The Metropolitan Museum of Art closed in three hours, which meant Ethan had roughly two hours and forty-five minutes before security started their pointed throat-clearing routine.
He hunched over the reference desk in the American Wing's research library, surrounded by a fortress of books he'd pulled from the stacks. The dissertation proposal wasn't due for another two weeks, but the quiet here—the particular quality of silence found only in places where people came to worship the past—made it easier to think. Easier to exist, really, without the constant low-grade anxiety that accompanied being anywhere else.
His laptop screen glowed in the dim reading light, cursor blinking accusingly at the end of an incomplete sentence about the provenance of Revolutionary War artifacts. He'd been staring at it for the better part of twenty minutes.
Outside the research library's glass walls, tourists shuffled past in their endless migration from gallery to gallery, phones raised, capturing images they'd never look at again. The muffled sounds of their passage barely penetrated the sanctuary where Ethan sat. This was why he preferred the research areas to the public galleries—fewer people, less noise, and absolutely no chance of unwanted conversation.
He reached for his coffee, found it cold, and drank it anyway. The bitter taste grounded him, pulled his attention back to the screen. Just finish the paragraph. One paragraph. Then he could justify pulling another book, maybe the one on colonial trade routes he'd spotted earlier.
A woman's laugh echoed from somewhere in the main gallery, bright and jarring. Ethan's shoulders tensed reflexively. He forced himself to breathe, to focus on the familiar weight of the books surrounding him, their musty smell mixing with the antiseptic scent of climate-controlled air.
Ethan drew the air deep into his lungs, as if ancient wisdom might be carried in the dust motes, but inspiration remained as elusive as the words he needed to complete his sentence. The paragraph wasn't happening. The entire section wasn't happening. Ethan leaned back in his chair, feeling the tension coil at the base of his skull, that familiar tightness that meant he'd been grinding his teeth again without noticing.
This was supposed to be productive. The Met didn't just let anyone waltz into their research facilities—he'd gone through two rounds of applications, submitted his entire academic history, gotten letters of recommendation from three different professors. And here he sat, wasting the privilege by staring at a blinking cursor like some freshman who'd forgotten how to string words together.
He closed his laptop with more force than necessary. The sound echoed in the quiet space, and an elderly researcher two tables over glanced up with a frown. Ethan looked away, heat creeping up the back of his neck.
Coffee. Fresh coffee. That would help. The cafeteria on the ground floor wasn't ideal—too many people, too much noise—but the vending machine near the staff break room would work. He'd seen it on his first day, tucked away in a corridor most visitors never found.
Ethan stood, his knees protesting the sudden movement after too long sitting. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd thrown on this morning: dark jeans that had seen better days, a gray henley that was comfortable enough to forget he was wearing it, and the black jacket he'd owned since starting grad school. The jacket had a small tear near the left pocket that he kept meaning to fix and never did. His messenger bag—battered leather, a graduation gift from his parents that had somehow survived five years of daily use—stayed on the chair. No one would bother it here.
He left the research library through the side exit, avoiding the main corridor where tour groups tended to congregate. The staff passages weren't technically restricted, but they weren't exactly encouraged for visitors either. Ethan had learned the routes over his weeks here—the shortcuts that let him move through the museum like a ghost, minimizing contact with the crowds.
The Ancient Greece section provided the fastest route to the staff areas. This time of afternoon, most visitors clustered around the more famous pieces—the Temple of Dendur, the Egyptian wing—leaving the Greek galleries relatively empty. Perfect.
Ethan pushed through the doorway, his shoes barely whispering against the polished marble floors. The gallery stretched before him, all white stone and careful lighting designed to evoke Mediterranean sun. Statues lined the walls, frozen in eternal poses of triumph, mourning, divine judgment. He'd walked through here dozens of times and barely registered them anymore. They were just obstacles to navigate around, landmarks to orient by.
"Excuse me."
The voice cut through the gallery's silence—female, with an edge of amusement that made something in Ethan's chest tighten. He almost kept walking. Pretending not to hear was a skill he'd perfected over the years.
"You look like someone who might actually know what they're looking at."
Ethan stopped. Turned.
A woman stood before a marble statue near the center of the gallery, her head tilted back to study it. She was tall—taller than average, anyway, maybe five-eight or five-nine—with midnight black hair that looked deliberately messy, like she'd styled it to appear carelessly perfect. Her features struck him as asymmetrical in a way that should have been off-putting but somehow wasn't. Sharp cheekbones, a mouth that curved slightly higher on one side than the other, a nose with a barely perceptible bend that suggested it had been broken once and healed imperfectly.
But it was her eyes that made him forget to breathe for a second.
One gold. One silver. And even from several feet away, he could swear he saw something moving in them, like flecks of color swirling in liquid metal.
Contacts, probably. Had to be contacts.
She wore clothes that didn't quite match—a deep purple silk blouse with black leather pants, a crimson scarf draped around her neck with the kind of casual elegance that suggested it cost more than his entire outfit. Everything about her screamed money and confidence, the sort of person who belonged at museum galas, not wandering the galleries alone on a Tuesday afternoon.
"This statue," she said, gesturing toward the marble figure without looking at him. "I was hoping someone could tell me about it."
Ethan's jaw tightened. Of course. He should have known better than to stop. "I don't work here."
The woman turned then, and that mismatched gaze found his. A smirk played at the corner of her uneven mouth. "I never said you did."
"Then why—"
She tilted her head, those mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief. "For all you know, you've been employed here for years. Perhaps you're simply in the midst of a particularly thorough bout of amnesia."
"What?" Ethan's voice came out sharper than he intended, confusion cutting through his usual reserve. The word hung in the air between them, blunt and graceless.
The woman laughed—a rich, genuine sound that seemed to fill the empty gallery and bounce off the marble statues surrounding them. It wasn't mocking, exactly, but there was something in it that made Ethan feel like he'd missed the punchline to a joke everyone else understood.
"My, you really don't know anything about this statue, do you?" She gestured lazily toward the marble figure behind her, that infuriating smirk still playing at her lips.
Heat prickled along Ethan's collar. His hands curled at his sides. "I know plenty about it, actually."
He stepped closer despite himself, drawn by some combination of irritation and the need to prove her wrong. The statue depicted a woman in flowing robes, one arm extended as if offering something to an unseen recipient. Classical Greek, probably fourth century BCE based on the drapery style. He'd walked past it enough times to have absorbed the basics from the placard.
"It's a representation of Eris," he said, the words coming faster now, fueled by defensiveness. "Goddess of strife and discord. The pose suggests she's presenting the golden apple—the one that started the Trojan War. It's a Roman copy of an earlier Greek original, probably from the Hellenistic period given the dramatic styling."
He paused, already regretting the lecture. This was why he avoided people. Put him in front of a stranger and he either clamped up entirely or vomited information like a malfunctioning encyclopedia.
The woman laughed—not the polite titter he expected, but a genuine sound, rich and warm, that bounced off the gallery walls. "My god, you're adorable. I ask about a statue and you give me a dissertation abstract."
Heat crawled up Ethan's neck again. "You asked—"
"I asked about the statue, yes." She took a step closer, and he caught a whiff of something strange pomegranate maybe, it must be her perfume. "But I didn't ask for the Wikipedia entry. I asked what you think about it."
Ethan blinked. "What I think?"
"Mmm." She turned back to the statue, studying it with those impossible eyes. "Does it move you? Bore you? Make you want to weep at the tragedy of human impermanence?" A pause. "Make you want to take it home and put it in your living room?"
"I don't—" He stopped himself. Considered the question despite every instinct screaming at him to end this conversation and continue his quest for coffee. "I think... it's lonely."
The word surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise her. She glanced over her shoulder, one dark eyebrow arched.
"Lonely?"
