
I toss the phone onto the couch and drag a hand through my hair. I’ve never been this undone over someone. Not ever.
