mary @hyuugasmary - Tumblr Blog

blind date

☕︎ summary: First dates are awkward enough, especially when you’ve never laid eyes on the person before. But things only get worse when, on top of being stood up, you make the dreadful mistake of agreeing to a blind date and find yourself in a roadside diner with a complete stranger. Yet, somehow, this unexpected collision turns out to be the cure neither of you knew you needed.

☕︎ warnings: 18+ content, mdni. smoking, smut, angst, mention of death.

notes: Hi, wow… this is my first time posting here, and I’m a little embarrassed. English isn’t my first language, so I’m not sure if anything will make sense, but any suggestions would be truly appreciated!

☕︎ ......

[LA, 1987]

The light filtered in through the apartment's shutters, casting pale streaks across the worn carpet. The afternoon heat was heavy, still, and seemed trapped within the narrow walls of my private little world. I was sitting on the living room floor, my back against the sofa, a Siouxsie and the Banshees record spinning lazily on the record player, the B—side of Tinderbox, if I remember correctly. The sound was low, almost whispering, as if it respected my decision to simply not exist for a few hours.

On the coffee table, a glass of iced tea with lemon, a full ashtray, and an open book that I hadn't read for half an hour. The words danced across the page, but they didn't tell me anything. I already knew that feeling: the world outside was pulsating, cars crossing Sunset, people sweating on the sidewalk, parties hidden by closed curtains, and the sound of some dirty band rehearsing in the garage of the building next door, but inside me, everything was mute. And I confess: I preferred it that way.

I worked in a small underground book publishing house, proofreading and writing synopses for novels that hardly anyone read. I liked what I did, although sometimes I felt as if I was condemned to exist only among other people's words. That was enough for me. It protected me. I wasn't alone by chance, but by decision.

The doorbell rang at three dry beats. There was no delivery, nobody rang like that.

I sighed, got up without hurrying, dragged my bare feet across the carpet, and before I even opened the door, I knew who it was.

Erin. Always her.

— Open the fuck up, it's hot out here! — She shouted from the hallway in that high—pitched voice, a mixture of urgency and laughter.

I turned the doorknob and there she was: frayed denim shorts, a white tank top under a plaid jacket, huge sunglasses even though it was late afternoon, a lit cigarette in her hand, and a brown paper bag in the other.

— Look at you... just like last time. Are you taking root in the carpet? — he said, pushing the door open with his shoulder and entering without asking.

I closed the door without answering, and Erin walked across the room as if she lived there. She dumped her bag on the table, pulled the record out of the record player, and, without hesitation, slipped an Echo & the Bunnymen tape into the recorder.

— That's good. That's it. That record gives me the creeps. That woman sounds like she's going to come out of the radio and eat my soul.

— That's good. I like that. — I replied dryly, returning to the sofa.

She laughed, throwing herself down beside me with her legs crossed, opening the paper bag with the care of a child keeping a secret. She took out two cans of warm beer, a half—melted chocolate bar, and a pack of chewing gum.

— You live like a mad nun. That's almost poetic.

— I live in peace. That's more than most.

— Peace... — she repeated, opening the can with a snap. — Do you call this isolation peace? Because to me it just seems like fear.

— Fear of what?

She leaned forward, looking at me over her shoulder. Her eyes behind her sunglasses were intense, even if I couldn't see them.

— Afraid of trying again. Fear of going wrong. Fear of falling in love and fucking up. All of it. You know that. And you know what? I understand. But... — she stopped, took a sip of her beer, and let out the most performative sigh I've ever seen.

— But? — I asked, without raising my eyes from the unattractive can she had thrust into my hands. Warm beer? Ew.

— But I didn't come here just to tease you. I came to save you from yourself. Get ready, my faded angel. You have a date tonight.

— What? — I laughed, but it was a dry, automatic, almost defensive laugh. — Fuck off.

— No, it's serious. I made the appointment. It's at the Rainbow. Ten in the evening. He'll be there. Black T—shirt, leather jacket, messy hair. His name is... Bob? Brad? I don't know exactly, but it starts with B.

— Are you kidding me? — I grumble in disbelief.

— I'm too sober to joke, unfortunately. He's a friend of Axl's, we bumped into last week. The quiet, dark, kind of ironic type. He told me he was tired of "desperate bitches" and groupies with smudged lipstick. I said, "I've got the right person."

— You don't have that right, — I said, trying to sound firm, but my voice came out thin. — I didn't ask for it.

— And you think life expects you to ask for something? — She retorted, now more serious. — I made the appointment. He'll be there. If you don't go, he'll think I made you up. And maybe I did, because the version you're showing me is disappearing more and more every day.

The room fell silent. Only the low music filled the space between us. Erin finished her beer and lit another cigarette, and I stood there, staring ahead, at a crack in the wall that I always promised to fix. My mind was in a whirl, damn it, I just wanted my day off in peace, I didn't even intend to go out to buy bread, these days, in one phone call, the pizza is at your house, is there anything more innovative than that?

But I can't pretend that part of me isn't incredibly intrigued by the idea of going out and meeting someone new. If Erin met him and pointed him out to me, I have no doubt he must be cute, but if he's hanging out with that lunatic boyfriend of hers, he must at the very least be part of some sleazy band, which isn't appealing to me at the moment.

Narcissistic musicians full of promises is what I've seen enough of, damn it, twenty—five years and I don't want any more one—night stands.

— What if I go... and it sucks?

— Then you get up, turn around, and leave. But if it's good, if it's different, if it's what you didn't know you needed... then maybe you'll finally understand that you weren't born to live in this emotional bunker for the rest of your life.

She stood up, shook her hands as if she had solved the world's problem, and walked to the door. Before leaving, she turned to me with a slight, almost sad smile.

— You don't have to fall in love. Just go. Just let someone look at you for one night. That would be a start.

And then she left, leaving a trail of her cigarette in the air and a nagging expectation growing in the pit of my stomach.

I sat there for longer than I'd like to admit, maybe an hour, maybe the whole afternoon, time lost its name as soon as the door closed behind Erin. She left the way she came in: in a hurry, without explaining herself, like a bolt of lightning that passes through the room and leaves a trail in the air, even after the silence has taken over.

The tape had stopped a long time ago. The squeak at the end of side B looped uselessly, the empty sound of something that had already passed, the record was still spinning. And I was still there, sitting on the living room floor, elbows on my knees, staring at the half—open cupboard as if it were threatening me. As if to say: "Are you going to face it or are you going to hide once again?"

What a habit I have of pinning accusations on inanimate objects.

The cupboard, at that moment, was more than wood and hinges; it was an inverted mirror. A reflection of all the nights I didn't live, all the bodies I didn't touch, all the glances I looked away from. I got up with an almost ceremonial slowness, the body went, the mind stayed.

It was always like that. The mind lagged, clinging to the last justifications, the old internal speeches that start with "what's the point?" and end with "never mind".

I walked to the bedroom like someone crossing a minefield, my steps heavy, my breathing contained, as if the ground was going to open up.

Am I crazy?

I turned on the lamp on the dresser, the yellowish light didn't welcome me, it only exposed me. It joined the dimness of the room and cast a strange shadow in the mirror, a shadow of me.

I approached slowly and stopped in front of the glass.

I looked at myself like someone looking at an old portrait. The tired face, the messy hair, the baggy blouse. Nothing there said "desire", nothing there said "hope", it was just... me. Raw, so tired of routine, life passed me by like a truck.

Saturday night. Los Angeles is boiling under the neon. And I was trying to get dressed for a date I didn't ask for.

