He nods toward the empty glasses in front of me. “Three shots in under five minutes,” he says, almost casually. Lucien studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding how far to push it. Then he lifts his glass, that restrained half-smile appearing again.
“The speed was warranted.” He says.
I manage a faint smile.
If he makes a move… would I stop him? The question lands heavier than I expect. Would I do it? Just once. Just to prove something. To even the scale.
Why not?
Did she hesitate?
Did she look at the photos in my house, our house, and feel even a flicker of shame?
She had to know.
My face is in every hallway. Our wedding framed above the staircase. Holidays. Birthdays. Five years of a life displayed like evidence.
She knew. So why am I the only one expected to be moral? If he leans closer… would I let him? Would that make me her? Or would it just make me tired of being the only one who plays by the rules?
And why is he even here? Seat-switch guy from the plane. Same hotel. Same bar. Does he work where I work? Is he here for the conference too? An intern, maybe. Or something worse, an executive with rolled sleeves and a careful smile.
How serendipitous, or maybe just suspicious. New York isn’t small. Neither is this hotel. So what are the odds?
I glance at him again. Calm. Observant. Unbothered. Like he isn’t accidentally standing at the edge of my worst possible decision. I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you following me?”
He doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks amused. He gives me a small smile. “You think I’d need to?”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse betrays me. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s New York,” he says. “Big city. Expensive hotel. Coincidences happen.”
“Convenient ones.” I say.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “You sound disappointed.”
“I sound cautious.”
“Good,” he replies. “You should be.” Then he lifts his beer and takes a slow sip, his gaze never leaving mine. Patient. Like he has nowhere else to be. After a beat, he adds, quieter, “If I were following you, you’d know.”
He lowers the glass. Still watching me. And I hate that my stomach flips anyway.
My phone buzzes.
Clara.
Be reckless, not careless.
How exactly does one be reckless and responsible? Degeneracy and caution don’t coexist. They cancel each other out. It’s almost unsettling how she knows exactly when to text and exactly what to say. Clara runs on instinct. She calls it intuition and I call it witchcraft. She’s always been like that, the family mystic. The one who claims she can “feel shifts.” When we were younger, I once handed her twenty dollars to perform some manifestation ritual so I’d pass my geometry test.
I aced it and I’ve never doubted her again.
Be a walking bad decision. But careful. That’s such a Clara sentence. Reckless, but strategic. Chaos with boundaries.
“I should go,” I say, standing before I can talk myself into staying. “It was nice meeting you. And… thanks for the drink.” I’ve never had a one-night stand. Maybe I’ll keep it that way. Preserve whatever fragile piece of me isn’t already cracked open.
I start toward the elevator, aiming for composition and probably landing somewhere near unsteady.
“Sera.”