Not rushed.
Not sloppy.
Precise.
My mind drifted, uninvited, to Harper.
To the way she’d met Luca—at a mutual friend’s engagement party, of all places. No mystery. No danger. He’d spilled red wine on her dress and apologized like it mattered. He’d texted the next day. Asked her to dinner. Asked questions. Checked in. Built something slow and solid and sweet.
Harper had wanted to be chosen. Luca had wanted to choose her.
It made sense.
Their life made sense. Shared calendars. Inside jokes. A man who showed up when he said he would and never made her wonder where she stood. Safety wrapped in affection. Desire that warmed instead of burned.
I’d watched her fall into that life with relief, like she’d found a chair she hadn’t realized she’d been standing for.
And I loved her for it. I did. I loved that she slept easily beside a man who would never test her limits or push her past herself. Loved that her version of risk was a second glass of wine on a weeknight.
But sitting at the gate, thighs pressed together, acutely aware of the absence of fabric beneath my trousers, I knew—bone-deep—that it wasn’t what I wanted.
I didn’t want to be soothed.
I didn’t want to be eased into desire.
I didn’t want a man who asked.
I wanted the opposite of Harper’s soft landing.
I wanted the feeling I had right now—this tight, coiled awareness that lived between my ribs and low in my belly. The knowledge that a man existed who had already decided things for me. Who hadn’t stumbled into my life with apologies and wine stains, but had reached in deliberately and rearranged it.
A man who didn’t want to make me comfortable.
The thought sent a slow, traitorous pulse through me.
I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs, the friction sharp enough to make my breath hitch. God. I was wound so tight it felt like any wrong movement might undo me.
Harper would hate this. She’d tell me I was romanticizing danger. That I was confusing control with intimacy. She’d tell me Luca chose her every day and that was what mattered.
And maybe she’d be right—for her.
But I didn’t want to be chosen gently.
I wanted to be taken seriously enough to be claimed.
The boarding announcement crackled overhead, and my stomach dipped—not with fear, but anticipation.
Because this wasn’t an accident.
It wasn’t a phase.
It was a choice.
And I wasn’t stepping toward the life that made sense.
I was stepping toward the one that made my body ache.
Toward winter.
