I set the phone down, pick it up again. Just as I’m about to lock the screen, it lights up.
Sienna:My apartment. Six p.m. One minute late, and it’s off.
A low laugh escapes me, surprising even myself.
I type back without hesitation.
Me:Then the world will pause until I’m standing at your door.
***
At exactly six p.m., I ring her doorbell.
When she opens the door, I know—immediately—how the night could end.
She’s wearing lingerie, modest in cut but merciless in effect. Soft fabric clings to her curves, high at the collarbone, low enough at the thighs to tease. Nothing is revealed, yet everything is suggested. My imagination does the rest.
She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Her fingers brush mine as she takes my coat, a brief, accidental touch that sends heat racing up my arm. I will my body to behave. I didn’t come here for sex.
I don’t plan to stay in her life for long.
Sex would complicate things.
“I made dinner,” she says, taking my hand and leading me inside.
The dining table is set with care: linen napkins folded neatly, candles casting a warm, flickering glow. There’s roasted salmon glazed with honey and herbs, a bowl of lemony risotto dotted with parmesan, and grilled vegetables still glistening with olive oil. Fresh bread rests in a woven basket, steam barelyvisible when she lifts the cloth. An ice bucket sits nearby, champagne already sweating against the metal.
Intentional. Intimate. Thoughtful.
“Wow, Sienna,” I say honestly. “You went all out.”
She laughs lightly, the sound slipping under my skin, settling somewhere dangerous.
She presses me gently into the chair and takes the seat beside me—not across. Beside. Close enough that our thighs almost touch.
“Tomorrow,” she says casually, pouring champagne, “I’ll write another review of your work. It deserves an upgrade. You outdid yourself with this one.”
“You don’t have to,” I reply.
She smiles. “I know. But I love art. And I believe people deserve to experience the truth of it. They deserve to know you’ve found your depth.”
Something tightens in my chest.
I lean in and kiss her.
She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back, and for one dangerous moment, I forget every reason I told myself I shouldn’t be doing this.
Eventually, she pulls away first, breath a little uneven.
“Let’s eat,” she says softly.
We do.
Dinner stretches longer than it should because we’re truly having a good time and enjoying each other’s company. We talk about everything—the books she loves, cities she wants to see, the first painting that ever made her cry. I tell her stories I don’t usually tell, details I normally keep locked away. The more she talks, the more animated she becomes, the more her eyes light up when she laughs.
And the more afraid I get.