I opened the closet and ran my fingers through the hanging clothes, not interested; it wasn't the kind of night for anything too cheerful. The basic jeans, the Talking Heads T—shirt, it all seemed too banal. And I didn't want to look banal. I wanted to look impenetrable. Not desirable. Just... invulnerable.

In the end, I chose the black vinyl skirt, which I bought on impulse in a second—hand store in Echo Park, tight, a little too short, with the side zipper stuck, a garment that gave me the feeling of being braver than I was. I matched it with a long—sleeved black blouse, made of thin fabric that clung to the body, with a slight transparency that only showed in the right light, underneath, a dark bra made of old lace, only visible if someone looked closely, and no one looked closely these days, not really.

I put everything on slowly, as if each piece weighed more than it should. But the truth? It wasn't even for someone else; it was for me. It was a way of reminding myself that, underneath it all, there was still a warm, pulsating body, even if it disbelieved.

I pinned my hair up on top of my head with hesitant fingers, letting a few loose strands fall in front. It looked like carelessness, but it was calculation, an almost childish, almost desperate gesture to look more sophisticated than I was, cooler than I felt. I sat down in front of the dresser mirror and stood there for minutes, staring at a face that I didn't recognize as my own; it was the face of someone who was about to pretend, a nervous actress before a premiere that no one could guarantee would work, perhaps.

I applied foundation as if it would erase something. The dark circles under my eyes, for example, deep, always there, as if tiredness had made its home there, even when I slept well, even on good days — did they still exist? —They wouldn't go away. Then came the concealer, like a lie applied in layers, then the dark eyeshadow, a graphite shade with a bluish undertone that reminded me of when I was thirteen and tried to imitate the gothic girls I saw in the center. Thick eyeliner, traced with a trembling hand, the mascara, old, almost dry, dragged on the lashes with effort, but it did the job.

Finally, the lipstick. Dark. A wine too dark to look sensual, too deep to be casual, almost dried blood. Almost a past hurt.

As I put on my makeup, I tried not to think about what I was doing. But more than that, I tried not to feel. Because I thought all the time, about everything, all the time, but to feel... that was something else. That was dangerous.

Even so, the knot was there. Stuck in my throat. A feeling that something was moving inside me, slowly, like waking up after a long time asleep, something was about to happen, I could feel it. And it terrified me. Because I knew all too well the pain of change, of opening a gap in your chest, of allowing yourself to be, I had already learned, the hard way, that when you allow yourself too much, the world slips through the cracks and rips out what it finds most intimate.

The leather jacket came on top. It was old, heavy, with the smell of cigarettes and memories that weren't mine, the legacy of a time that preceded me, like wearing a shell that was thicker than my skin. I put on black boots, medium length, low heels, firm soles. I wanted to feel resistant, I wanted to hear the sound of footsteps as if they were stronger than doubt.

Before leaving, I opened my bag and checked the items as if they were part of a survival ritual: wallet, car key, lighter, extra lipstick. A packet of chewing gum, just in case I needed to fill my mouth with something other than excuses.

I stopped for a second at the bedroom door. I wished it would rain, a real, violent, summer rain, the kind that convinces you it's wiser to stay at home than face the world. It would be a solid, visible, acceptable excuse, perhaps a chance not to appear cowardly, not to go out, not to try.

But the Los Angeles sky, as always, remained dry, blue—grey, dishonest. As if to say: "Go. It's your problem."

I turned off the lights in the living room. The sound of my footsteps on the floor echoed louder than it should have, the reverberation making me feel like I was leaving the stage after a scene I didn't want to play.

I stopped in front of the door and turned around for a moment.

The apartment was dark, silent, exactly the way I liked it, exactly the way I understood it. It was small, stuffy, but it was mine. And yet... I was leaving, saying goodbye to a comfort zone that had become a prison.

Not because I thought something incredible was waiting for me. But because there was a small risk — minimal, almost imperceptible — that maybe, just maybe, someone would see me that night. Not the make—up. Not the jacket. Not the armor.

But me.

And that was the thought that hurt the most, full of fear.

The clock struck 22:42 when I finally parked the car in a tight space two streets down from the Rainbow. The engine squeaked, and the radio was static, the music had disappeared halfway down the road, as if fate had left me without a soundtrack. I turned off the engine, but I didn't get out of the car, I just sat there, with my hands on the steering wheel and my breath short. Outside, the lights of the sign blinked lazily, and the muffled sound of music escaped through the entrance door, mixed with the laughter of a group of smokers leaning against a red Camaro.

I looked in the rearview mirror. My lipstick was still intact. The look, not so much.

I let out a slow breath, as if I could convince myself to get out. My legs felt heavier than when I got into the car, maybe it was the heat. Or the fear. Or the fact that, deep down, I knew that nothing I expected was going to happen, and yet some foolish part of me... expected it.

I crossed the sidewalk slowly, listening to the sound of my footsteps getting lost in the hubbub of the street. Two punks passed me, she with a lime green mohawk, he with an open shirt and knee—high boots. I smiled unwillingly, at least there I could disappear into the collective eccentricity.

The security guard looked me up and down before leading the way. The hot, thick air inside hit me like a slap, smelling of stale beer, cigarettes, leather, and cheap perfume. The lights were red, gold, and dirty, as if time had slowly melted each bulb. Inside, bodies were squeezed onto cramped tables, glasses were clinking, and an unknown band was playing something between post—punk and noise, impossible to tell where the melody began and the microphony ended.

I leaned close to the bar, trying to recognize the guy Erin had described: "black T—shirt, leather jacket, messy hair". Laughs. That described half the place.

That's when I saw him. A little further down, alone, leaning against the wall next to the jukebox, a beer in his hand, vacant stare, cold countenance. Black jacket, dark, messy hair. He didn't smile, he didn't seem to notice me. But he was there, just as she said.

I took a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest. I made my way slowly through the crowd, dodging a waitress with a full tray and a couple gobbling each other up in a corner.

I reached him and stopped a meter away.

— Hi — I said, almost voicelessly. — I thought it might be you. Erin was talking about me.

The guy turned his face slowly, as if he had been plucked from another world. He looked at me for a few seconds, very long, uncomfortable seconds, the kind that make you want to disappear into your clothes, then he arched an eyebrow.

— Who was that?

— Erin. Erin Everly. You're... Axl's friend, aren't you?

He frowned, squeezing the bottle between his fingers as if deciding whether to throw it in my face or just ignore my existence.

— Look... I don't know who Erin is, I don't know any Axl, and... I don't know you.

My stomach sank. No, I felt my whole body sink. As if the earth had bent down just to swallow me up right there, standing there, looking like the idiot I knew I was. My mouth went dry instantly, and I blinked twice, trying to reorganize the world around me, but to no avail. I took two steps backward, each one more embarrassed than the last, trying to control the nervous laughter that threatened to escape as an embarrassed sob.

— I'm sorry. I thought... never mind. I got it mixed up.

I turned around so quickly that I almost tripped over my pride.

I crossed the hall again, and now, somehow, everyone seemed to see me. I could feel the stares, feel the heat creeping up my neck, the sweat dripping slowly down my back despite the cool air of the bar. It was ridiculous, I know. No one should be watching me. But... when you're embarrassed to death, any distant laughter seems to be directed at you, it's as if the world knows, as if it's whispering between the lines of the music.

I snuck into an empty corner, a high stool near the back door. I asked for a glass of water just to have something to do with my hands. Just to pretend that this, this scene, this attempt, had been casual, so natural and harmless.

