Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
ELENA
The cool night air hits me like a slap the second I turn the corner.
Not because it’s cold.
Because I nearly kissed him.
Because he had me pinned—gently, but undeniably—against a brick wall.
My body is still humming.
I walk fast at first, like motion might somehow dilute the intensity still burning under my skin.
It doesn’t.
Every step echoes the same thought:
Did that really happen?
I touch my lips with my fingertips—totally involuntary—like maybe they’ll still be warm from him almost being there.
“Oh my God,” I whisper to no one. “Oh my God.”
People pass me on the sidewalk: couples, friends, a guy eating pizza straight out of the box, and every single one of them looks stable, normal, sane.
Meanwhile I’m floating down the street like a woman whose molecules just rearranged.
I replay it.
His hand braced beside my head.
His eyes were dark and intense, starving but trying so hard to be good.
How his his breath mixed with mine.
My heartbeat speeds up again, ridiculous.
And then the call.
Thank god for his mom.
And also: curse his mom.
And also: I hope she’s okay.
And also: wow, Elena, you are unhinged.
I exhale, long and shaky.
I should be mortified. Maybe ashamed. I’ve never been…that direct with someone. Telling him those ideas I’ve had of how this should be casual. If it were anything. I’ve never been a casual girl. The words just slipped out, somehow.
I should be telling myself to delete his number, cancel Tuesday, go to church or something to clean up my line of thinking.
Instead I’m smiling like an idiot, weaving through pedestrians like gravity works differently for me now.
I pull out my phone.
My thumbs hover.
No.
Do NOT text him.
I lock my phone.
I unlock it.
Then lock it again.
Get it together.
I march down the block, heels clicking too fast, still buzzing in places a woman should not buzz publicly.
Harper.
I need Harper.
I call her.
She answers on the first ring. “Girl—TELL ME EVERYTHING.”
I laugh, breathless, panicked, exhilarated.
“Harper…he pushed me against a wall.”
“OH MY SWEET LORD.”
“Harper—HE WAS GOING TO KISS ME.”
I can hear her gasp so hard she chokes on air. “WHAT STOP! ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”
“And then his mom called.”
Harper is silent for one second.
And then she screams.
“THE UNIVERSE IS A COCKBLOCK.”
“I know!”
“I am suing fate.”
“I KNOW.”
I stop at a crosswalk, pressing a hand to my chest.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Yes you do,” she says. “You’re falling for the hot young trainer.”
“I am NOT falling for him.”
“Elena.”
“I’m really not.”
“Elena.”
“Okay…I might be a little bit.”
“A little bit?”
I pace in place like a woman on a mission to burn a hole in the concrete.
“He said he’d see me Tuesday.”
“That’s basically ‘see you in bed,’ in slow-burn language.”
“NO it is NOT,” I insist, but the blush crawling up my neck says otherwise.
The light turns and I walk again, softer this time. The adrenaline pumping through my veins breaks into something warmer and quieter.
Something I don’t let myself feel often anymore.
“I really like him,” I admit, so softly I barely hear it.
Harper exhales. “Yeah. I kind of figured.”
I smile—small, secret, scared, thrilled.
“I don’t know what this is,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to know yet,” she says gently. “Just let yourself feel it.”
I reach my building.
“Tuesday,” I say.
“Tuesday.”
“He almost kissed me,” I add.
“He’s 100% thinking about it right now.”
I bite my lip. “I’m thinking about it too.”
“I know.”
I hang up, walking up the stairs to my apartment, still floating, still breathless.
Inside, I lean against the door after it shuts.
My pulse finally slows, and my breathing evens.
The night settles around me like warm water.
I whisper into the quiet:
“Tuesday.”
Saturday morning arrives far too bright for how little I slept.
Not because of nightmares.
Because of him.
The almost-kiss replayed all night in a loop so vivid I swear I can still feel his hand on my waist every time I inhale.
I finally roll out of bed around ten, hair a mess, mental state a messier mess, and make coffee.
My phone buzzes just as the machine sputters to life.
Colt: Morning. Hope you slept better than I did.
