This Saturday morning, the sky is soft and grey, that November light that makes everything feel a little unreal. I wake up at ten-thirty, something that hasn't happened in ages. My body feels heavy, like all the week's tension settled into every muscle. I stay lying down for ten minutes, staring at the ceiling, hands resting on my stomach, and I think about him.Of course I think about him. Since Friday at noon, I haven't done anything else.
I want you.Much more than I should.
Those words keep looping in my head, like a stubborn chorus. I close my eyes and I see his gaze in the elevator again, the way his voice cracked on the last word. I still feel the heat of his body a few inches from mine. And more than anything, I feel that dull, insistent throb between my thighs that hasn't left me for forty-eight hours.
It's been almost two years since I slept with anyone. Two years. The last time was with a nice enough but boring guy from an app who made me come politely in ten minutes flat before asking if I liked Korean dramas. Since then—nothing. Work, bills, exhaustion, tiny disappointments piling up. I'd shoved that part of myself into a box labeled "later."
And now Ethan has kicked that box wide open.
I groan, roll over, bury my face in the pillow. If I don't do something, I'm going to crack. I know it. I'm going to end up begging him in a hallway, or in his office, or in that cursed elevator. And then what? He'll look at me with that mix of regret and desire, and I'll hate myself.
I get up in one sudden movement, like the bed is on fire.
Cold shower. Very cold. It helps for about five minutes.
In the kitchen, I make myself coffee that's way too strong. My phone vibrates: a message from Lola.
[Brunch at your place in 1h? I'm bringing croissants, Chloé's bringing champagne, and we want EVERYTHING about the boss who's making your knees shake.]
I smile despite myself. My friends can smell this kind of thing from miles away.
I reply with a simple 🆗 and pull on jeans and an oversized sweater that still smells like my mom's laundry detergent. Maximum comfort. I need to feel protected.
They show up at exactly noon, bringing noise, perfume, and hugs. Lola wears a bright red coat, Chloé has pink hair this week. They flood my living room like a tornado made of love.
"So?" Lola asks, dropping the croissant box on the table. "Are we getting the uncensored version, or are you doing the whole 'it's complicated' routine again?"
I laugh, already embarrassed.
"It's… very complicated."
Chloé pops the champagne with theatrical flair.
"Complicated is the new word for 'I'm falling for my boss and I don't know what to do with my body,' right?"
I choke on my drink.
"I'm not in love!"
They exchange identical looks that say: really?
"Okay, maybe a little attracted," I admit. "Very attracted. Stupidly attracted."
Lola sits cross-legged on the couch, ready for the show.
"Start from the beginning. And don't skip the blush-worthy details."
I tell them everything. The meeting room, the café, the elevator. When I get to the sentence 'I want you, much more than I should,' Chloé squeals, and Lola hides half her face behind her scarf.
"Wait wait he actually said that and then left?" Lola demands, outraged.
"Yes. Like he was afraid of himself."
"That's… insanely sexy," Chloé murmurs, eyes sparkling. "Like he's fighting his desire and losing."
"He's not losing yet," I correct. "He's resisting. And I… I can't hold on."
I lower my voice.
"It's been almost two years since I've slept with anyone. Two years. And my body is screaming that this is the moment, that it's him, that if I miss this I'll regret it for the rest of my life. But he's my boss. And he looks like he's wrestling with demons I don't even know."
Silence. They look at each other.
Lola sets her cup down.
"Sweetheart… you are living a 4K office-romance fantasy. Enjoy it."
"But the rules! HR! And the fact that he's… I don't know. Haunted by something!"
Chloé shrugs.
"Rules are for people who don't want to. You want to. He clearly wants to. The rest—we'll deal with later."
I sink into the couch.
"I'm scared I'll give in and ruin everything."
Lola takes my hand.
"Or you give in, it's amazing, and you finally feel alive again. You deserve it, Amelia. You've spent two years being good. Maybe it's time to be slightly less good."
The rest of the afternoon slips by in laughter, bubbles, silly stories. They force me to try on a dress for "research," take pictures of me, tell me I'm beautiful even with tired eyes. They remind me I'm alive.
Around five, they leave. The apartment falls quiet.
I'm alone with myself again, my stomach warm from champagne and their words.
I look at my phone. No message from Ethan. Of course. He's probably somewhere in his enormous apartment torturing himself…
I put the phone down. I breathe.
Then, without really thinking, I open the company app. I search his name in the internal directory. I find his personal number the one we're not supposed to use unless it's an emergency.
My fingers tremble.
I type:
[Amelia: You were right.You're complicating my life too.But I don't want it to stop.]
I hit send before I can back out.
Three seconds later, the typing dots appear.
Then:
[Ethan: You have no idea how many times I've written and deleted a message since Friday.]
My heart flips.
[Amelia: And why didn't you send it?]
[Ethan: Because I'm supposed to be reasonable.]
[Amelia: And right now are you?]
Silence. Long.
Then:
[Ethan: No. Not at all.]
I close my eyes. Free fall.
[Amelia: Then come.]
I don't add anything. No address he knows it. No explanation. Just two words.
I put the phone down, hands shaking, and go to the bedroom. I take off the oversized sweater. I put on a black silk shirt the one I wear when I want to feel dangerous. No bra. No thinking.
Twenty-seven minutes later I counted the doorbell rings.
I open.
He's there. Dark jeans, black shirt open at the collar, hair slightly messy like he's run his hands through it a hundred times in the car. He smells like rain and warm wood.
He doesn't speak. He just looks at me, eyes black, jaw tight.
I step aside.
He comes in.
I close the door.
And there, in the entryway, without a word, he pins me against the wall and kisses me like it's the last thing he'll ever do.
—
I wake up with a jolt, heart racing, skin damp, lips still swollen with the imaginary taste of his mouth.
Everything was so real: the black silk shirt, his hands on my back, the door slamming, his breath on my neck…
And then reality hits me, sharp, cold, stupid.
My phone vibrates on the pillow beside my head.
It's 12:47 a.m.
A message. From him.
[Ethan: Amelia, I'm really sorry to disturb you on a Saturday night.I have an urgent issue with the Morrison file.Could you send me the list of the confidentiality clauses modified last week before tomorrow morning?I know it's the weekend I'll owe you one.Again, sorry.]
I stare at the screen, wide-eyed, like the letters might rearrange themselves into "Come over" instead of "confidentiality clauses."
They don't.
I reread it three times. Four.
My dream shatters into pathetic little pieces and I'm left there, in an open shirt, thighs tight together, heat throbbing between my legs, and an unexpected sting of tears.
I reply, my voice hoarse even in my head:
[Amelia: Of course. I'll send it in ten minutes.]
I add because apparently I enjoy suffering:
[Amelia: No problem, really.]
I put the phone down, stand up, legs still shaking.
I walk across the apartment barefoot, turn on the computer, find the damn document, attach it to an email, hit send.
Then I just sit there in the dark, staring at "Message sent."
I laugh silently. A little bitter. A little desperate.
Of course it was a dream.Of course he's not going to show up at my door at midnight.Of course he thinks "confidentiality clauses" while I'm thinking about his hands on my skin.
I shut the laptop.I go back to bed.I hug the pillow like an idiot.