But it wasn't.

I stood there, staring at the melting ice as if it could tell me what to do next. As if he knew where to shove all that anxiety, all that money that had just hung over my day.

In my head, I could already see myself leaving. Walking back to the car with my heels hurting, my lipstick smeared, my blouse sticking to my back in a cold sweat. I'd go home, undress in the dark, and pretend that the night would never happen, and no one would ever know. Not even Erin. I'd say it was full, that the guy didn't show up, that the bar was unbearable, anything. And maybe it would work, but deep down inside, something had already broken, small, subtle. Like an invisible thread of hope breaking silently.

I leaned over the counter, hiding my face in my hands for a few seconds, my elbows hurting from leaning on them. The leather of the stool was already sticking to the bare skin of my thigh. I took a deep breath, trying to hold it in. The tears didn't come; I'm not the type to cry easily. But the urge... the urge was there. That childish desire to disappear and cease to exist for a few minutes until the universe gets tired of making fun of you.

And that's when the jukebox changed track, the unmistakable beginning of The Cult's She Sells Sanctuary filled the air; an irony too perfect to be a coincidence. It was as if the bar itself was laughing at me, as if the city was whispering: "See, that's why you don't try."

And for a moment, I agreed with it. But I was still there. The glass was still in my hand.

— He's gay, you know. And he still thinks he's the reincarnation of Jim Morrison.

The voice came from my left like a hot, worn—out breath, the kind of comment you don't expect to hear, nor do you know exactly how to react; low, a little hoarse, slurred like someone who has smoked since they were a teenager and never stopped to think about the consequences. There was no urgency in it, no explicit humor, just a dry, almost bored observation, as if he was talking more to his glass than to me.

I turned my face slowly because it still hurt to have my eyes pulled back to reality. I had just swallowed the shame of mistaking one stranger for another, of seeing myself exposed and out of place in a place I shouldn't have entered. The glass of water in my hands was now just a disguise. My gaze met his with more weariness than surprise, and there he was. Black jacket, dark T—shirt, shaggy black hair covering part of his face, dark brown eyes that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. He wasn't analyzing me, he wasn't eating me up with his eyes, he wasn't selling himself in a pose. He just... existed. As if being there was a fluke, but a firm fluke, a rare kind of presence that demands nothing.

— Do you ever comment on other people's lives for sport? — I asked, with no patience for small talk, but determined not to return to the previous silence. Even though my voice was low, there was a thread of firmness in it that didn't want to go away.

He gave a half—smile, not the kind you want to be pretty, but the kind you give because it's inevitable. A crooked lip, a tired irony. He took a sip of whatever was in the glass and then replied, a bone with disinterest:

— Only when their lives invade my peripheral vision.

— Does that happen a lot?

— More often than I'd like.

The conversation went quiet for a while, but it wasn't uncomfortable. His presence there wasn't a nuisance; strangely enough, it didn't weigh on me like so many others did, it wasn't intrusive or empty. It was like sitting next to a stranger on a subway bench at midnight, nobody wants to make contact, but when they do, there is something intimate, silently complicit, as if they both understood that being awake at that time, in that place, already says everything that needs to be said.

— He wasn't who I thought he was — I muttered after a while, more to myself, like someone trying to put the taste of a disappointment too recent to swallow back in my mouth.

— That's normal. Sometimes you just need someone to be something else.

His answer came without judgment and with no intention of consoling. It was just... a sentence spoken in the dark, neutral and almost dry. The kind of thing you say when you've stopped looking for meaning in others.

— And when it isn't?

— You order another drink. Or leave.

I let out a light laugh, an involuntary breath through my nose. I almost smiled, not because I thought it was funny, but because I was relieved to be talking to someone who wasn't trying to entertain me or correct me. He spoke as if it was normal to be hurt, and no one should apologize for that.

— You're good at advising that you don't seem to follow.

— I never do.

Another silence, even deeper. Like a well that they both look into without having the courage to measure its depth. By now, he had put out his cigarette in the nearest ashtray, but the smell still hung in the air, mixed with that of cheap whisky and old wood. It didn't bother me; in a way, it was familiar.

— Are you expecting someone? — I asked, like someone testing the waters.

— No. But I don't have anywhere to go yet either.

I nodded slowly. I understood a lot more than I wanted to admit, and I realized that it was a simple answer, but it was full of lines. Having nowhere to go back to isn't about an address or a door key, I'd rather believe.

He turned the glass over and drank the rest of the whisky in one gulp, as if to put an end to a thought before it got any bigger than it should have been. When his eyes met mine again, there was no onslaught; he was incredibly cold.

— Aren't you going to ask my name? — I ventured.

He looked at me sideways, with a slight frown. It wasn't contempt, it was just... disinterest in conventions.

— Will it make a difference if I know?

— Maybe it won't.

— So if you want to tell me, that's fine. If you don't, that's fine too.

I took another sip of the lukewarm water and held the glass in my hands, as if holding a question I didn't know how to ask. He didn't insist, he didn't turn away either, he just waited.

— I should go — I said at last.

He didn't react immediately. He just shrugged, the calmest movement in the world.

— Then go.

That sentence hung in the air like cigarette smoke, light but impossible to ignore. There was no irony, no provocation, just that absurd calm of someone who isn't trying to hold anyone back. And that's why it becomes the only place you want to stay.

But I stayed, not because he asked me to, because he didn't, and not because it was safe, and even less because I knew what I wanted from then on. I stayed because my body decided before my head, the guy took me by storm, and peeled off the first layer just by not trying to do it, he's comfortable.

— It's hot in here — I muttered, grabbing my bag from the back of the chair, more out of reflex than intention. — I'm going out for a while.

He didn't ask if he could go along, nor did he hesitate. He simply stood up as if he already knew, grabbed his jacket by the collar, slung it over his shoulders, and followed after me.

Outside, the air was different, still stuffy, still full of smoke and city noise, but at least it didn't weigh down the red lights or the 80s music stuck to my eardrums. I walked to the side of the building and leaned against the cold wall, as if the concrete could ground me.

Izzy lit another cigarette, this time looking at me. She made a small, almost imperceptible gesture and held out the open packet towards me.

I nodded, but didn't look away.

— Have you stopped?

— I never started.

— That's good. It's a bad habit. — He swallowed slowly. — But it has its value at the right times.

— Like now?

— Like now.

We sat in silence for a few seconds. Again, not an awkward silence, but a necessary pause. Like when you take a deep breath after a difficult sentence. He watched me with the side of his eyes, never directly. As if he had learned that looking too long can scare you. Or reveal more than you want to show.

— Did you come alone?

The question came low, non—invasive. Just an anchor.

— I did. — I sighed. — Erin urged me to come here. She said I needed to get out, breathe. Meet new people.

— Do you know Erin?

— Know is a strong word. We work closely together. Sometimes she shows up by surprise, talks a lot, smokes too much, and laughs at everything. She's the kind of person who... happens.

— Yeah,— he muttered. — She happens.

The way he said it turned on a light in the back of my mind. But before I could put the pieces together, he changed the subject.

— What about you? Always so... closed off?

I looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

— Was that a question or a judgment?

— It was just an observation. Questions are scarier.

— I'm not closed off. I just... don't have the energy to be interesting today.

— You don't have to.

I leaned closer to the wall, crossing my arms. The city in the background was still alive, but everything seemed lower there. As if that piece of sidewalk had its own time, its frequency.

— You're too quiet for someone who seems to carry so much noise inside.

