Watching her curl her feet under her on the couch, wine glass balanced easily in her hand, I felt the sharp contrast like a bruise.
She had chosen comfort and called it love.
I had chosen danger and hadn’t even said its name out loud yet.
At ten, I hugged her goodbye and walked to my car.
The Charleston air was cool. The streetlights soft.
My phone buzzed the moment I got into the driver’s seat.
Unknown number.
Good. You didn’t tell her.
My hands went still on the steering wheel.
My mouth went dry.
I read it again.
Then a second message came.
Go home. Lock the door. Sleep. Tomorrow you travel.
A third followed, like an afterthought that wasn’t an afterthought at all.
Don’t wear panties to the airport.
Heat slammed through me so fast I sucked in a breath.
I stared at the phone, pulse roaring in my ears, shame and arousal tangling together until I couldn’t separate them.
I should’ve been furious.
I should’ve thrown the phone into the passenger seat and told myself this was unacceptable.
Instead, my thighs pressed together on instinct.
My body’s traitorous readiness made my eyes sting with something like rage.
“How dare you,” I whispered, but my voice trembled.
My phone buzzed once more.
You asked.
That was all.
Two words.
I sat there in the dark car for a long moment, breathing shallow, feeling my own pulse like a drum.
Because he was right.
I had asked.
I had invited this.
