how to lose a guy in ten days.
as a writer chasing your big break, you’re assigned to write a piece on how not to keep a man: a firsthand account of every mistake, red flag, and relationship self-sabotage guaranteed to drive someone away. all you need is the right test subject. enter childe.
☘ pairing: childe x fem!reader ☘ tags: fluff, angst, smut (oral sex, protected sex, riding), attempts at comedy, mild slow burn, idiots in love, mild enemies to lovers!au, modern!au, profanity, alcohol consumption, gaslighting (but it’s not That Serious (i think)), inaccurate depictions of corporate life, reader is allergic to flowers, discussions of serial murder, etc. not proof-read. please let me know if i missed anything! divider by @/thecutestgrotto. ☘ word count: 14.9k ☘ a/n: this was written for the it’s cupid, stupid! collab hosted by @the-memokeepers, and this fic is heavily inspired by and based off of the movie how to lose a guy in 10 days :) be sure to check out the collab & all the other talented writers who are participating too! ♡
A MAN’S BEDROOM, you note, has few things of relative interest, though perhaps it is just this particular man’s bedroom. His tiles are polished, his nightstand has no detritus of everyday life, and his wardrobe remains firmly shut. His sheets are well-made, with hospital corners and fluffed pillows.
It’d be fun to ruin them, you muse. He must be fond of cleanliness.
When Childe makes no move to grab you by the waist or pin you against the wall like you’d been fantasising about, you decide to make the first move and plop down as gracefully as possible on his soft, enormous, four-poster bed. This guy must be loaded. What a shame you’d be discarding him in just a little more than a week.
Work, you remind yourself. You are attempting to seduce this man for the sake of an article that could possibly land you a promotion from the dreary shithole that is the lifestyle section of The Steambird and into real, investigative journalism.
Naturally, your subject is a man who was wrongly accused of being a criminal during one of Fontaine’s infamous trials.
The serial killer case had been one that stumped even the brightest of detectives. There had been bodies found in canals, drained of blood. The Palais Mermonia had been in a frenzy. The Maison Gardiennage had thrown every resource at the case. In a twist that had captivated the entire nation, they’d arrested Childe—a young, wealthy, Snezhnayan expat with a taste for luxury items and underground boxing matches.
Lady Furina herself had presided over the trial, and the galleries had been packed with journalists and gawkers hoping for blood. The evidence had been circumstantial at best: he’d been seen near one of the dump sites, he had no alibi for two of the murders, and someone had reported seeing a man about as tall as him fleeing the scene. But the prosecution had been confident, the public had been baying for justice, and Childe had stood in the defendant’s box looking bored and vaguely amused, which had done him absolutely no favours.
The real killer had struck again while Childe was in custody, with the same MO. The charges had been dropped with a swiftness that suggested embarrassment on behalf of the Maison, and Childe had walked free to a chorus of flashbulbs and shouted questions.
He’d never given an interview. Not one. Not to the major papers, not to the tabloids. He’d simply returned to his life as if nothing had happened, which had only made him more fascinating to the media vultures circling overhead.
Including you.
The bed dips as Childe finally moves from where he’s been leaning against the doorframe. He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite parse. Amused, maybe. Curious, definitely. His shirt is unbuttoned at the corner, sleeves rolled to the elbows; the sight makes your mouth go dry.
“Comfortable?” he lilts.
“Very,” you say, running your hand over the duvet. It’s some kind of Egyptian cotton, probably, the kind that costs more than your monthly rent. “Though I have to say, I expected more from the bedroom of Fontaine’s most infamous acquitted murder suspect.”
Childe’s laugh is sharp and bright. “What were you expecting? Shackles? Bloodstains? A wall of newspaper clippings?”
“This looks like a hotel room,” you counter, gesturing around you. “A very expensive hotel room, granted, but still.”
“I like things simple.” He crosses to the bed, settling on the edge near your feet. Close, but not presumptuous. “Easy to clean, easy to maintain. No clutter.”
“No evidence, you mean.”
The words slip out before you can stop them. You’ve overplayed your hand, you think. You’re supposed to be flirty, interested, not immediately bringing up the trial like some hack journalist fishing for a scoop.
“Are you always this charming on first dates,” Childe drawls, “or am I special?”