He blew the smoke out of his nose and gave a discreet, almost corner smile.

— Noise only comes out when there's room for it. Most people just want to fill the silence. Not you.

— Neither do you.

His gaze met mine, and for the first time, we didn't look away. We stayed like that for a while, measuring, weighing, recognizing.

— What are you afraid of? — he asked, and the question came like an icy breeze between the ribs.

It took me a while to answer. Not because I didn't know, but because I never liked to say it out loud.

— Of being seen too much.

— Or not being seen enough?

— Both — I admitted.

He nodded. He threw the cigarette butt on the floor and put it out with the toe of his boot.

— Fair fear.

More silence. More concrete. More of us.

I moved away from the wall slowly, facing him. We were close now. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel each other's warmth. His eyes were a dangerous mixture of exhaustion and lucidity. And, for a second, I saw myself in them.

— You didn't tell me your name.

He hesitated.

— Izzy.

I nodded. Without smiling. Without repeating it.

— I know who you are. — The sentence came out before I could censor it.

He arched an eyebrow, unsurprised.

— I thought you did.

— Erin won't shut up about Axl. And you... — I looked you up and down — you look like you're always on the wrong side of history.

— And yet you stayed.

— I'm still deciding whether it was stupidity or boredom.

— Or something else.

— Don't even come.

He took a slight step back, hands in his pockets. And he said, with that disconcerting calm:

— I'm not going to touch you, I'm not going to pull you, I'm not going to try to bend you with words. If you want to go, go. If you want to stay... stay, but if you stay, stay whole.

And that's when everything inside me pushed me back. Because I didn't know if I wanted to go, but I couldn't get out of there, and as much as I was full of wounds, walls, and fear... for the first time in a long time, someone offered me the risk without promising anything in return.

He didn't say anything else. He just stood there, his posture too loose for someone who said so little. But I had already understood his manner: Izzy was the kind of man who asked questions with his presence, not with his mouth. And it was difficult, almost impossible, not to answer.

I could still feel the blood in my cheeks, the remnants of the shame from the pathetic scene I'd played out earlier. But around him, it was starting to become something else, just a trace, like a memory that no longer mattered.

Something inside me calls me an idiot. If he wants to take me to bed, he's trying to win me over, I'm letting myself get carried away, like a silly teenager. But another part of me, the one that's winning, says: 'Hey, I can be a teenager today and enjoy the feeling of being with someone again.'

— Are you hungry? — he asked, after a while in that silence, my disturbed mind taking me into annoying daydreams while the reason was alive and breathing right in front of me.

I raised an eyebrow. Come on, I can still do this. — Why, are you taking me to dinner?

— I can take you out for something decent, somewhere that serves those amazing fries, the crispy kind that are just perfect.

I smiled and looked at him playfully. — You mean chips, right?

He feigned shock, putting a hand over his heart. — No way! In America, fries are fries, and chips are something you snack on!

I raised an eyebrow. — But chips are just thinner fries. Isn’t that a little confusing?

He laughed. — Maybe we should just agree that anything fried tastes good, no matter the name...

We stared at each other for a moment. And it was different from the others; there was no clash there, just a subtle recognition. The feeling that, in another life, this conversation might have been taking place in a lighter tone, but here, now, it weighed the right way. Right, more daydreams, maybe instead of correcting books, I should write one.

— And soda? — he asked, with that teasing tone already seeping through his words. What an ironic idiot, damn it, it attracts me in a way I didn't even know, my whole body shivers at the tone he uses, and I pray he hasn't noticed.

— I hate it.

— It says a lot about you.

— Like what?

— That you're not one for easy things. Or too sweet.

— Now you're trying to sound deep just to impress me. — He smiles sideways, and I sigh, he's read some psychology book, hasn't he?! How to say the right things? Analysis of favorite drinks?

— Did it work?

— Almost.

He smiled again, but this time there was something slower, more assured in the way his eyes rested on mine.

— Then come. — He moved away from the wall, took two steps, and then turned his face over his shoulder. — The food isn't great, but the silence there is better than here.

I stood still for a moment. The cold asphalt, the deserted city, the door of the bar behind me like an emergency exit that no longer made sense.

And there he was in front of me, waiting, without haste or expectation, just... available. I need to get out more; the movies are making me look like an idiot with the worst of them.

— Is this unpretentious way of yours rehearsed, or do you not care if I go?

— I do mind. — he said simply. — But I'm not going to ask you.

I approached him slowly, with restrained steps. Why does he play this game of choosing for me? I'm not going to touch you if I don't want to, and I'm not going to ask you to come if I don't feel like it. Izzy, you touched me in a way that I won't be able to describe to Erin tomorrow.

— Will you pay?

— If you promise not to order a soda.

— You got it. — I smiled. — I'm full of surprises.

— I'm counting on it.

The place seemed forgotten by God, and maybe that's why it still existed.

A dinner squeezed between a 24—hour laundromat and a pawnshop, with a single neon light flashing "Open" in the window, was like a warning to the unwary or a call to souls who refused to go home. Izzy opened the door first, letting that smell of old grease and strong coffee reach me before my feet.

We stepped inside.

The floor was sticky. The radio in the background was playing a forgotten song, low, dragging, with vocals that sounded more like a lament than a melody; the clock on the wall seemed late, or maybe too early, it's impossible to tell.

We sat at a corner table, he with his back to the entrance, me facing nowhere. The waitress didn't come, there was no one to come, and a plastic menu waited in the center of the table, smeared with grease and fingerprints.

— Is this where you bring them all?

What idiotic comment did I just make?

He raised an eyebrow, unhurriedly, and pulled a cigarette from his inside jacket pocket, not lighting it, just twirling it between his fingers.

— I only bring people who dare me.

— And I challenge you?

— From the moment you didn't smile when I flirted.

I leaned unhurriedly on the table, resting my forearms on it, my face closer to the yellow light coming down from the crooked lamp above us.

— Maybe I just didn't smile out of politeness.

— And why did you come?

— Because you didn't ask.

Touché! Point for me.

The silence between us seemed to grow, to stretch to the sides of the table, to settle like a third body. But it wasn't uncomfortable, it was almost comfortable.

The waitress finally appeared, with no expression, no greeting, just a pad in her hand and a pop of gum in her teeth.

— What'll it be?

— Portion of... — Izzy said, looking at me. — Fries.

HAVE WE GOT ANY INSIDE JOKES YET?

— Not chips? — I teased, without taking my eyes off him, trying to disguise how fast my heart had just gone, almost jumping out of my chest. What's that? Ah, the damn butterflies in my stomach.

— I promised authenticity.

— Did you? — asked the waitress, bored.

— A coffee, — I answered, without thinking, then added, like an old reflection: — And an orange juice.

— No soda? — Izzy said, as she turned away, literally crawling back behind the counter, I have to say that I understand the level of discouragement at work.

— No, it annoys me.

— The gas?

— You.

He let out an almost laugh. The kind that doesn't have to be loud to be real.

— You don't like soft drinks... Nothing American. — he shakes his head, leaning over the round wooden table.

I leaned back in my seat, crossing my legs under the table. He was already tearing me apart slowly, without even touching me. Leaving me thinking of answers I'd rather pretend I didn't have, despite the constant anxiety that surrounds me when it comes to men, especially these snobby band guys, I was letting it go, somehow this guy was opening me up easily.

— You should smile more — he said, not like any man would say, but like someone who wanted to see what would come next, testing me.

— And you should learn not to expect it.

— I don't.

— You don't?