"It's a copy," Ethan said slowly, working through the thought as it formed. "The original is gone—destroyed, lost, we don't know. This version exists as a memory of something it can never actually be. It's been standing in museums for centuries, watched by millions of people who see it as a representation of divinity or whatever, but none of them see it. They see what it's supposed to symbolize."
He stopped, suddenly aware of how much he'd said. How exposed he felt.
The woman's smirk had softened into something else. Something that looked almost like recognition.
"Well," she said quietly. "That's certainly more interesting than the drilling technique."
Ethan didn't know what to make of her. Everything about this interaction felt wrong—the way she'd singled him out, the casual confidence that bordered on predatory, those eyes that couldn't possibly be natural. His instincts screamed at him to walk away, to retreat to the safety of the research library and his incomplete paragraph.
But his feet stayed rooted to the marble floor.
"Is there a point to this?" he asked. "Because I have work to do."
"Do you?" She turned back to the statue, her profile sharp against the white stone. "Funny. You looked like someone desperately avoiding work when I spotted you."
"I'm on a coffee break," Ethan said, the lie coming easier than expected. "There is a cafe not far from this wing."
"Perfect." She pushed off from where she'd been leaning against the display case, moving with a fluid grace that made him think of predators—cats, maybe, or something larger. "I'll join you."
It wasn't a question. She didn't ask if he minded, didn't wait for an invitation. She simply started walking toward the gallery exit as if she'd already decided the matter and his input was irrelevant.
Ethan stood frozen for a moment, his brain struggling to process what had just happened. In his experience—limited as it was—women didn't invite themselves into his company. They found polite excuses to end conversations, checked phones that hadn't actually buzzed, remembered urgent appointments they'd somehow forgotten. They certainly didn't volunteer to accompany him to vending machines in staff corridors.
He should say no. Should tell her he preferred to take his breaks alone, that he had work waiting, that strangers following him through museums made him uncomfortable. All true. All reasonable.
Instead, he found himself falling into step beside her.
"This way," he muttered, steering them toward a side passage that would avoid the main thoroughfare. "It's faster."
"Lead on, then." That smirk again, like she knew something he didn't. "I'm entirely in your hands."
The words sent an uncomfortable flutter through his chest. He focused on the floor, on the familiar pattern of the marble tiles, counting his steps the way he did when anxiety threatened to overwhelm him.
"So," she said as they turned down a narrow corridor lined with restoration equipment, "what brings someone to the Met's research library? You mentioned work."
"Dissertation." The word came out clipped. "American history. Revolutionary War era."
"Ah. A student of conflict." She said it like it meant something, though Ethan couldn't imagine what. "And what specifically about the Revolution captures your interest?"
He glanced at her sideways, suspicious of the question. Most people's eyes glazed over the moment he mentioned his research. "Artifacts. Provenance tracking. How objects move through history and what that movement tells us about the people who owned them."
They passed a security guard who barely glanced up from his phone. Ethan felt the woman's presence beside him like a physical weight—too close, too warm, too much. His palms had started to sweat.
"What about you?" he asked, more to fill the silence than from genuine curiosity. "What brings you to the Met on a Tuesday afternoon?"
"Oh, I come here often." Her voice carried that same undercurrent of amusement. "I find museums fascinating. All these treasures from the past, carefully preserved, displayed for people who have no idea what they're really looking at."
Something in her tone made the hair on Ethan's arms prickle. "That's a bit cynical."
"Is it?" She laughed softly. "Or is it simply honest? How many visitors do you think actually understand what they're seeing? They read the placards, take their photos, move on to the next exhibit. The objects become background noise."
Ethan thought about the statue they'd left behind—the lonely copy of something lost. "Some people care."
"Some people do," she agreed. "That's what makes them interesting."
The café appeared around the next corner—a small alcove tucked behind the American Wing, with a counter staffed by a bored-looking woman in her fifties and a handful of mismatched tables that rarely saw visitors. Ethan had discovered it during his second week at the Met, drawn by the promise of decent espresso and near-total solitude.
"Two coffees," the woman beside him said before Ethan could open his mouth. She pulled a crisp bill from somewhere—he hadn't even seen her reach for a wallet—and slid it across the counter. "Black for me. And for my friend here..."
"Just black is fine," Ethan managed, thrown off by her casual assumption of control. The word 'friend' stuck in his throat like a fishbone.
The barista handed over two paper cups without comment, her expression suggesting she'd long since stopped caring about the peculiarities of museum visitors. Ethan wrapped his fingers around the warm cup, grateful for something to do with his hands.
Neither of them moved toward the tables.
"You never told me your name," the woman said, blowing gently across the surface of her coffee. Steam curled around those impossible eyes.
"You never asked."
"I'm asking now."
"Ethan." He took a sip, buying himself time. The coffee was better than the vending machine would have been—rich and slightly bitter, exactly what he needed. "Ethan Bennett."
"Ethan." She rolled the name around like she was tasting it. "It suits you. Solid. Dependable. The kind of name that belongs to someone who organizes his bookshelf alphabetically."
"By subject, actually." The words escaped before he could stop them. He winced.
Her laugh echoed off the low ceiling. "Of course it is."
"And you are?" He kept his voice flat, refusing to give her the satisfaction of showing how much she'd unsettled him.
"Erica Strife."
Ethan lifted his coffee cup for another sip, the warmth radiating through his fingers as he peered at her over the rim. Erica Strife. The name rolled off his tongue easily, fitting her with an odd sense of style.
"So, Ethan Bennett," she said, leaning against the café counter with the casual grace of someone who'd never felt awkward in her life. "Dissertation researcher. Revolutionary War enthusiast. Alphabetizer of books by subject." She ticked each item off on her fingers, those long nails catching the light. "What else should I know about you?"
"Nothing." The word came out more defensively than he'd intended. "I mean—there's nothing particularly interesting to know."
"Liar." She said it fondly, like she was commenting on the weather. "Everyone has something interesting about them. Most people just lack the self-awareness to recognize it."
"And you think I lack self-awareness?"
"I think you lack a lot of things." She took a long sip of her coffee, watching him over the rim with those swirling eyes. "Confidence, for one. A decent haircut, for another."
Ethan's hand flew to his hair before he could stop himself. It was short and tousled—he knew that—but he'd always thought of it as charmingly disheveled rather than actively bad.
"There's nothing wrong with my hair," he muttered.
"If you say so." Her tone suggested she very much did not agree. "Though I notice you touched it the moment I mentioned it. Insecurity noted."
Heat flooded his face. "I didn't—that's not—"
"You're very easy to fluster, has anyone ever told you that?" She set her coffee cup on the counter, giving him her full attention. "It's endearing, in a wounded-puppy sort of way."
"I'm not a wounded puppy."
"No, you're right. Puppies have better social skills."
Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No words came out.
"And there it is," Erica said, something like delight dancing in her expression. "That particular shade of red suits you, by the way. Brings out your eyes."
"My eyes are green."
"I'm aware." She reached out and, before he could react, brushed something off the shoulder of his jacket. Her fingers lingered for just a moment longer than necessary. "Dust. This place is full of it. All these old things, slowly crumbling into particles."
His skin burned where she'd touched him, even through the fabric of his jacket. He took a step back, trying to reclaim some sense of equilibrium. "I should get back to work."
"Should you?" She tilted her head, that asymmetrical smile making her look like she knew exactly how fast his heart was beating. "You've barely touched your coffee. And you still haven't told me anything interesting about yourself."
"There's nothing—"
"You said that already. Try again."
Ethan's grip tightened on his cup. "Why do you care? You don't know me. We met fifteen minutes ago over a statue."
