I bite into a bagel on the curb, dip my fingers in the fountain's warm water, and smile when the breeze plays with my hair. Who needs Ben’s mouth? I don’t even want it anymore.
By the time I return, the city's lit like a Broadway stage, the wind outside our building smelling faintly of sap.
For one night, everything feels almost okay. Until I stop and squint through the glass doors.
I'm not even mad at the plot twist anymore,just exhausted. I guess I really can't escape him.
Ben's leaning against the reception desk, casually explaining something to André, those loose pants traded for black jeans, the denim tracing the curve of his round ass like a criminal map.
His hair looks damp, fresh out of the shower, and I'm standing here, locked on every subtle movement from the tilt of his head to the brush of his fingers against the papers on the counter—until I realize that I'm staring.
So I suck in a sharp breath and set my bitch face, locked and loaded.
A few steps forward and the doors slide open.
Ben looks my way, and his eyes shoot wide, his speech faltering. "Yeah... I... was..." He's stuck on me, absolutely smitten.
I get it. I've seen the girl in the door reflection, too. How this dress hugs my hips and stretches my legs into forever. I'd stare at me too, beg me to acknowledge him.
Sadly for him, I won’t.
"Good evening, André." I smile at the receptionist lightly.
"Good evening, Mrs. Lawson."
Ben’s jaw ticks at the name mention, but I’m already drifting past him, feeling his gaze follow me—no, cling to me.
Oh, wait... I think I need to fix the clasp of my shoe.
I slow down, pausing at the sofa, long enough for him to catch a brief glimpse of my thigh through the dress slit before I walk on again.
My heels click on the marble as I carry myself proudly, leaving him in a trail of my perfume.
Top note: blood orange.
Base: patchouli.
Heart: not a single fuck given, boy.
Now he'll get the sting of someone weaponizing your own heart against you.
I dig in my purse for my chip card, call the elevator and wait, pretending I’m not aware of the tensed silence because Ben still hasn’t said a single word.
Then the elevator opens and I step in, turn my face back into the lobby, lock eyes with him—and oxygen instantly sucks out of my lungs.
Because no one knows what an intense gaze is until Ben Bellini burns his eyes into yours like that.
Somehow, I manage not to waver, my face unreadable, while we hold each other’s gaze.
The doors start to close—
His jaw ticks, sharp as a trigger. One flick at André, four long strides, and he slips inside at the last possible second.
He moves to the back of the elevator and leans against the wall, crossing his arms, like he's just a neighbor sharing a ride.
Except, this is a descend into madness.
When he doesn’t press a button, I snap over my shoulder, "You're not going to your floor?"