— I just... watch. You speak with your body before you speak with your mouth.

— And what did I say now?

Arms on the table, eyes locked on mine. Slow. Warm. Immobile.

— That you want to tease, but you're afraid of what will happen if you do.

The potato has arrived. The coffee too. The juice came hot, the glass sweaty, everything right. Nothing was right. But our intense exchange of glances didn't stop at any point while the waitress placed our orders in front of us; he, damn it, he's read a book on what to talk about.

He stole a potato from his plate as if he were testing the temperature of the world. I held the coffee cup in both hands, the warmth running through the ceramic and up my wrists like a reminder: you're here. Now. With him.

— So? — I asked, feigning disinterest. — Is that what you call impressing a woman?

— That's what I call surviving the night without regretting everything the next day.

— Deep.

— Sincere.

I rolled my eyes, he took another potato, sprinkled salt over it as if he were blessing something, and then offered me one, with two fingers. I hesitated, but only out of stupid pride.

I took the potato, without touching my fingers, and failed. Quick, light, inevitable. A touch of skin. Warm.

I looked away, but I felt the curve at the corner of his mouth, a smile that was triumphant without being arrogant. It was as if he wasn't trying to beat me, just to keep pace.

— Were you born like this? — I asked, biting down slowly. — Mysterious? Quiet? Full of catchphrases?

— Have you always been like this? — he replied, without blinking. — Rigid, sharp, full of elegant defenses?

I remained silent. The potato tasted of oil and provocation.

— I used to be lighter — I said at last, not knowing why I was letting it slip out. — I've laughed more, I've cared less.

— And what happened?

— Everything happened. — I answered before he could reproach me.

He didn't ask any more. And it was this respectful silence that caught me off guard, usually people crowd around and even ask what color clothes I wore the day the world broke for me.

— You look like someone who has already fallen apart and put the pieces back together. — he said at last, as if he were just narrating an image.

— And you look like someone who still refuses to glue anyone together.

He laughed, more quietly than before, a hoarse sound that stuck in the back of his throat. But so delicious, God.

— It could be. But tonight... I thought I'd give it a try.

— Why? — My curiosity was genuine, in that single sentence, he showed me that he chose to stay with me, or did he...

— Because you don't treat me like I'm special, or like I'm disposable. It's rare. — he interrupts my self—deprecating daydreams quickly, and then, BINGO, he chooses me over anyone else, who I'm sure would fall at his rockstar feet tonight.

Can I feel a bit special tonight?

— I just don't know you well enough to be sure which of the two you are.

— Then stay a little longer. — He asked; it was direct and without frills. And he hit me with a quiet but precise force, like everything else about him.

— What if I regret it?

He brought the unlit cigarette to his lips in an automatic gesture. Then he took it out and said:

— You only regret what you run away from, not what you face.

The sentence remained there between us, flickering like the neon in the window. I drank the rest of the coffee, now lukewarm, and realized that my hands were no longer cold.

He pulled the longest potato off his plate and broke it in half. — Peace? — he said, holding out half to me as a silly joke.

I took it. And bit into it.

— Truce — I corrected.

He smiled. And so did I.

The food was getting cold between us, but no one seemed to mind.

For a few minutes, we ate in silence, the kind of silence that doesn't embarrass, but excavates. He seemed comfortable there, chewing slowly, looking at his hands as if he was thinking more with his fingers than with his head. I looked out of the window as a car drove past with its headlights high, reflecting in the greasy glass. And for a moment, I felt as if the city had stopped to listen to what had not yet been said.

That's when it came out. Out of nowhere, without an announcement, courage gushed through me; I simply felt that I could say it, and for the first time, I felt that I wanted to say it.

— He was also a musician.

Izzy raised her eyes slowly. He didn't ask who he didn't need to.

— My ex. We were together for a few years. He was one of those guys who came into a place and changed the oxygen, you know?

He didn't answer, he just listened, and that's exactly what I needed.

— He was charismatic, loud, and brighter than anyone could handle. And funny. But... dark inside. As if the stage was the only part of him that could breathe.

I bit into the potato, but I didn't even taste it, and continued.

— He died a year ago. Cirrhosis. He was twenty—nine, his liver gave up before he did. And yet he never stopped drinking. He never wanted help; he just wanted a full glass, the audience laughing, and nobody telling him he needed to change.

The sentence hung in the air. Izzy didn't say anything, not even "I'm sorry". And that, for some reason, relieved me. I didn't want condolences or pitying looks; I hadn't felt heard since the funeral, but now, someone seemed to be listening.

— Since then, I... — I took a deep breath, my chest tightening in an old way — I can't see certain things in the same way anymore. Certain people.

— And am I one of them?

— I'm still deciding.

He nodded once, briefly. Then he looked down at his empty glass.

— I drink, — he said. — I'm not going to pretend I don't, or tell lies. Sometimes more than I should, but... I still want to wake up the next day. Does that make me different from him?

— It's not about the alcohol.

— No?

— It's about absence. The hole that certain people dig and make you believe is home.

He stared at me for a while, a look that didn't try to decipher me in such a disjointed conversation, and it hurt me in an almost good way.

— Are you telling me you're afraid of repeating the script?

— I'm saying I don't want to be an extra in anyone else's tragic end.

The silence returned, but now it was different, dense, full of respect. He picked up the most tart potato on his plate, twirled it in his fingers, and said:

— Then don't be. Nobody wrote you into that role; you can leave the stage whenever you want.

That struck a chord. Not because of the sentence itself, but because of the firmness with which he said it, without pity, without trying to save me from my demons.

The waitress passed by with a dirty cloth, ignoring the scene. The city outside still pulsed, but in there... everything had changed.

— Do you want to leave? — he asked.

I thought. For a whole second. — No. Not yet.

— Good.

Outside, the air was colder than before. The dawn had that smell of warm asphalt, dirty filters, and a city about to go to sleep, but never quite.

The sidewalk rattled under our footsteps. We walked side by side, but without hurrying, the wind tossing my hair in my face, and I let it. There was something beautiful about that discomfort.

Izzy lit a cigarette, but didn't smoke straight away. He took two steps, took a drag, and let the smoke out through his nose, as if something was pressing down on him inside. I know this moment well, it's when something sneaks up your throat, and you consider whether you should speak.

— You know that type of person who comes into your life like a hurricane, and you let them? Because deep down, you think they deserve the mess?

— I know them — I replied.

— So... that's Axl.

I stayed silent; he didn't seem angry or sad. Just... tired. I know this guy, Erin opens up to me about their relationship, and I've already recognized that he's someone complicated, to say the least.

— I met him when I was a kid. He looked at me like I was more than I was, you know? And I believed him, I went after him when he came here, we shared a flat, we shared debts, we shared broken microphones in bars where no one wanted to listen to anyone.

He laughed dryly, but without joy.

— Now we're about to release an album. A real album. With a contract, record label, poster, tour, and all that shit.

— You should be excited.

— I am, I guess. But there are times when everything feels... heavy. As if success were just another kind of ruin, only more expensive.

I leaned on a car, waiting for the signal to open. I looked at him. His cigarette was dangling from his lips, and his gaze was far away, perhaps back to the cramped rehearsals on the Sunset Strip or the late—night fights in an unfurnished apartment.

— Do you like him? Axl?

— I love him, like a brother you want to strangle. But it's hard; he lives on the edge. E... — Izzy shrugged — when you live around someone like that, you either get used to the fire, or you learn to burn without complaining.