A melodic, unrestrained laugh escaped Erica, filling the quiet alcove with a vibrant energy. She placed her paper cup down with an exaggerated motion, tilting her head as if she were scrutinizing an exquisite artifact. "You know, you might just be the first man I've met who seems genuinely unsettled by a beautiful woman showing interest in him. I must say that's utterly charming. Most men? They're so predictable. The moment they sense even a hint of attraction, they either strut around like proud peacocks or dissolve into needy puddles." A playful glimmer danced in her eyes as she continued, "But you? You appear to wish you could blend into the wallpaper."
She squinted theatrically, as if trying to see through his surface layer to whatever more interesting substance lurked beneath. "I admit, it's almost refreshing." Ethan could only blink in response, a dozen half-formed replies fizzling out before they reached his tongue. He wasn't sure which part of that statement to address—the implication that she was beautiful, the idea that men universally craved attention, or the unsettling accuracy of her assessment. The last time a woman had openly flirted with him had been...college? A party he barely remembered, the encounter ending with mutual embarrassment and a promise never to speak of it again.
He was not, as a rule, the object of pursuit. He tried to muster a defense, something self-deprecating or clever enough to reset the balance, but Erica was already leaning in, elbows braced on the counter, smile widening.
"Oh, don't look so stricken. It's not a crime to be interestingly awkward, Ethan. If anything, it's a relief. I was getting bored with the usual archetypes." He felt the warmth rising in his cheeks again, a ridiculous physiological response he could neither control nor hide.
"I just—I guess I'm not used to this sort of conversation."
"This sort of conversation? What, you mean one with teeth?" He shrugged, sinking further into the defense mechanisms that had served him since high school. "Sure. Or one where the other person actually means what they say."
Erica's expression shifted for a moment, a flicker of something like real curiosity passing over her features. "You think I'm lying?" He tried to meet her gaze but found it unbearable, the intensity of those eyes like staring into headlights. "I think you're playing a game," he said. "Or looking for some kind of reaction." She considered this, then reached for her coffee again.
"Maybe I am. But isn't that what everyone does? You said it yourself—people don't really see what's in front of them. Maybe I'm just interested in seeing what happens if I poke at you long enough." He bristled, unsure if he was supposed to be offended or flattered or both.
"I really do need to get back," he said, though his feet made no move toward the exit. "My research—"
"Will still be there in an hour." She pushed off from the counter, closing the distance between them until he could smell that strange perfume again—pomegranate and something else, something older. "What are you doing tonight?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. "What?"
"Tonight. This evening. The period of time after the sun sets." She spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child. "Do you have plans?"
"I—no. I mean, I was going to work on my dissertation proposal, maybe order takeout—"
"Riveting." The word dripped with sarcasm. "I have a better idea. There's a bar in the Village—Hymn & Hops, on MacDougal Street. Meet me there at eight."
Ethan's mouth went dry. "Meet you... for what?"
She flashed him a teasing smile. "That's for you to discover." With that, she turned and sauntered away, her hips swaying in a rhythm that seemed to beckon him to follow.
Ethan remained rooted in place, his mind racing as he stared after her retreating figure. Had she really just asked him out? The reality of it felt surreal, like a scene from a movie rather than his own life. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the question that swirled in his thoughts: What just happened?
—————————————————————————————————————————————————
Ethan had no idea what he was doing here.
He stood on the cobblestone street outside Hymn & Hops, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his thick jacket, staring at the unassuming wooden sign like it might offer answers to questions he hadn't figured out how to ask yet. All while snow fell softly, as if trying to savor every moment of freefalling alone, before joining the other snowflakes at his feet.
The bar's exterior blended seamlessly into the eclectic patchwork of Greenwich Village—a narrow brick façade wedged between a vintage bookshop and what appeared to be an artisanal candle store. Warm light spilled from windows framed by dark wood, their glass panes slightly fogged from the warmth within. A wrought-iron lamp hung beside the entrance, casting a soft golden glow over the weathered door. Ivy crept up one side of the building.
It looked like the kind of place people stumbled upon by accident and then couldn't find again.
Ethan checked his phone for the fourth time in as many minutes. 7:58 PM. He didn't know why he kept looking at it. His phone will give no explanation for why he'd spent twenty minutes trying to tame his hair into something resembling intentional, or why he'd actually ironed a shirt for the first time in months. The button-down felt stiff against his skin, unfamiliar after weeks of worn shirts and comfortable sweaters.
She wasn't coming. Of course she wasn't coming.
The whole afternoon felt like a fever dream now—the strange woman with her impossible eyes, the way she'd dismantled his defenses with surgical precision, the casual invitation that had felt more like a command. He'd probably imagined the whole thing. Some stress-induced hallucination brought on by dissertation anxiety and too much cold coffee.
And yet here he stood, dressed up like an idiot, waiting for a ghost.
A couple brushed past him, laughing at some private joke as they pushed through the bar's entrance. The door swung open briefly, releasing a wave of warmth and the faint sound of acoustic guitar before closing again with a soft click.
Ethan could still leave. Could turn around, walk back to the subway, spend the evening exactly as he'd planned—hunched over his laptop, picking at Thai food, pretending this afternoon had never happened. That was the sensible thing to do. The Ethan Bennett thing to do.
His feet carried him toward the door. He mind cursed him all the way.
The interior of Hymn & Hops wrapped around him like a well-worn blanket. Vintage filament bulbs hung from exposed wooden beams, their warm glow casting everything in shades of honey and amber. Rustic wooden tables dotted the space, their surfaces worn smooth by years of elbows and spilled drinks. Along one wall, aged oak barrels had been stacked and converted into a display for an impressive selection of craft beers, their labels a riot of colors and quirky illustrations.
The air was thick with the aroma of hops and something spiced—cider, maybe, or mulled wine. It mingled with the subtle mustiness of old wood and the faint sweetness of beeswax candles that flickered on each table. In one corner, a man with a graying beard strummed an acoustic guitar, his fingers moving lazily over the strings in a melody that felt more like atmosphere than performance.
Ethan stood just inside the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting as he scanned the room. The crowd was sparse for a Tuesday evening—a few couples tucked into corner booths, a group of friends gathered around a high-top table, an older man reading alone at the bar.
No sign of midnight hair or mismatched eyes.
His stomach dropped. Of course. Of course she wasn't here. He'd let himself believe—what, exactly? That a beautiful, strange woman had taken genuine interest in him? That something interesting might actually happen in his carefully controlled life?
He should order a drink. One drink, to justify the trip, and then he could leave with some shred of dignity intact.
He started toward the bar, threading between tables with the practiced movements of someone accustomed to making himself small in crowded spaces. Maybe a local IPA. Something to occupy his hands while he figured out how to salvage the evening—
"You came."
Ethan's entire body jerked like he'd been electrocuted. His shoulder knocked against a passing waitress's tray, earning him a glare and a muttered curse as she steadied the glasses. His heart hammered against his ribs, fight-or-flight flooding his system with adrenaline that had nowhere to go.
He spun around.
Erica stood less than two feet behind him, close enough that he should have sensed her presence, should have heard her approach. She wore the same outfit from the museum—the deep purple silk blouse, the black leather pants, that crimson scarf draped around her neck. Her mismatched eyes gleamed with undisguised amusement in the bar's warm light.
"I didn't—you—" The words tangled in his throat. "Where did you come from?"
"The door, same as you." Her lips curved into that asymmetrical smile he was beginning to recognize as her default expression. "Though I must say, watching you jump like a startled rabbit was worth the price of admission."
"I didn't jump." The denial came out too quickly, too defensive. Heat crept up his neck.
"You absolutely jumped. I thought you might knock that poor woman's entire tray to the floor." She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Your face went this delightful shade of white. Like you'd seen a ghost."
"I was surprised. There's a difference."
"Is there?" She tilted her head, studying him with that predatory curiosity he remembered from the museum. "You're a very twitchy guy. It happens to men who claims to prefer solitude. They never become more attuned to their surroundings."
