Eight #3
He shrugs. “Habit, maybe. Or maybe because every time I try to be better at it, something goes wrong.”
I laugh, but it’s almost a sigh. “So, we’re both just here being disasters in nice clothes.”
He shakes his head, eyes crinkling. “Speak for yourself. I’m a disaster in excellent clothes.”
That makes me laugh loudly. I glance at the clock above the bar. It’s later than I thought, and the world outside the window is washed in blue neon.
“I should go,” I say, not moving yet.
He nods. “You should.”
I set my hand down on the bar, not quite touching his, but close enough that our knuckles align.
I don’t say anything, but I let the moment hang there.
I am not a woman who usually does this: not the pursuer, not the risk-taker.
But I also don’t want to go back to my empty bed, to my silent house, to the echo of everything I’ve lost.
He sees the hand. He sees the intent. He turns slightly, aligning his body with mine, and waits for me to make a move. Or at least. That's what I think he is doing.
I say, “I haven’t done this in a very long time.”
He tilts his head, considering. “Is that a warning?”
“It’s an apology in advance. For whatever happens.”
His smile is small, but real. “You’re not obligated to apologize.”
I laugh, low and short. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
We sit for another minute, the energy in the air gone electric. I take a deep breath and do either the bravest or the stupidest thing I have done in a while. I look him in the eye, and say, “Let’s get out of here.”
He doesn’t react for a heartbeat, then stands, drops cash on the bar, and leads the way out. He pauses by the door, lets me go first, and I’m irrationally grateful for the gesture.
Outside, the air is cold and my skin pricks with the sudden change. The walk to the curb is silent. I text Luca in the group chat: “Making my own way home. Will catch you up tomorrow.” The skull emoji arrives from Liv only a second after it sends.
Alexander hails a cab. The ride is a blur of lights and the faint, stale scent of cigarettes in the seat.
I don’t remember the conversation, if there was any.
I only remember the weight of his thigh next to mine, the controlled way he sat with his hands on his knees, the pace of his breath.
I wonder if I am nervous. I decide that I am, but the feeling is fleeting and smothered in excitement.
His apartment is on the fourth floor. There’s an elevator, but it smells like hot dust and regret, so we take the stairs.
The building is old, not charming old though, just old enough that every door is a different colour, and every hallway smells faintly of someone else’s dinner.
He unlocks the door, flicks on the light, and lets me in first.
It’s a real place. Not staged or curated.
There are shoes by the door, a stack of legal briefs on the coffee table, a bookshelf crowded with law and not-law in equal measure.
The kitchen window has a row of half-dead basil plants, leaves drooping but stubbornly green.
The living room is clean, but not obsessively so; a blanket is thrown over the arm of the couch, a pair of mugs is drying on the rack by the sink.
He says, “Do you want a drink?” and I say, “Not unless you have very strong coffee.”
He laughs, then surprises me by making a French press with a precision that borders on reverence. We stand in the kitchen while it brews. There is silence, but it is not uncomfortable. I watch the way he spoons grounds into the carafe.
He pours the coffee into mismatched mugs, slides one across the counter. “Milk, sugar?”
I shake my head. “Just the coffee.”
We drink, side by side. The noise seeps in through the windows, a muted soundtrack of traffic and the occasional shout. I don’t know how long we stand there, but at some point, he sets his mug down and says, “You’re thinking very hard about something.”
I shrug, not embarrassed. “Just… this. It’s been a long time since I didn’t have to talk myself into wanting something.”
He nods, like this makes sense. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“I know,” I say.
He waits, as if for a cue.
I set my mug down. I step forward, close enough that my chest brushes his arm. I reach for his face, not his lips, but the line of his jaw, the place where his beard is just starting to grow in. His skin is warm, and he doesn’t move, just lets me trace the edge with my thumb.
He says, “Are you sure?”
I answer with a kiss. Gentle to start, just lips. He responds, matching my pace, and then his hand is on my waist, steady and certain.
It’s not a rush to the bedroom. We move slow, as if neither of us wants to be first to break the spell.
The path is familiar but the steps are new: his hands at my hips, the slow slide of his fingers against my spine, the way we both pause between touches to reassess.
I feel more like myself than I have in years, and also less.
There is a freedom in it I haven’t felt before.
The bedroom is unremarkable. A queen bed, dark sheets, a lamp with a busted pull chain. There’s a pile of laundry in a basket to one side. He turns on the lamp, leaves the door open.
I hesitate at the threshold. For a second, I am certain I will ruin this, that I will say something or do something or simply revert to type and run.
He sees it. He touches my hand. “It’s just a room.”
I nod.
We undress without ceremony. My dress zipper catches halfway down my back, and I mutter something under my breath.
Alexander smiles, stepping closer. "May I?"
I nod, and a second later the zipper gives way.
I turn and really look at him. He's... unfairly handsome.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, the kind of quiet strength that isn't built for show but simply exists.
His body carries the confidence of someone comfortable in his own skin, every movement relaxed and unselfconscious.
Standing there in the soft lamplight, I can't quite reconcile the man in front of me with the fact that he chose to come home with me.
Because all I can see are the parts of myself Ethan slowly convinced me weren't enough.
The stretch marks.
The softer curves.
The body that carried Leo.
The woman who somehow still wasn't enough to keep her husband faithful.
I must stare a little too long. Alexander's expression softens.
"We don't have to do anything," he says quietly. "We can stop here."