I stare, trying not to read into it.
I fail.
Elena: Morning. I slept fine. Mostly. How’s Mom?
Colt: “Mostly” feels accurate.
I grip my mug tighter.
Every text is like a little pull on a thread I’m pretending doesn’t exist.
We exchange only a few messages the rest of the day. Light. Harmless.
Elena: How’s Momma?
Colt: She’s doing better. Thanks for asking.
Elena: I’m glad. Tell her I hope she feels better soon.
He replies with a heart emoji.
Not a red one.
A blue one, which feels Innocent and friendly.
But my stomach still flips like I’m sixteen.
Colt: Got stuck fixing my buddy’s sink for two hours. I’m basically a plumber now.
Elena: Oh good, finally found a respectable career.
Colt: Wow. I see how it is.
And then nothing for a while.
It’s quiet texting…but charged.
Shoot. Over the line? It was a joke.
This is why I hate texting.
Like we’re both pretending to be busy, pretending not to think about Tuesday, pretending we didn’t almost lose our minds against a brick wall.
The weekend goes by, and then Sunday evening, around ten, I’m lying on my couch with a blanket and a reality dating show I’m not remotely paying attention to when his name lights up my screen again.
Colt: Long weekend. You doing okay?
I type.
Elena: Yeah. Just relaxing. You?
A moment passes.
Colt: Trying not to count down the hours.
I stare at that message long enough for my tea to go cold.
I don’t answer.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because if I do…I’ll say something I’m not ready to admit out loud.
Instead, I mute the TV, curl deeper under the blanket, and let my brain spin into dangerous territory.
My fingers find my phone again.
Hover.
Hover…
And then I open Safari.
A blank search bar stares back at me.
I hesitate.
Then type the first word, then delete it.
Type something else, and delete that too.
“What am I doing…” I breathe, already knowing exactly what I’m doing.
Finally, I type:
“Is it crazy to date someone 12 years younger?”
I hover over search.
My heart bangs hard against my ribs.
I press it.
The results load, and my breath catches.
Not in panic or dread, but in possibility.
The search results blur in front of me.
Age-gap relationships.
Power dynamics.
Why older women dating younger men is becoming more common.
All reasonable.
All very interesting.
All absolutely not what I should be reading at 10:23 PM on a Sunday.
I close one tab.
Then another.
And then, against every ounce of logic I possess,
against every responsible adult impulse in my body…
I type something new.
“Attractions between older women and younger men…why?”
Enter.
A list appears.
Psychology articles.
Think pieces.
A BuzzFeed listicle titled “Cougar Love Is Actually Normal, Science Says.”
I snort, then keep scrolling. I’ve never thought of myself as a ‘cougar.’ Plus, Colt seems more mature than a lot of men my age.
Somewhere between a Glamour article and a Reddit thread full of chaos, my brain takes a left turn into a neighborhood it definitely should not be in, and I type:
“Is it normal to fantasize about your personal trainer?”
The results are wild.
I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Oh my god. No. Nope. I am unwell.”
But then, because curiosity is stronger than my dignity, my fingers type another one.
“Can a younger guy actually prefer older women?”
My pulse trips over itself.
There are answers.
Actual answers.
I take a breath, my cheeks heating, my chest tightening, and I slide all the way off the deep end.
I type:
“Strong younger man older woman fantasy dynamic—why is this hot?”
The results explode like fireworks.
Articles.
Forums.
Essays with titles like “Dominance and Devotion” and “The Allure of being Wanted Tensely.”
“Oh no,” I whisper.
“Oh no, no, no…”
But my thumb is already gliding lower.
And this time I don’t stop myself.
“Younger man pinning older woman against a wall fantasy is this normal”
Enter.
My soul leaves my body, and a wave of heat rushes up my neck, into my ears, down my spine.
Because every answer is some variation of:
Yes.
Yes.
Dear god, yes.
The room feels smaller, and definitely warmer.
I look at the doorway like someone might walk in and catch me in the act of… Googling my own sexual awakening.
And then—because the universe hasn’t punished me enough—I type one last thing.