Ethan opened his mouth to argue—to explain that he was perfectly attuned to his surroundings when those surroundings didn't include strange women materializing out of thin air—but Erica was already waving her hand dismissively.
"Never mind, never mind. You're here, that's what matters." She looped her arm through his before he could protest, the contact sending an uncomfortable jolt through his nervous system. "I have a booth in the back. Much better for conversation than standing in the middle of the floor looking like a lost tourist."
She steered him through the bar with the confidence of someone who'd been here a thousand times, navigating the maze of tables and patrons with fluid ease. Ethan stumbled along beside her, hyperaware of the warmth of her arm against his, the subtle brush of silk against his jacket sleeve.
The booth she led him to was tucked into the far corner of the establishment, partially hidden behind a wooden partition decorated with old concert posters and faded photographs. A candle flickered in a small glass holder at the center of the table, casting dancing shadows across the worn wood. It was intimate. Private. The kind of space where secrets might be shared.
Ethan's pulse refused to slow down.
Erica released his arm and slid into one side of the booth, patting the seat across from her with an expectant look. "Sit. You look like you're about to bolt for the exit."
"Thanks," Ethan managed, sliding into the seat across from her. The leather was worn smooth beneath his palms, cool against his fingers as he gripped the edge of the table. Calm down. This is real. This is actually happening. He forced himself to take a breath, to loosen the tension coiled in his shoulders. Whatever this was—date, ambush, elaborate practical joke—he was here now. Might as well make the best of it.
"Can I get us some drinks?" he asked, already reaching for the small menu tucked behind the candle holder. "I saw they have a decent selection of—"
"No need." Erica waved her hand dismissively, that knowing smile playing at her lips again. "I've already got it covered."
Before Ethan could ask what that meant, a woman appeared at their table carrying two pints of amber beer that caught the candlelight like liquid gold.
She was striking in a way that had nothing to do with conventional beauty. Robust and confident, with wheat-golden hair that looked perpetually wind-tossed despite the still air of the bar. Her skin was a warm olive tone, and as she set the glasses down, Ethan noticed intricate tattoos covering her forearms—barley stalks, hop flowers, strange symbols that might have been cuneiform.
Her eyes shifted as she looked between them with her deep honey brown eyes. She wore practical clothes, an apron stained with what might have been brewing residue, and numerous small pouches hung from her belt. A copper cup dangled from a chain at her hip, catching the light with every movement.
"Niki!" Erica's voice warmed in a way Ethan hadn't heard before, genuine affection replacing the calculated amusement. "You're an absolute lifesaver."
"Anything for my favorite troublemaker." Niki's voice carried a warmth that matched her appearance, rich and full-bodied like the beer she'd just delivered. She pulled Erica into a brief embrace, the kind of casual affection that spoke of years of familiarity. "It's been too long since you've graced my establishment."
"I've been busy." Erica's tone carried that playful edge Ethan was beginning to recognize. "You know how it is. Things to do, people to meet."
"Mmm." Niki pulled back, fixing Erica with a look that seemed to carry weight beyond the words. "Just remember—no causing trouble tonight, yes? I've had a peaceful week and I intend to keep it that way."
Something passed between them, a silent communication Ethan couldn't decipher. Erica's smile flickered, just for a moment, before settling back into its usual configuration.
"Would I ever cause trouble in your establishment?"
"You cause trouble everywhere you go. It's practically your calling card." Niki's words were stern, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. "I mean it, Erica. Whatever game you're playing, keep it civil under my roof."
Erica raised her hands in mock surrender. "Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout."
"Details."
Niki shook her head, a fond exasperation in the gesture, then turned her attention to Ethan. Her gaze was appraising but not unkind, and he felt suddenly very aware of his ironed shirt and his nervous posture and the way his hands had wrapped around the beer glass like it was a lifeline.
"And you must be the reason she's been behaving herself for the past five minutes." Niki extended her hand across the table. "You can call me Niki. Welcome to Hymn & Hops."
Ethan shook her hand, surprised by the strength of her grip and the calluses on her palm. Working hands. Brewer's hands. "Ethan Bennett. Thanks for the drink."
"First one's on the house for new faces." Her smile was genuine, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Especially when they arrive in such... interesting company."
"We met at the Met this afternoon," Ethan found himself explaining, though she hadn't asked. "She invited me here and I—I'm not entirely sure why I came, honestly."
Niki laughed, a deep, rolling sound that seemed to vibrate through the table. "Honesty! How refreshing. Most people who end up in Erica's orbit tend to lie to themselves about their motivations."
"Niki." There was a warning in Erica's voice, light but present.
"What? I'm being welcoming." Niki's innocent expression fooled no one. She turned back to Ethan, and something in her demeanor shifted—warmer, more maternal. "You seem like a decent sort, Ethan Bennett. A bit wound tight, maybe, but decent. This bar is a sanctuary for anyone who needs one. Whatever brings you here tonight, know that you're welcome."
The words settled over him like a blanket, unexpectedly comforting. He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Now." Niki straightened, adjusting one of the pouches at her belt. "I have other patrons to attend to, and I'm sure you two have much to discuss." She fixed Erica with one last meaningful look. "Remember what I said."
"Wouldn't dream of forgetting."
Niki departed with a swirl of her apron, weaving through the tables with the practiced ease of someone who'd been navigating crowded spaces for a very long time. Ethan watched her go, trying to process the exchange he'd just witnessed.
"Old friend?" he asked, turning back to Erica.
"The oldest." Something flickered in those mismatched eyes. "Niki and I go way back."
Ethan took a sip of his beer, expecting the usual craft brew bitterness. Instead, the flavor bloomed across his tongue—complex, layered, with notes of honey and something almost floral that he couldn't quite identify. It was, without question, the best beer he'd ever tasted.
"This is incredible," he said, the words slipping out before he could filter them. "What is it?"
"One of Niki's specialties." Erica swirled her own glass, watching the amber liquid catch the candlelight. "She's been perfecting her recipes for... a very long time."
"She brews here?"
"In the back. Has her own setup. Very particular about her ingredients." Erica took a long drink, her throat moving as she swallowed. "But enough about Niki. I didn't invite you here to discuss brewing techniques."
Ethan set his glass down, the condensation leaving a wet ring on the worn wood. "Then why did you invite me?"
The question hung between them, blunt and graceless—classic Ethan Bennett, unable to dance around a topic when direct confrontation felt safer. He braced himself for deflection, for another layer of cryptic wordplay designed to keep him off-balance.
Instead, Erica shrugged. The gesture was surprisingly casual, almost human. "Why not?"
"That's not an answer."
"It's the truest answer I can give you." She traced a finger around the rim of her glass, those mismatched eyes watching the movement rather than his face. "I enjoyed talking with you at the museum. You were... unexpected. Most people bore me within thirty seconds. You managed nearly an 10 minutes before I wanted to walk away."
"10 minutes of insulting my hair and calling me a wounded puppy."
"And yet you came back for more." Erica leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on her interlaced fingers. "Tell me, Ethan—do you always let strange women insult you into submission, or am I just special?"
Ethan took another sip of his beer, letting the complex flavors settle on his tongue before responding. Something had shifted in him since sitting down—maybe it was the warmth of the bar, or the surprisingly good beer, or simply the exhaustion of maintaining his defenses for too long. Whatever the cause, her barb landed without its usual sting.
"You're definitely something," he said evenly. "I'm just not sure 'special' is the word I'd use."
Erica's eyebrows shot up. For a fraction of a second, genuine surprise flickered across her features before that knowing smile reasserted itself. "Oh, he has teeth after all. I was beginning to wonder if you'd had them removed."
"They were there the whole time. I just don't waste them on obvious bait."
