Fact two: No one crossed a professional line. There were no promises. No declarations. No post-kiss “what does this mean” conversations.
Fact three: I am an adult woman with impulse control.
Mostly.
I dry my hands and grab my phone, because data never betrays you.
Numbers load.
They’re good.
Not viral, not miraculous, but good. Solid. Momentum. The kind of bump that tells an algorithm you’re worth paying attention to.
I let out a big breath.
There it is.
Proof.
This wasn’t reckless. It was smart.
Which is why the memory of Colby’s hand at my waist... warm, steady, not possessive... has absolutely no place in this analysis.
And yet.
I see it anyway.
The way he waited. The way he didn’t rush the moment like he was trying to capitalize on it. The way he looked at me like I was a person instead of an opportunity.
That’s not dangerous, I tell myself.
That’s just… rare.
I shake my head once, sharp.
Rare does not equal safe.
I learned that lesson already.
Once upon a time, I dated a hockey player.
He was charming in public. Golden in interviews. Everyone loved him. Especially the version of him that existed under bright lights and louder applause.
Privately, he was careless with trust, with promises, AND with me.
I don’t think about the specifics. I don’t need to. The conclusion is enough.
Hockey players come with attention. Attention comes with temptation. And temptation always thinks it’s special.
I promised myself I wouldn’t do that again.
And I haven’t.
Last night doesn’t count.
Because last night wasn’t a relationship.
It was a moment.
