It’s silly. Ridiculous. But the way he says it, warm and straight-faced, makes my chest flutter a little.
“Not bad, astronaut,” I say.
“I do my research,” he replies.
I glance back down at my sketchbook, flipping absently through the pages. “So, how’d you get into astronautics?” I ask, grinning to let him know I’m still in character.
He smiles too—but then something shifts. Not much, just a flicker of genuine interest lighting his expression.
“Well,” he begins, voice a little quieter, “when I was a kid, I’d lie on the roof of our garage and look at the stars. I used to think the Big Dipper was a spaceship that broke apart mid-flight. That’s when I started getting into physics. Black holes, relativity, all that.”
Now I’m curious. Because the way his face softens, how he leans forward just slightly as he speaks, it’s obvious—this part is real.
“So, what do you actually do?” I ask.
He hesitates for a moment, like he’s enjoying our little game of make believe as much as I am. “I really am a scientist,” he says with a nonchalant shrug.
We end up in a long, weirdly passionate conversation about sci-fi movies—Interstellar,Arrival,The Martian. He’s shocked I haven’t seenMoon. I’m shocked he doesn’t loveAnnihilation. We debate the physics inGravityand agree the aliens inContactwere disappointingly vague.
I lose track of time. At some point we split a pizza with roasted garlic and burrata, and when the bartender brings a second bottle of wine to the table, I don’t object. My sketchbook is forgotten.
“So,” he says as we’re draining the last of the wine, “do you always pretend to be a world traveler when guys sit down at your table?”
I shrug, watching how the golden light cuts across his jaw. “Not always. But sometimes. It’s fun. You get to be someone else for a while.”
He considers that. “What’s your real name?”
“Maya.”
“Zachary,” he says, offering his hand across the table.
I take it, our fingers curling together a second longer than they need to.
“Maya,” he repeats, like he’s testing the sound of it. “You don’t need an alter ego. You’re interesting enough on your own.”
That’s sweet, I think. And dangerous.
Because this? This is the kind of thing I have rules against.
When I moved up here, I made a promise to myself: no relationships. No entanglements. Just freedom. Just fun. My ex, Sam Kendall, taught me how quickly affection can sour into something suffocating. How someone saying they love you can turn into them watching you like a hawk, treating your body like it’s their fragile, failing responsibility. Like you’re a burden. A liability.
Sam didn’t wantme, not really. He wanted to care for the idea of me. He wanted to be the hero in someone else’s story.
I’m not doing that again.
So now, every so often, I meet a guy. I take him home. We enjoy each other for a night, and I don’t mention the medication in my drawer or the bruises on my thighs from last week’s blood tests. I don’t mention the flares or the days I can’t hold a pencil because my fingers are too swollen.
Those nights—fleeting, easy, shallow—are their own kind of medicine. A reminder that I’m still desirable. Still alive. Still more than a diagnosis.
And Zachary?
Well, he’d be a perfect entry in the “hot stranger at the bar” file.
“You want to come back to my place?” I ask casually, tipping my wine glass toward him. “I’m ten minutes away. I’ve got air conditioning and better wine.”
Zachary pauses, his gaze fixed on me in that calm, steady way he’s had all evening. I wait for the usual response—some flirtatious banter, maybe a teasing “lead the way.”
Instead, he leans back slightly and says, “No, thanks.”