"Obvious bait?" Erica pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. "I'll have you know my bait is extremely sophisticated. Generations of philosophers have fallen for it."
"Then I guess I'm not sophisticated enough to notice."
She tried again, commenting on the way he held his beer glass—"like you're afraid it might bite you"—and then on his posture—"do you always sit like you're waiting for a job interview, or is this a special occasion?" Each jab was delivered with that same predatory gleam in her mismatched eyes, clearly expecting him to flush and stammer the way he had at the museum.
Ethan simply shrugged. Took another sip of the exceptional beer. Let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable for someone other than him for once.
Erica's laugh, when it came, was different from before—less calculated, more genuine. It burst out of her like she couldn't quite contain it, her head tipping back and those impossible eyes crinkling at the corners.
"You're learning," she said, something like approval warming her voice. "I knew there was something interesting buried under all that anxiety."
"I'm not anxious."
"You're always anxious. But you're getting better at hiding it." She raised her glass in a small salute. "Color me impressed, Ethan Bennett."
He found himself relaxing into the worn leather of the booth, the tension that had coiled in his shoulders since arriving slowly unwinding. The beer helped—Niki's mysterious concoction seemed to smooth the rough edges of his social anxiety without dulling his mind. By the time he'd finished his first glass, a second had appeared as if by magic, and Erica had somehow coaxed him into talking about things he never discussed with anyone.
"Wait, wait." Erica held up a hand, her silver and gold eyes bright with amusement. "You're telling me you once got lost in the Natural History Museum for six hours because you refused to ask for directions?"
"I wasn't lost," Ethan protested, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "I was... exploring alternative routes."
"You were eight years old and crying in the Hall of African Mammals."
"I was not crying. My eyes were watering from the dust."
"In a climate-controlled museum."
"It was a very dusty elephant."
Erica's laugh rang out again, that genuine sound that seemed to transform her entire face from predatory to almost approachable. She'd shifted positions over the past hour, tucking her legs beneath her on the booth seat, her crimson scarf now draped over the back of the bench. The candlelight caught the movement in her eyes—those swirling flecks that had to be some kind of specialty contact lenses, no matter how real they looked.
"Your turn," Ethan said, emboldened by the beer and the strange ease that had settled between them. "Most embarrassing childhood memory. Fair's fair."
"Bold of you to assume I was ever a child."
"Everyone was a child."
Something flickered across her features—there and gone so fast he might have imagined it. "Fine. When I was young, I once started a fight at a party that got... significantly out of hand."
"How out of hand?"
"Let's just say it took a very long time to clean up the mess." She took a long drink of her beer, and Ethan got the distinct impression she was leaving out significant details. "Wars have been started over less."
"That's not embarrassing, that's just concerning."
"The embarrassing part is that I started it over something incredibly petty." Her asymmetrical smile turned self-deprecating. "A beauty contest, if you can believe it. I wasn't even invited to judge."
Ethan snorted. "You started a fight because you weren't invited to judge a beauty contest?"
"I have strong opinions about aesthetics."
"Clearly."
The hours slipped past like water through fingers. Niki appeared periodically with fresh drinks and small plates of food—crusty bread with honey butter, sharp cheese that crumbled on the tongue, olives that burst with brine and herbs. Each time, she'd exchange a few words with Erica in that tone of fond exasperation, and each time, Ethan noticed the way the two women seemed to communicate in layers he couldn't quite parse.
He learned that Erica traveled constantly, though she was vague about where and why. That she had a weakness for pomegranates and a hatred of anything she deemed "boringly orderly." That she'd once spent three months living in a monastery just to see if she could stand the routine, and had lasted exactly four days before causing what she called "a minor theological incident."
"Define minor," Ethan pressed.
"No one died."
"That's a very low bar."
"You'd be surprised how often that bar goes unmet."
In turn, he found himself sharing things he'd never told anyone—not his dissertation advisor, not his handful of acquaintances, not even his parents during their monthly obligation calls. He told her about the panic attacks that had started in high school and never quite stopped. About the way crowds made his skin crawl and his vision narrow. About the elaborate rituals he'd developed to manage his anxiety—the counting, the breathing exercises, the careful avoidance of anything that might trigger a spiral.
"That's why you like the research library," Erica said, and it wasn't a question. "The quiet. The control."
"It's predictable." The word came out defensive, but she didn't mock him for it.
"Predictability has its uses." She swirled the dregs of her beer, watching the liquid catch the light. "Though I've always found it terribly dull."
"Not everyone thrives on chaos."
"No." Her mismatched eyes found his, and something in her expression shifted—softer, almost contemplative. "But sometimes chaos is exactly what someone needs to shake them loose from a life that's slowly suffocating them."
The words landed somewhere in his chest, uncomfortable in their accuracy. He thought about his apartment, with its carefully organized bookshelves and its predictable routines. His dissertation, with its endless revisions and its diminishing returns. The way each day blurred into the next, indistinguishable, safe, utterly devoid of anything that might qualify as living.
"Maybe," he admitted quietly. "But chaos is terrifying."
"The best things usually are."
The candle between them had burned low, its flame guttering in a pool of melted wax. Around them, the bar had emptied gradually—the couples departing hand in hand, the group of friends stumbling toward the exit with promises to do this again soon, the old man at the bar finally closing his book and shuffling into the night. Even the guitarist had packed up his instrument, leaving only the soft murmur of conversation from the few remaining patrons.
Ethan checked his phone and blinked at the time. Nearly 3am. He'd been here for hours.
"I should probably..." He gestured vaguely toward the door, the words feeling inadequate after everything they'd shared.
"Probably head home?" Erica finished for him, already sliding out of the booth with that fluid grace he'd noticed at the museum. "I'll walk you."
Ethan blinked, his beer-fogged brain struggling to process the offer. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." She retrieved her crimson scarf from the back of the booth, wrapping it around her neck with practiced ease. "But you've had quite a bit to drink, and I'd hate for you to wander into traffic or fall down a subway grate. Think of it as protecting my investment."
"Your investment?"
"I've spent several hours getting to know you, Ethan Bennett. It would be a waste if you got flattened by a taxi before I had a chance to see how this plays out."
He wanted to argue—to point out that he was perfectly capable of navigating the city on his own, that he'd been doing it for years, that he didn't need a babysitter. But when he stood, the floor tilted slightly beneath his feet, and he had to grip the edge of the table to steady himself.
Okay. Maybe she had a point about the drinking.
"Fine," he conceded, reaching for his jacket. "But I live in the East Village. That's probably out of your way."
"I don't have a way." She was already moving toward the door, clearly expecting him to follow. "That's the beauty of not having anywhere to be."
Ethan fumbled with his jacket, his fingers clumsy on the buttons. The warmth of the bar had lulled him into a false sense of sobriety, but now that he was standing, he could feel the alcohol humming through his system—not drunk, exactly, but definitely impaired. His thoughts moved slower than usual, wrapped in cotton.
He caught Niki's eye as they passed the bar. She was polishing a copper mug, watching them with an expression he couldn't quite read. She raised her hand in a small wave, and Ethan found himself waving back before his brain caught up with the gesture.
"Thanks for the beer," he called out. "It was—"
"Come back anytime, Ethan Bennett." Her voice carried across the nearly empty room. "My door is always open."
The cold hit him like a slap the moment they stepped outside. His breath crystallized in the air, and he shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, hunching his shoulders against the chill. The snow had stopped falling, but a thin layer of white covered the cobblestones, muffling their footsteps as they walked.
"Which way?" Erica asked, seemingly unbothered by the temperature despite her silk blouse.
"East on Houston, then up First Avenue." The familiar route unspooled in his mind, a path he'd walked hundreds of times. "It's about a twenty-minute walk."
"Then we'd better get moving before you freeze to death."