We crossed the street. My car was already in sight, stopped under a yellowish lamppost, with dry leaves stuck to the windshield.

— What about you? — he asked. — Do you like what you do?

— I work too hard, I hide in what I do. And then I pride myself on being exhausted, as if that validated anything.

— Does it?

— No, it doesn't.

We reached the side of the car. I put my hand on the door handle, but didn't open it. He was close, not close enough to touch accidentally, but close enough to feel the warmth between us again — the warmth that grows in the interval between a step and surrender.

— I liked today — he said, looking at me as if trying to understand what exactly he liked.

— Even after what I told you?

— Especially after what you told me.

I kept quiet.

— And you? — he asked, quieter. — Did you like it?

It took me a while, but I nodded.

— Yes, I did.

— Okay then. — He took another step back, his cigarette almost gone. — Leave before I say something that makes you want to stay.

— Too late.

He laughed quietly.

— Take care, girl with no name.

— You, too, aimless man.

I stood by the car door, my fingers on the handle, but not pulling. The engine was off, the key was still in the bag, the world around seemed suspended, not late enough to be daytime, not early enough to call for silence.

Izzy didn't move.

He just stood there, a step and a half away from me, with his unlit cigarette between his fingers, as if he had forgotten it existed, his head slightly tilted, his gaze locked on me in a way that wasn't invasive, but intimate, very observant, as if I were a song that he was trying to memorize just by listening to it once.

And I... watched back.

The outline of his jaw hidden in the shadow of his jacket, his long fingers, marked by discreet calluses, his dark hair falling into his eyes, as if he lived in a world where nobody combed anything, and his mouth, that discreet curve, which always seemed to contain a laugh or a disaster.

I let out a sigh without realizing it. And he saw it.

— You're thinking too much — he said quietly, almost as if he were talking to the night, not to me.

— That's what I do.

— Stop. For a minute.

I tried. I swear. But my body seemed more alert than it should have been, as if every inch of my skin was being watched, predicted, felt before it was even touched.

— The key's in the bag — I said, almost in a whisper, slowly disengaging myself from the car, letting my hand slide off the handle, feeling drunk, but I haven't even been drinking.

— And what do I do with it?

It took me a second to answer. My head was saying one thing, my body was saying another. Fear was screaming, but... it was weaker than before.

— Drive — I asked, without looking directly at him, so that I would have the courage. — Just... drive me home.

He nodded, without smiling. He took the key when I held it out and turned around without any hurry. When he got into the driver's seat, he adjusted the seat backwards with an automatic movement, and only then did he look at me, sideways, from behind his eyelashes, as if daring me to change my mind.

But I didn't.

I got into the back seat and closed the door, the sound of the click louder than it should have been.

He turned the key. The engine coughed twice before starting. And then we were off.

No music, no conversation, just the city passing by the windows like a black and gray movie. The light from the streetlamps scratched the dashboard, and in the silence, I allowed myself to look again.

His hands were on the steering wheel. His eyes were attentive to the street, but his jaw was tense, as if driving at me was more intimate than touching my skin.

— You don't know where it is. — I whispered with a restrained laugh.

— You're guiding me.

The car glided through the almost deserted streets, cutting through the dawn with the headlights low and the engine as hoarse as a contained breath. I leaned back in the seat, trying to look more comfortable than I was. The cold leather under my bare thighs contrasted with the heat rising in my chest, a silent restlessness that didn't come from the coffee or the speed; it came from him.

Izzy drove with an almost irritating calm. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, as if he were always waiting for something. And his eyes... his eyes sometimes wavered from the asphalt to me, as if every turn was just an excuse for another sideways glance, a glance that started at my face and, no matter how hard he tried to disguise it, slid down my exposed collarbones, through the black fabric that clung to my thighs, down the outline of my crossed legs. And it came back quickly, as if nothing had happened, but I knew it, I felt it.

The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable; it was filled with words that neither of us dared to say. Not yet.

When the car stopped at the red light on Melrose, everything seemed suspended in time. The red light washed the inside of the car with an almost ironic tone. He let out a low sigh, looked straight ahead, then slowly turned his face away.

The look on his face hit me hard. There was no shame in it. Just desire, raw, adult, without urgency, but non—negotiable.

— You shouldn't look at me like that — I said, almost in a whisper.

— Like what? — his voice was low, with that husky drawl of someone who smokes too much and feels everything twice as much.

— As if... he was seeing me whole.

He leaned in a little, enough to shorten the distance between us, but without crossing it. The warmth of his body, now so close, seemed to vibrate in the air between us.

— It's just that you... — he said, close to my ear — you look like you've spent too long being looked at by the wrong halves.

I closed my eyes for a moment, the sentence cutting me deeper than I expected, and perhaps that's why, when I opened them again, I spoke without thinking:

— What if I don't want this night to end?

He looked at me for a second longer. And he didn't answer with words.

His hand slid into gear, but he didn't change the gear. It just stopped there. And the other, as if without meaning to, lightly brushed my leg through the fabric of my skirt. It wasn't an invasive touch; it was a touch that asked. A touch that knew the word "no" and respected it.

My skin reacted before I did, a discreet shiver, a subtle rapture. And yet I didn't move.

His eyes fell to my mouth, and I let them, because I wanted to.

Izzy leaned closer, but still didn't touch me with his lips. His breath brushed mine, and I knew that this was the kind of moment that could end in two seconds or last a lifetime, if someone had the courage.

But then the horn behind us cut through the air like a razor.

The light was green.

He pulled away slowly, with a lopsided smile at the corner of his mouth, not the kind of smile you lose, the kind you hope for. He shifted into gear, and the car started moving again. And I... I looked out of the window, trying to breathe normally.

But it was too late. Nothing that night was normal.

My building wasn't pretty, nor did it need to be. It looked like old Los Angeles, with unvarnished concrete, a discreet musty smell in the corridors, and a staircase that creaked just by looking at it. Izzy climbed the steps right behind me, and the sound of his rhythmic, heavy footsteps made my heart beat differently.

When I unlocked the door, I didn't say anything, I just went in, threw the keys on the sideboard, and turned on the living room light, that low light that gave everything a golden hue, almost dirty, almost intimate.

He stood in the doorway, looking around, not complimenting, not pretending to be surprised. Just absorbing.

— It's more you than I imagined — he murmured.

— And what did you imagine?

— That it would be a place where silence is respected.

I took off my shoes, threw my jacket on the back of the sofa, and turned to him with bare feet and warm skin. He still had his hand in his jacket pocket, as if controlling himself, and that, more than any advance, set me on fire.

— Would you like a drink?

— Only if it's you.

The way he said it, without vulgarity, without irony. Just... sure. My God, I was going to need help, a pump, because the oxygen wouldn't enter my lungs for the next few seconds. I wouldn't lie, so much time without body—to—body contact, of course not much already makes me horny, but Izzy, damn, his aura carries a hidden, delicious lust.

I took two steps, stopping in front of him. Our bodies were close again, and his smell, of cigarettes, leather, something woody, well, it was almost cruel.

— Do you have any idea what you're doing?

— No — he answered without hesitation. — But if you want to stop me, this is the time.

I didn't answer.

Then I kissed him.

Or maybe it was him. It doesn't matter.

Our mouths met with a hunger that existed before the first glance. A hot, wet, deep kiss, not like someone exploring, but like someone recognizing. He held my face with both hands, his fingers firm, his touch urgent and reverent at the same time.

My hands went down his jacket, pulling, feeling the hardness of his arms beneath the fabric. His body was real, whole, present, and I didn't want to think. Or brake. Or measure the consequences.

