Chapter 3 Bree #2
“That’s right. How—”
He shrugs. “Bree felt more like a nickname.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you always this perceptive or am I just really obvious?”
He considers that. “You’re obvious about some things. Guarded about others.”
I study him. “And which one am I being right now?”
He pulls me closer, his hand spanning my lower back. “Guarded. But trying not to be.”
Well fuck.
Called out by a stranger in my own bed.
“Your turn,” I say. “Last name?”
Something flickers across his face. Hesitation maybe. Or calculation.
“It’s not important,” he says finally.
Because this is a one night stand.
Isn’t it?
But I don’t say that.
“I suppose it’s not,” I agree. “But still, it would be nice to know.”
He purses his lips, but still doesn’t say it.
“Who’s the guarded one now?” I taunt.
He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”
“You act like we’ll see each other again,” I tell him. “Are we?”
His face darkens. “We’ll talk about that in the morning.”
“You’re staying until morning?” I ask, not quiet believing him.
“Why not? Unless you don’t want me to.”
“You can stay,” I tell him. I try very hard to hide the relief I suddenly feel.
We talk through the rest of the night. Between rounds two and three. In the shower together when he somehow makes me cum again against the pink tiles. While we’re tangled in my sheets at three AM with my leg thrown over his hip and his fingers drawing patterns on my thigh.
I learn that he built his company from almost nothing. That he has an older brother he’s complicated about. That he reads poetry sometimes when he can’t sleep. That he agrees most philanthropy is performative bullshit but he does it anyway because some good is better than no good.
He learns that I want to see the northern lights someday, preferably from Iceland. That I have this fantasy about doing work that actually matters, not just pays the bills. That I’m stupidly idealistic about nonprofits even though I know most of them are just as messy as corporations.
At 5:30 AM, my alarm goes off because I forgot to cancel it and we both groan.
“Coffee?” I offer.
“Please,” he says.
I pull on his discarded dress shirt because my clothes are scattered across the apartment and stumble to my tiny kitchen.
He appears a moment later in his pants and nothing else, his hair all sleep-rumpled, and devastatingly leans against my counter while I fumble with the coffee maker. His forearms and shoulder muscles cord, and his biceps swell.
God.
“So,” he says as I distractedly hand him a mug. “This was—”
“A mistake,” I finish. “Definitely a mistake.”
Because I’ve already come to terms with the fact I’ll never see him again. A guy like him, and a girl like me?
It’s just not possible.
“But a really good one,” he adds.
I smile sadly. “The best mistake I’ve ever made, probably.”
We both know what comes next. The part where we acknowledge this can’t happen again. Where we go back to our separate lives and pretend we didn’t just spend all night destroying each other in the best possible way.
“Fire escape?” I suggest, gesturing toward the window.
“Beats the walk of shame,” he agrees.
“No,” I laugh. “I meant, for the view.”
“Oh.”
We climb out together, coffee cups in hand, and sit on the metal grating and watch the sky lighten over Queens. Delivery trucks rumble past. Someone’s radio is playing NPR.
“I should go,” he says eventually.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moves.
“I don’t do this,” he says quietly. “Stay the night with strangers. Get coffee after. Sit on fire escapes watching the sunrise.”
“Me neither,” I agree.
“But?” he presses.
“But apparently tonight we made an exception,” I reply.
He sets down his mug and turns to face me fully. “Bree. I want you to know—”
“Don’t.” I put a hand over his mouth. “Don’t make this more than it is. We had one perfect night. Let’s not ruin it by pretending it can be something else.”
He kisses my palm through my fingers, then gently moves my hand away. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”
So why does it feel so wrong?
I should get his number. Or his socials. Something. Anything.
But I don’t.
And neither does he.
We climb back inside. I collect my underwear, grab a blouse from my closet, and pick a pair of jeans, then I dash to the bathroom to change. When I’m presentable, I toss him his dress shirt.
He pulls it over that impressive chest and buttons it up while I pretend to be very interested in the kitchen. Then he grabs his jacket and puts it on, erasing all traces of the man who spent the night in my bed.
He dons his shoes at the door, and pauses.
“Thank you,” he says. “For last night. For... being honest. For—” He gestures vaguely at the space between us. “All of it.”
“Back at you,” I reply, doing my best not to tear up.
One more kiss. Quick and chaste and nothing like the ones that came before. Then he’s gone, and I’m closing the door behind him with a decisive click that feels far too final.
I lean my forehead against the wood and try to catch my breath.
Well.
That happened.
That absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent happened.
And now it’s over.
I drag my exhausted body back toward the kitchen.
Goodbye, Nico.
Thanks for the memories and the multiple orgasms.
I don’t even know his last name.
It’s probably better that way.