They fell into step together, navigating the quiet streets of the Village. At this hour, the neighborhood had transformed—the daytime bustle replaced by a hushed stillness broken only by the occasional passing car or the distant wail of a siren. Storefronts sat dark behind their metal gates, and the few people they passed moved with the purposeful stride of night owls heading home.
Ethan found himself hyperaware of Erica's presence beside him. The click of her heels on the pavement. The way her scarf fluttered in the slight breeze. The strange warmth that seemed to radiate from her despite the cold, close enough that he could almost feel it through his jacket sleeve.
"You're staring," she said without looking at him.
"I'm not—" He looked away quickly, heat flooding his cheeks despite the frigid air. "I was just thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
"So I've been told."
They walked in silence for a block, then two. It should have been awkward—Ethan's entire existence was a masterclass in awkward silences—but somehow it wasn't. The quiet felt companionable, like they'd known each other for years instead of hours.
His apartment building materialized out of the darkness sooner than he expected—a narrow brick structure wedged between a laundromat and a bodega that never seemed to close. Ethan fumbled for his keys, his cold-numbed fingers struggling with the lock.
"This is me," he said, finally managing to get the door open. "Thanks for walking me back. You didn't have to—"
Erica slipped past him before he could finish the sentence, her shoulder brushing his chest as she stepped into the cramped vestibule. "Which floor?"
"I—what?" He stood frozen in the doorway, cold air rushing past him into the building. "You can't just—"
"Fourth floor? Fifth?" She was already heading toward the stairs, those heels clicking against the worn tile. "I'm guessing no elevator in a building this old."
"Third," he heard himself say, his feet moving to follow her despite every rational thought screaming that this was a terrible idea. "Apartment 3B. But you really don't need to—"
"I really do." She glanced back over her shoulder, those mismatched eyes gleaming in the dim light of the stairwell. "You can barely walk in a straight line, Ethan. I'm not leaving until I'm sure you've made it safely inside."
The climb to the third floor felt longer than usual, each step requiring more concentration than it should have. By the time they reached his door, Ethan was slightly winded and deeply confused about how he'd lost control of the situation so completely.
He unlocked the apartment and pushed the door open, flicking on the light switch out of habit.
Erica walked in like she owned the place.
His apartment was small—barely five hundred square feet of living space carved out of what had probably once been a much larger unit. The main room served as both living area and bedroom, his full-sized bed pushed against the far wall beneath a window that looked out on a brick airshaft. A worn leather couch faced a television he rarely turned on, and a coffee table buried under academic journals and half-empty coffee mugs occupied the space between them.
The kitchenette was laughably tiny—a two-burner stove, a mini-fridge, and approximately eighteen inches of counter space that currently held a toaster, a coffee maker, and a precarious stack of takeout containers he kept meaning to throw away.
But the bookshelves—those were the room's defining feature. They covered every available wall surface, floor to ceiling, stuffed with volumes organized by subject in a system that made perfect sense to him and probably no one else. History texts mingled with philosophy, which gave way to fiction, which somehow transitioned into a small but respectable collection of graphic novels he'd never admitted to owning.
"Cozy," Erica said, and somehow the word didn't sound like mockery. She was already unwinding her scarf, draping it over the back of his desk chair like she'd done it a hundred times before.
"It's small," Ethan said defensively, closing the door behind him. "But the rent's reasonable and it's close to the subway—"
"I said cozy, not cramped." She ran her fingers along the spine of a book—something about colonial trade routes, he thought—before moving deeper into the space. "You can tell a lot about a person by their living space. Yours says you value knowledge over comfort, solitude over spectacle, and you haven't had a guest in approximately..." She paused, examining a thin layer of dust on his windowsill. "Six months? No, longer. A year, maybe."
"I have people over," he protested weakly.
"Your mother doesn't count."
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She wasn't wrong.
Erica had made her way to the kitchenette, opening his refrigerator with casual familiarity. The light illuminated her face as she surveyed the meager contents—a half-empty carton of orange juice, some questionable leftover Thai food, a block of cheese that had seen better days.
"You eat like a college student," she observed, closing the fridge. "When's the last time you had an actual meal? Something that didn't come in a paper bag or a styrofoam container?"
"I had bread and cheese at the bar."
"That doesn't count and you know it."
Ethan moved toward the kitchenette, trying to salvage something from this increasingly surreal situation. His apartment felt smaller with her in it, the walls pressing closer. "I could make tea. Or coffee. Do you want—"
Erica turned to face him, and the look in those mismatched eyes stopped him mid-sentence. The amusement had drained from her expression, replaced by something that made his heart kick against his ribs.
"Do you really not know what's going on here?" she asked.
He blinked. His brain, fogged by beer and exhaustion and the sheer impossibility of the past several hours, struggled to process the question. What was going on? She'd walked him home. Made sure he got inside safely. Now she was in his apartment, criticizing his eating habits and—
"I..." The words dried up in his throat.
She took a step toward him. Then another. The space between them collapsed to nothing.
"Fine," she said, and that asymmetrical smile curved her lips. "I'll lead."
Her mouth was on his before his mind could catch up with what was happening.
The kiss hit him like a freight train—sudden, overwhelming, completely outside the realm of his experience. Her lips were softer than he'd expected, warmer, moving against his with a confidence that made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing while he floundered in complete sensory overload.
His hands remained limp at his sides, as if weighed down by the gravity of the moment, while his entire being was paralyzed in disbelief. This was surreal. It defied all reason. Women like Erica—confident, radiant, and effortlessly alluring—didn't kiss men like him in the confines of a tiny East Village apartment at this ungodly hour.
Except she was.
Her fingers tangled in his hair—the hair she'd mocked earlier—and she pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. The taste of her flooded his senses: pomegranate and something else, something ancient and indefinable that made his head spin. She smelled like that strange perfume from the museum, but stronger now, intoxicating.
His hands finally moved, rising tentatively to her waist. The silk of her blouse was impossibly smooth beneath his palms, and he could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. Real. She was real.
Erica made a sound low in her throat—approval, maybe, or amusement at his hesitation—and pressed closer. Her body aligned with his, curves fitting against angles in a way that sent electricity sparking down his spine.
Ethan's back hit something solid. The wall, his brain supplied dimly. She'd walked him backward without him noticing, and now he was pinned between the plaster and her presence, completely at her mercy.
She broke the kiss just long enough to look at him, those impossible eyes searching his face. "Still with me?"
"I—yes. I think. Maybe?" The words tumbled out, graceless and honest. His heart was trying to hammer its way out of his chest. "I don't—this doesn't—"
"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips, and the touch sent another jolt through his system. "You think too much."
Then she was kissing him again, and thinking became impossible.
Her hands moved with purpose, sliding from his hair to his shoulders, down his chest to the buttons of his carefully ironed shirt. She worked them open with practiced ease, never breaking the kiss, and Ethan felt the cool air of his apartment against his skin as the fabric parted.
Some distant part of his brain screamed that this was moving too fast, that he barely knew her, that there had to be a catch. But that voice was drowned out by the overwhelming reality of her mouth on his, her hands on his skin, the way she seemed to know exactly where to touch to make his breath catch.
His own hands grew bolder, sliding around to the small of her back, pulling her closer. She made that sound again, and this time he was certain it was approval. The knowledge that he was doing something right—that he wasn't completely fumbling this—sent a surge of confidence through him.
Erica's lips left his, tracing a path along his jaw to his ear. Her breath was hot against his skin when she whispered, "Bedroom."
It wasn't a question.
Ethan's apartment suddenly felt impossibly small as he took her hand—when had she taken his hand?—and led her the few steps to where his bed sat beneath the narrow window. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he wondered if she could hear it. His fingers trembled as they intertwined with hers, and the silk-warmth of her skin made his head spin more than the alcohol had.