We stumbled over to the sofa, he sat down and pulled me close, kneeling over him, the kisses becoming slower but deeper. His hands went up my thighs, with respect and desire mixed in a way that hurt.

— You're too beautiful — he whispered against my neck. — You look like someone drew you on a stormy night.

I gasped, you poetic son of a bitch!

My fingers tangled in his hair, my skirt rose little by little, with the same slowness he had used to light his cigarette hours before. As if every gesture carried intention.

Lust was no longer a promise; it was already in the now. For a second, between the touch of his skin and the warmth of his body against mine, I almost wanted to stop. Not because I didn't want to, but because I wanted too much, and that's what scared me.

I'd vowed not to let myself fall again, not to give in to the fantasy of a body that offers shelter without promising a roof over my head. I'd spent too many nights dealing with the consequences of bad deliveries, I'd buried too much love in glasses of whiskey and damned excuses. And worst of all, I had convinced myself that I didn't want anyone else, that I didn't need anyone else, that my life was enough as it was; a controlled, protected, intact routine.

But there, between his fingers and my own heart trying to escape through my chest, everything I had built up seemed fragile. Izzy wasn't just another handsome guy with a cigarette smell and a soft voice; he carried in his hands the exhaustion of someone who was also tired of pretending not to feel. And perhaps that was what put me off the most, because I knew from the first time we exchanged glances that he wasn't safe. And yet, I'd never felt so alive. I'd said I didn't want one—night stands, but what if what was starting now... had nothing casual about it?

His hands ran up my back slowly, as if asking, even without a voice. When his fingers found the thin hem of my blouse, I felt the fabric slide across my skin with an involuntary shiver, the air in the room seemed colder without it, or maybe it was his warmth that had me hooked so quickly.

Izzy looked at me, as if expecting some reaction, but I didn't say anything, I just stared back, my chest rising and falling with the kind of urgency that can't be put into words. His jacket had been gone for some time, and then he took off his T—shirt, revealing skin marked by bones, shadows, and history, a few tattoos here and there. It wasn't the kind of clean, manufactured beauty; it was real, and, fuck, beautiful, he was beautiful. Slim, but still defined in the right places, he had a few necklaces around his neck, which had been hidden all night.

I could feel my breathing becoming more and more labored, my lips dry, lust running through my mind, clouding every thought.

And when he pulled me close again, skin against skin, something inside me trembled, no longer from fear, but from some kind of encounter, as if my body, after so long, had found someone who knew how to read silences. Who didn't just strip me of my clothes, but of my defenses.

My head rested on his shoulder for a moment, just one, a small gesture, but full of weight. Almost a request for calm, for a pause, for time.

And he understood.

The hand that had been on my waist loosened the pressure. The kiss that followed was slower, deeper, like someone who knows that pleasure isn't in the rush, it's in the detail.

And he was patient.

His breath hit my neck like a burning ember, and every time Izzy brushed his lips against it, with more mouth than haste, with more intention than impulse, my body arched, as if trying to memorize the way back to something it had never experienced.

My legs adjusted around him with a naturalness that bordered on the absurd. The way our skins met, the way his thighs pressed against mine, the way his hand found the center of my body with firmness and precision, it all seemed orchestrated by a kind of hunger that wasn't just physical; it was vital. It was an animal. It was necessary.

He looked at me as if he was absorbing everything: the shiver that ran up my spine, the way my fingers clung to his shoulders, the way I held my breath in my teeth as his tongue ran along the edge of my collarbone to the beginning of my breasts. His ragged breathing mingled with mine, and as much as there was still a voice inside me trying to maintain control, his every touch was a living, hot, wet response, tearing apart any attempt at restraint.

— Do you still want this? — he asked, low, husky, so close that the sound seemed to come from inside me.

I mumbled into his hot face, unable to form words. My throat was dry, my mind blank, my whole body vibrating.

Izzy sucked the skin of the valley between my breasts, moaning deeply against me. — Open your mouth — Izzy ordered as I felt his hand against my cheek. He frantically inserted his fingers into my mouth, earning a lustful moan back. — Suck it.

I dug my cheeks around his index and middle finger as I sucked diligently before releasing with a pop. Izzy moaned, —It's not wet enough. Spit on it and suck it again, the way you would my cock.

I had to close my eyes in embarrassment as his words burned straight into my ears, it had been so long since anyone had said things like that to me, so brazen, so naked, and even longer since I'd felt comfortable listening, but I obediently spat on his fingers before putting him inside my wet, hot mouth once more; bobbing his head up and down, sucking long and hard before letting go once more.

— Good girl — he complimented me as he gave my cheek a gentle kiss.

And then, Izzy slid her hand under my lace panties as if she knew the way, there was no hesitation, no doubt. Just desire. And when his fingers found me, my core already lubricated from the touch, and his fingers warm from the contact with my saliva, all that was left was to close my eyes and let my body say what my mouth still didn't dare to admit.

That I needed it, that I needed him.

There, in that room that had seen me cry alone so many times, lying on the same sofa where he was now taking me with a hunger that was as careful as it was brutal, something broke inside me, and it wasn't pain. It was a relief, the sofa must have thought that someone had finally found me on the edge, and I wanted that with all my heart.

Izzy's fingers are incredibly experienced, if I remember correctly, that Erin told me...

I don't remember anything else when his index finger brushes against my clitoris, my breath is knocked out of me, and my eyes well up with the sensation, damn, why have I deprived myself of this for so long?

He explores me, sliding all my lubrication over my lips, giving me delicious shivers, which unconsciously make me move in his hand. His other hand slides down my back, and Izzy pulls me closer, giving him easier access to my nipple, which he licks at the same time as his finger finally lands on my sensitive spot.

Shame seizes me, through thin walls, but I can't hold back the thin moan that expands in my throat, and through my skin, I can feel Izzy's smug smile at my clear lack of control at being touched so intimately after a year of total seclusion.

Izzy moved her lips away from my skin with calculated slowness, as if she knew exactly the effect of the sudden emptiness. His hand left me damp and exposed, throbbing, and I couldn't even protest when he pulled away from my body just enough to move me with his hands, strong, decisive, but still in no hurry.

With a gesture, he turned me onto my back, gently bending me over the sofa. My palms touched the backrest, my breathing was heavy, as if my body was on fire. My skirt rode up without resistance, sliding down to my waist, and the cool air on my exposed skin contrasted with the unbearable heat between my legs.

I felt Izzy bend down behind me, his fingers sliding through my panties again, now bolder, rougher, but still attentive to the slightest of my movements. He pulled her aside, not brutally, but finally with a certain lustful impatience, like someone who has waited too long. My hips reacted by instinct, leaning closer, asking without words.

And he laughed softly. A muffled, satisfied sound, tearing right between my ribs.

— Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?

I wanted to answer. But my voice wouldn't come out. Just the sound of my body calling out to him, the wetness, the heat, the trapped moan that escaped even when I bit my lip.

My thighs began to twitch and lose their stability as Izzy continued to play with my pussy from both sides, now from pumping his fingers inside, to rubbing my hard nub out of its itch.

Fuck, his fingers must have been more than soaked. My juices continued to drip, even covering the back of his hand as I moaned helplessly beneath him. — You're fucking dripping. — He whispered in my ear, his breathy voice sending goosebumps all over my skin. — Begging me to play with your pussy while you're bent over like that; you are something else.