I don’t think.
I don’t breathe.
I just type it.
“Younger guy mentoring older woman…more than just workouts?”
I stare.
Then I laugh. Soft, horrified, breathless. I let it out.
“Oh my god. Elena. Pull it together.”
But I don’t pull it together. Not even close, because another image flashes behind my eyes.
Colt’s hand braced by my head.
His body close, his breath on my cheek, and his voice low as he whispered, Tell me no.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
No.
No no no.
This is too much.
This is dangerous.
This is…
My phone buzzes.
I jump a full inch off the couch.
Colt: So yeah, I’m looking forward to this week’s workout.
Elena: Good. Me too.
Colt: Hey…btw…were you serious about that whole “casual” thing you mentioned? That’s what you want?
My lungs briefly forget how to work while I type out a response.
Elena: Yeah. I think so. I just…I don’t think I can handle like…I don’t know. Something heavy right now.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Then reappear.
Colt: Tell me more.
I chew my lip.
My fingers hover.
Elena: I just can’t get my heart involved. But my sex life the last five years…I don’t want to get into detail, but it’s been a rough go. So a little spark would be nice. With someone I trust, of course.
A beat.
Then:
Colt: Yeah. The, uh, hate’ thing you mentioned.
Elena: Sorry that kind of poured out of me. I don’t know where that came from. Maybe forget I said it.
Colt: Too late. I thought it was hot anyway. So question along with that. You don’t like it a little…rough…do you? Can’t handle it?
I choke on my own breath.
Elena: Oh I can handle it.
Colt: I’m just curious about you. That’s all.
Elena: Are you getting all rough on me now? I like you for your kind, mature side. Bringing me my ID and all that.
His reply is immediate.
Colt: Even a gentleman knows when to take control of a situation. And personally I trust you. Plus, you know I’m not seeing anyone else. So at least I check that box for you.
My whole body warms.
I turn red, violently red, because taking control is my job in the corporate world.
I don’t let people boss me around.
But the way he said it?
Deadly.
Elena: Well… you can take control anytime.
I swear it was supposed to be a joke. It does not sound like one once I hit ‘send,’ however.
Colt: I can take control.
My pulse spikes.
So I push back—half-joking, half-not.
Elena: Dom me then, Mr. Trainer.
Three dots appear.
Stay.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Then:
Colt: Okay. Let’s get real for a second.
Elena: Please.
Colt: How’s your nutrition been this weekend?
I look over at the cold pizza slice staring at me from the counter.
Betrayal.
Elena: …Are you going to tell me to eat less?
Colt: No. You need to eat more. A lot more. Especially with the workouts I’m going to have you doing. I’m getting you strong, remember?
My breath hitches.
Elena: Oh. Not the lecture I thought I was going to get.
Colt: Yeah. If we’re going to build strength the right way, you need fuel. Real food. Protein. Carbs. Enough to keep up with the lifts I’m planning for Tuesday.
Elena: Lifts? Like what?
Colt: Heavy ones. Wear something comfortable.
Comfortable.
I stand, cross the room, and open the top drawer of my dresser.
I’m not sure I want comfortable, necessarily. I want something bold.
Something stupid. Something I haven’t even thought about wearing in months.
My heart pounds.
I take a picture. Not of me wearing it, not anything explicit, just a hint, a suggestion, a tease: black fabric folded on my bed, lace peeking at the corner, the implication unmistakable.
I send it.
Elena: Think Damien would have a problem with this?
The dots appear instantly.
Then:
Colt: Damien can fuck off.
My breath catches. He continues:
Colt: He doesn’t get a say. I do.
And then, one more:
Colt: And if you show up in that on Tuesday… I’m not guaranteeing I’ll keep my cool. I might insist we start our ‘casual’ thing right there in the gym.
My face burns.
My whole body burns.
I type:
Elena: Goodnight, Colt.
His reply comes like a controlled growl on a page.
Colt: Goodnight, Elena. Try to sleep :)
I stare at the screen.
Sleep is impossible.
So I decide to do a little more research. This time, my search is different.
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