The bed frame creaked when she pushed him down onto the mattress. She stood over him for a moment, backlit by the dim light from the kitchenette, and that asymmetrical smile curved her lips. Her mismatched eyes gleamed—gold and silver swirling in ways that had to be tricks of shadow and exhaustion, had to be.
"Still thinking too much," she murmured, then straddled his lap in one fluid movement.
Ethan's breath caught. The weight of her, the heat of her thighs pressing against his—his brain short-circuited, reduced to pure sensation. Her hands found his chest, palms flat against his skin, and she pushed the shirt off his shoulders. He shrugged out of it clumsily, his coordination abandoning him.
Erica's fingers traced patterns across his chest, following the slight definition of muscle beneath skin. Each touch sent sparks skittering through his nervous system. When her nails dragged lightly over his ribs, he couldn't suppress the sharp intake of breath.
"Sensitive," she observed, and the satisfaction in her voice made something clench low in his stomach.
His hands found her waist again, gripping the silk of her blouse. She leaned back slightly, giving him space, permission. The fabric was impossibly smooth under his fingers as he worked at the buttons—there were so many buttons, tiny things that seemed designed to frustrate—but she didn't rush him. Just watched with those impossible eyes as he fumbled his way through the task.
The blouse fell open. She shrugged it off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor beside the bed.
Ethan forgot how to breathe.
She wore nothing underneath. The dim light painted her skin in shades of gold and shadow, highlighting curves and planes that seemed almost sculptural. Her breasts were full and high, nipples already tight in the cool air of his apartment. But it was the rest of her that made his fingers tighten reflexively on her waist.
Her skin was flawless—not in the airbrushed way of magazines, but in a way that seemed almost unreal. Smooth and unmarked except for what looked like very faint scars scattered across her torso, so light they were barely visible. They formed no pattern he could discern, just random marks that somehow made her seem more real rather than less.
Her body was lean and strong, with the kind of muscle definition that came from movement rather than gym routines. Her waist curved in sharply before flaring to hips that pressed against his thighs.
"See something you like?" The amusement in her voice snapped him out of his staring.
"I—yes. Obviously." The words came out strangled. His hands had moved of their own accord, sliding up her sides, and when his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts she made that low sound again.
She leaned forward, bringing her mouth back to his, and her bare skin pressed against his chest. The sensation was overwhelming—soft and warm and so completely outside his experience that his mind struggled to catalogue it all. Her hands worked at his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet apartment.
He broke the kiss long enough to help her, his fingers tangling with hers as they worked together to get his jeans off. The process was awkward and graceless, requiring her to shift off his lap while they both fumbled with denim and zippers and the logistics of undressing on a bed barely wide enough for one person, let alone two.
When they were both finally naked, she pushed him back down onto the mattress and straddled him again.
Ethan's vision narrowed to her—the sweep of her collarbone, the way her midnight hair fell forward to frame her face, the play of muscle beneath skin as she moved. Her thighs pressed against his hips, and he could feel the heat of her, the slick warmth that made his breath stutter.
"Still with me?" she asked again, echoing her question from minutes or hours ago—time had lost all meaning.
"Yes." The word came out hoarse. His hands found her hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks. "I'm—definitely yes."
Her laugh was breathless this time, less controlled. She rolled her hips experimentally, and the friction sent white-hot pleasure sparking up his spine. His fingers tightened reflexively.
"Good," she whispered, leaning down until her lips brushed his ear. "Because I'm just getting started."
Her hand slid between their bodies, fingers wrapping around his cock with a confidence that made his hips jerk involuntarily. The sensation of her palm—warm, slightly calloused, impossibly sure—sent every thought scattering like startled birds.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word punched out of him.
Erica's smile turned wicked. She stroked him slowly, her grip firm but not tight, and his vision blurred at the edges. He'd touched himself countless times—mechanical release, a bodily function to manage like any other—but this was completely different. Her hand moved with deliberate intent, learning the shape and weight of him, adjusting her grip based on the sounds he couldn't suppress.
"So responsive," she murmured, her thumb sweeping over the head of his cock. The slickness there made the movement obscenely smooth. "I wonder how long you'll last."
The words should have embarrassed him—probably would have, in any other context—but his brain had abandoned higher functions. He could only feel: her thighs bracketing his hips, the weight of her breasts swaying slightly with each stroke, the maddening friction of her hand.
She shifted her angle, and suddenly her pussy pressed against the base of his cock as her hand worked the length. The heat of her was overwhelming, slick and ready, and the realization that she wanted this—wanted him—sent something molten pooling in his gut.
His hands tightened on her hips hard enough that some distant corner of his mind worried about bruising, but she made that low sound of approval again. Her free hand braced against his chest, nails dragging lightly over his skin.
"Please," he heard himself say, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was begging for.
"Please what?" She increased her pace slightly, her grip tightening just enough to make his breath hitch. "Use your words, Ethan."
But words had abandoned him entirely. His hips moved of their own accord, thrusting up into her hand, and she laughed—that breathless sound that seemed to vibrate through his entire body.
"Impatient." She released him suddenly, and the loss of contact made him groan in protest. "I like that."
She rose up on her knees, and Ethan watched through haze as she positioned herself above him. Her hand wrapped around his cock again, angling it, and then the head pressed against her entrance. The heat was impossible, the slickness making his vision white out at the edges.
"Look at me," she commanded, and his eyes snapped to hers—gold and silver swirling in patterns that definitely weren't natural, couldn't be natural, but he was beyond caring about the impossibility of her.
She sank down slowly, taking him inch by excruciating inch. The sensation was so intense it bordered on painful—tight and wet and hot enough that his fingers dug crescents into her hips. Her mouth fell open slightly, and he watched her face transform as she took him deeper.
When she was fully seated, they both froze. Ethan's entire body trembled with the effort of not moving, not thrusting up into that perfect heat. His lungs forgot how to function properly. Every nerve ending screamed for friction, for movement, for anything.
Erica's hands pressed flat against his chest, steadying herself. Her breathing had quickened, and he felt the flutter of her pulse where their bodies joined. For a moment—just a moment—that predatory confidence slipped, and she looked almost vulnerable.
Then she moved.
The roll of her hips was fluid and deliberate, lifting until he nearly slipped out before sinking back down. Ethan's head fell back against the pillow, a broken sound tearing from his throat. Nothing in his limited experience had prepared him for this—for the slide of her body against his, for the way she seemed to know exactly how to move to make pleasure spark up his spine.
She set a rhythm that was torturously slow at first, each movement precise and controlled. Her muscles flexed with the effort, and Ethan couldn't look away from where their bodies joined, from the obscene sight of his cock disappearing into her again and again.
"Touch me," she demanded, and his hands moved before his brain processed the command.
He slid his palms up her sides to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over tight nipples. She made that sound again—the one that told him he was doing something right—and her rhythm faltered slightly. The knowledge that he could affect her, could make her lose some of that iron control, sent a surge of something that might have been confidence through him.
He pinched lightly, experimentally, and her pussy clenched around him in response. The sensation nearly undid him.
"Harder," she breathed, and he complied, rolling her nipples between his fingers with more pressure. Her pace increased, the slow roll becoming something more urgent, more desperate.
The sound of skin against skin filled his tiny apartment, punctuated by their harsh breathing and the occasional broken moan he couldn't suppress. The bed frame creaked in protest with each movement, the headboard tapping against the wall in a rhythm that would definitely earn him complaints from his neighbors.
He couldn't bring himself to care.
Erica leaned forward, changing the angle, and suddenly he was hitting something inside her that made her gasp. Her nails dug into his chest, leaving red trails that would mark him tomorrow. The slight pain only heightened everything else.
"There," she panted, grinding down against him. "Right there—don't stop—"
Ethan thrust up to meet her movements, finally finding some coordination despite the pleasure threatening to overwhelm him. His hands slid to her hips again, helping to guide her, pulling her down harder with each stroke.