I didn't even dare to answer, as I was lost in my carnal pleasure. I pressed my cheek against the sofa cushion as I continued to surrender my writhing body to Izzy, moaning his name desperately as he diligently continued to play with my luscious pussy with his fingers. — Don't stop, please, please.

I was so wet that strands of her lubrication began to stick to his knuckles as he pumped his fingers in and out. The motion of rubbing my clitoris in circles was so gentle because of the excess lubrication that kept leaking out of me. Izzy moved closer. I could feel his pants open, again I didn't pay attention when he did it, the hard bulge rubbing between my thighs, and the tension in his muscles was almost as unbearable as mine. He held my hips with both hands, fitting his body into mine, without entering yet. Just letting me feel it.

Izzy withdrew his soaked fingers, borrowing some of my excess moisture to rub his cock up and down while he continued to stimulate my clit without any delay.

— Oh, fuck! Oh, oh, don't stop! — I almost screamed as the orgasm ripped through his body, my eyes widening in shock as Izzy slowly inserted his cock, ramming it halfway into my throbbing pussy during the highest heights of my orgasm, making him groan with pleasure as my walls violently clamped down on the thickness of his cock, vigorously squeezing every bit of his hardness; I continued to squirm uncontrollably around him as the mind—blowing climax continued to tear me apart.

It made my body arch, in a reflex between pleasure and pain. It hurt. Not like before, but like opening a window after it's been locked for a long time. The skin gave way, the muscles resisted, and for a second, I almost asked him to stop, not for lack of desire, but because it had been so long since I had let anyone in like this — in me, on me, through me — that even my body seemed to have forgotten how to do it without a fight.

But then he stood there, giving me time to trust, time to breathe. And when he moved again, slowly, deeply, almost too carefully, the pain faded, like a shadow that learns to walk with the light.

He put his hands on my buttocks, opening them wide for his selfish view while he probably watched as my soaked pussy continued to swallow his cock whole, I couldn't help but moan when I felt the tip of his member bounce against my cervix, I didn't even feel any pain, even after every thrust his hips made. The steady rhythm of wet slapping noises tore through the stillness that my living room had reserved for the day, consorted by Izzy's obscene moans and heavy breathing as he continued to thrust his hardness into my soaked core. I whimpered softly, my ability to string coherent sentences together beginning to deteriorate more and more.

Izzy dragged his pressed palms up to my waist to hold me in place as he continued to thrust his hips back and forth, not too fast, but not too slow either, in the perfect mix of wanting to hook me on the addictive sensation of being filled.

— Izzy! — I moaned lustfully as I felt his cock swell further inside me. Shit, it was beyond wild at this point. There was something so unalterably obscene about the way he was thrusting his cock inside from behind, while the angle of the position allowed the spongy tip of his cock to continually slap and rub against her sweet spot, again and again. He was hitting deeper notes inside me that I never knew existed, and my thought process began to distort and turn into an irrational manifestation of insatiable hunger for sex. He was all I could think about, and the way he was satisfyingly scratching the mind—fucking itch inside me. I moaned desperately, arching my back deeper, offering myself to him wildly as I fell into euphoria.

— Shit — Izzy panted hard with excitement. The indomitable bounce of my supple ass slapping against his loins, how the strands of my wetness clung desperately to his groin, was too much for me. I might be a little shy about all this mess in my living room the next morning, but there's no denying it, I fucking love the vulgarity of it.

My body squirmed uncontrollably beneath him, and I could already feel the familiar knot inside my stomach starting to form. This is fucking good, it's too good. Izzy snaked her fingers down to rub my clit, shrieking happily as I woke up startled by the sudden intrusion of a deeper form of pleasure. Neighbors? To hell with that. No one was going to steal my ecstasy; I was going to selfishly savor it as much as I pleased.

Izzy was still thrusting his cock inside, shattering my sense of reality as he quickly pressed his palm firmly against my mouth while his legs lost their composure. Shit, there was something about cutting off my ability to express my maximum pleasure that sent another wave of desire through him. A loud, uncontrollable groan leaked from Izzy's lips, making him dig his teeth into my shoulder to stifle his moans as he shot his thick load deep into my womb. His orgasm shattered his concentration on rubbing my clit, his movement becoming sloppier and shakier as he involuntarily ended up pressing his fingers harder against my nub, triggering a shock of pleasure, my body desperately writhing beneath him as I felt how his cock throbbed and pulsed inside me, and as my prolonged orgasm came and continued to suck the cum from his cock deep inside.

I lay there, still bent over, breathing heavily, and my whole body pulsing in slow waves. My legs were shaking, my fingers pressed against the back of the sofa were starting to tingle, but I didn't want to move, not yet. I wanted to hold on to that moment between pain and pleasure, between surrender and afterwards, like someone holding on to the last note of a song they don't want to end.

Izzy continued behind me, her fingers now soft, tracing invisible lines on my bare back, no words, no hurry. Just the sound of our mingled breaths and the honest silence of someone who has just undressed the whole world.

When he finally pulled away, I felt his absence like a warm echo. My body gave way on the sofa with a low sigh, and for a moment, I stood there, eyes closed, trying to understand where all this had left me. But I knew it wasn't just about sex, it was about allowing.

We lay on the sofa, our bodies intertwined as if the world had finally lost its rush. Our breathing began to return to normal, but the touches continued, no longer urgent, but light, intimate, as if we were silently reaffirming that what had happened there had happened.

Izzy pulled me closer, his fingers trailing down my bare back and up to my neck. He placed a slow kiss on my shoulder, then another, higher up, until his lips touched mine.

— You know we're going to keep doing this, right? — he murmured against my mouth, before smiling with an expression that was somewhere between tender and mischievous. — You're so beautiful... and I'm so fucking lucky that guy left you standing today.

I laughed helplessly, my muscles still soft from the last wave that ran through my body.

— I've never enjoyed a cake so much.

— Fuck, I'm sure he'd give up if he knew it was you. — He looked at me as if he were seeing a shooting star flash before his eyes. — Just tell me you're not the type to disappear after a night like that.

— It would be impossible to forget someone who took me apart on my sofa.

We kissed again, without urgency, just because it made sense, and just as I snuggled there, between his chest and the half—fallen blanket, the phone vibrated, the ringtone shrill and the annoying hiss reaching the whole room.

I didn't even have to worry about wondering who it was at that hour, I already knew exactly, Erin. I stretched my arm under my head, struggling to get it off the hook as the sound went deep into my ear. Izzy took it with ease and handed it to me with a smile on her face.

I picked it up, leaning the phone against my ear lazily.

— Speak.

— Girl? You won't believe it... the guy! The guy from the date! He just called Axl to say he couldn't make it. He was sick and slept all day. Can you believe it?

I sank even deeper into Izzy's warm chest, trying to hold back my laughter. — Believe it, Erin. Everything's more than sorted.

— Did you go to the bar? Have you met?

— I did, but... the universe had other plans.

— What do you mean?

I looked at Izzy, who was watching me with half—closed eyes and the slow smile of someone who already knew the answer. I stroked his messy hair with my fingers.

— I'll tell you later.

I hung up before she could ask me any more questions and pushed him away. Silence set in again, only now it was good, with Izzy, silence has many meanings.

— Erin? — Izzy asked, her hand resting on my waist again.

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. — That guy from the meeting only just said he wasn't going to show up.

— So... technically, I'm the wrong guy.

I turned sideways and kissed his shoulder.

— Technically, you were exactly what I didn't know I needed.

And he didn't reply, he just hugged me tighter, as if that sofa was the only safe place in the world. And maybe, for the time being, it was.

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