The pressure building at the base of his spine was becoming impossible to ignore. Too fast—this was happening too fast—but he didn't care.
"Tell me how it feels." Her voice came out ragged, breathless in a way he'd never heard before. She rode him harder, her movements becoming less controlled, more desperate. "I want to hear you say it."
Ethan's mind scrambled for words, for anything coherent, but all he could manage was a strangled groan as she ground down against him. Her pussy clenched around his cock, tight and wet and impossibly hot.
"Use your words," she demanded, her nails digging harder into his chest. The pain sparked through him, mixing with the pleasure until he couldn't separate the two. "Tell me what I'm doing to you."
"I can't—fuck—" The profanity tore from him, graceless and raw. His hips bucked up involuntarily, meeting her downward thrust, and the angle made stars explode behind his eyelids. "You feel—God, you feel incredible—"
"More." She leaned forward, her breasts swaying with each movement, close enough that he could feel her breath hot against his face. "Tell me more."
His hands slid from her hips to grip her ass, pulling her down harder with each stroke. The obscene slap of their bodies echoed through the small apartment, mingling with their harsh breathing. "So tight," he gasped out. "So fucking tight and wet and I can't—I don't know how much longer—"
"Don't you dare come yet." Her command cut through the haze, sharp and absolute. She rolled her hips in a deliberate circle that made his vision blur. "Not until I tell you to."
The words should have been impossible to obey—the pressure coiling at the base of his spine was already threatening to overwhelm him—but something in her tone made him grit his teeth and hold on. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass hard enough to leave marks.
"That's it," she purred, increasing her pace. The bed frame slammed against the wall now, a steady rhythm that would definitely wake his neighbors. "Tell me what you want to do to me."
"I want—" His brain stuttered, caught between mortification and desperate need. He'd never talked during sex before—had barely had enough sex to develop any preferences—but she was looking at him with those impossible eyes, demanding more, and the words spilled out before he could stop them. "I want to make you come. Want to feel you—feel you lose control—"
Her laugh was breathless and surprised. "Ambitious." She ground down against him, changing the angle again, and the pressure against that spot inside her made her gasp. "But I like—fuck—I like ambitious."
Hearing her curse, hearing that iron control crack, sent a bolt of satisfaction through him that had nothing to do with physical pleasure. He thrust up harder, chasing that reaction, desperate to hear it again.
She bit down on his earlobe, hard enough to make him gasp, and her pussy clenched around him in response. The dual sensation nearly shattered what little control he had left.
"Tell me you're close," she demanded, sitting back up and riding him with renewed urgency. Her hand slid down her own body, fingers finding her clit. "Tell me you're about to fall apart for me."
"So close," he admitted, the words barely coherent. His entire body trembled with the effort of holding back. "Please—I can't—"
"Not yet." Her fingers moved in tight circles, her breathing growing ragged. "Not until—fuck—not until I—"
He watched her face transform as her orgasm hit. Her mouth fell open, her back arched, and her pussy clamped down around him so tight it bordered on painful. The sight of her losing control, the feeling of her coming apart while riding his cock, shattered the last of his restraint.
"Now," she gasped out. "Come for me now—"
The permission was all he needed. His orgasm slammed through him with enough force to make his vision white out completely. His hips jerked up involuntarily, driving deeper as he spilled inside her, and distantly he heard himself making sounds he'd never made before—broken and desperate and completely beyond his control.
She kept moving through it, drawing out every last aftershock until he was gasping and oversensitive and completely wrung out.
When she finally stilled, they were both breathing hard. Sweat slicked their skin where their bodies pressed together. Ethan's hands had loosened their grip on her ass, sliding up to rest on her lower back instead.
Erica looked down at him, and that smile curved her lips. Her hair was disheveled, her cheeks flushed, and something in her expression had softened.
She eased herself down onto his chest, her weight settling over him like a warm blanket. The scent of pomegranate and sex and something indefinable filled his senses as she tucked her head beneath his chin. Her breath ghosted across his collarbone in steady rhythm.
Ethan's arms wrapped around her automatically, one hand splayed across her back, the other tangling in her midnight hair. The strands were softer than he'd expected, sliding like silk between his fingers. His body felt heavy, wrung out, every muscle loose in a way he hadn't experienced in years. Maybe ever.
His eyelids dragged closed. He tried to fight it—there were things he should probably say, questions he should ask, some acknowledgment of what had just happened—but exhaustion pulled at him with impossible weight. The beer, the late hour, the overwhelming intensity of the past several hours all crashed down on him at once.
Erica's breathing had already evened out against his chest. Or maybe she was just pretending. He couldn't tell.
The thought drifted away before he could grasp it fully. Sleep took him under like a wave.
—
Morning light stabbed through his eyelids, insistent and unwelcome.
Ethan groaned, rolling away from the window. His body protested the movement—muscles he hadn't known he possessed ached in ways that brought the previous night flooding back in vivid detail. Heat crawled up his neck as fragments of memory assembled themselves: Erica's mouth on his, her hands on his skin, the sounds she'd made when she—
He forced his eyes open, squinting against the brightness.
The bed was empty.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, scanning his tiny apartment. No sign of the purple silk blouse. No crimson scarf draped over his desk chair. The bathroom door stood open, revealing nothing but his own cluttered counter and the perpetually broken tile he kept meaning to fix.
"Erica?"
His voice came out rough with sleep and something else—something that tightened uncomfortably in his chest when only silence answered.
She was gone.
Of course she was gone. What had he expected? That she'd stayed to make him breakfast? That she'd be curled up beside him, ready to discuss what this meant over coffee and awkward morning-after conversation?
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor. The chill worked its way up through his bones, clearing some of the fog from his brain. His clothes from last night lay scattered across the floor—his jeans in a heap near the foot of the bed, his carefully ironed shirt crumpled against the wall where she'd tossed it.
No note. No explanation. Just the evidence of what had happened and the hollow ache of her absence.
Ethan scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to organize his thoughts into something resembling coherence. This was fine. This was normal, probably. People had one-night stands all the time without expecting anything more. The fact that he had no experience with this particular social ritual didn't change the basic mechanics of it.
She'd gotten what she wanted. So had he, technically. That should be enough.
So why did his apartment feel emptier than it ever had before?
He stood, wincing as his body reminded him of activities it wasn't accustomed to, and reached for his discarded jeans. His phone had fallen out of the pocket at some point—the screen showed 9:47 AM and a handful of missed notifications he didn't care about.
The research library. He was supposed to be at the research library. His dissertation proposal wasn't going to write itself, and he'd already wasted too much time on—
His foot connected with something that skittered across the floor with a soft sound.
He looked down.
An apple sat near his desk, perfectly positioned as if someone had placed it there with deliberate care. Deep yellow skin, unblemished, the kind of fruit that looked too perfect to be real. A piece of paper was folded beneath it.
Ethan's heart did something complicated in his chest. He crossed the small space and picked up the note, his fingers trembling slightly as he unfolded it.
A gift, to remind you to always appreciate the discord in your life.
—E
It was weird thing to give to a person after a one night stand but Erica was a weird girl. Don't know where she got the apple though. Did she leave buy it and come back.
The apple sat in his palm, heavier than it should be. It looked ordinary—just fruit, the kind he could buy at any bodega for a dollar. But something about it felt wrong in a way he couldn't articulate. The skin was too smooth, the color too vivid, and when he turned it over he found no stem, no leaf, no blemish whatsoever.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he'd skipped dinner last night in favor of beer and bar snacks. The apple gleamed in the morning light streaming through his window.
Just an apple. A weird parting gift from a weird woman who'd upended his entire worldview in the span of twelve hours. Nothing more.
He bit into it before he could talk himself out of it.