“You’re special,” you assure him, recovering quickly. You shift onto your side, propping your head on your hand. “I’m sorry. Occupational hazard. I’m a journalist—I ask inappropriate questions.”
“So you said at dinner. Lifestyle section at The Steambird, right? Writing hard-hitting pieces about the best cafés in the Court of Fontaine and which shoes are in this season.”
The condescension should irritate you, but it only serves to make you more determined instead. “Someone has to tell the people where to get their morning coffee.”
“And is that what you want to be doing? Coffee reviews?”
“No,” you admit; honesty might serve you here. “I want to be doing real journalism. Investigations, exposés, the kind of work people actually read.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because the people who run newspapers are cowards who think women should stick to writing about fashion and food.” You sit up properly, tucking your legs beneath you. “I don’t have the right connections or the right last name or the right—”
This is too much truth, too much vulnerability. You’re supposed to be mysterious, alluring, not complaining about your career trajectory.
Childe looks at you expectantly. “The right what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” You shake your head, trying to recalibrate. This is going all wrong. You’re supposed to be seducing him, not trauma-dumping about your professional frustrations. “Tell me about Snezhnaya. You grew up there, right?”
“Changing the subject,” he observes.
“Deflecting,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”
He laughs again. “Yes, I grew up there, in a small town called Morepesok. Cold as hell, nothing to do but fight and fish.”
“And you chose Fontaine because…?”
“Better weather. Better food. Plus, I like the water. Grew up on it. Fontaine’s canals remind me of home.”
“The canals where the bodies were found.”
“Jesus, you really don’t know when to stop, do you?”
You wince. “Sorry, I—”
“No, I like it.” He shifts closer, and suddenly the space between you has narrowed considerably. “Everyone else wants to pretend it didn’t happen. Walk on eggshells, avoid the subject, act like I’m made of glass. It’s exhausting.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who takes such things to heart.”
“I’m not.” Childe’s hand comes to rest on your ankle absent-mindedly. His thumb brushes the bone there. “But people are strange about trauma. They either want to consume it—tell me all the gory details, how did it feel, were you scared—or they want to bury it and pretend it never happened. No one knows how to just… exist with it.”
You look down at his hand on your ankle. His fingers are long, scarred across the knuckles. Fighter’s hands. “And which category do I fall into?”
“Neither, I think,” Childe says, looking up at you through his lashes. “You’re curious, but not voyeuristic. The questions you ask aren’t cruel.”
This is good, you tell yourself. It’s exactly what you need. He’s opening up, starting to trust you. In ten days, you’ll have enough material for the article of your career: an inside look at Tartaglia, as he calls himself, the man who was almost convicted of serial murder, told through the lens of an ill-fated romance. Your editor Euphrasie will eat it up. The readers will eat it up. You’ll finally get out of the lifestyle section and into real journalism.
All you have to do is make him fall in love with you, and then break his heart.
The guilt that twists in your stomach is inconvenient and unwelcome, so you shove it down and lean forward, closing the distance between you. “Can I kiss you?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Childe says.
The kiss is soft, slow; you’d anticipated urgency, heat, the kind of aggressive passion you’d read about in the trial transcripts when they’d detailed his history of bar fights and boxing matches. But Childe kisses like he has all the time in the world, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck while his thumb traces the line of your jaw. He tastes like the wine from dinner and something else, something that might just be him.
You’re supposed to be the one doing the seducing, you think vaguely, but he gently bites your lower lip and you hear yourself make a sound that’s frankly embarrassing, and most thoughts vanish from your head as fast as they appeared.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Still doing research for that coffee article?”
“Shut up,” you breathe, and pull him back in.
His hands slide under the silk of your blouse, fingers splaying across your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra. You work at the buttons of his shirt with increasingly clumsy fingers—why are there so many buttons, why is your coordination suddenly that of a drunk toddler—until he huffs a laugh against your mouth and pulls back to shrug it off himself—and oh. Oh.
You’d known he was fit; you could tell that much through his clothes, the way fabric pulled across his shoulders, the lean lines visible even through tailoring. He’s all lean muscle and pale skin. There are scars scattered across his torso; a thin white line across his collarbone; something that looks like a burn on his left shoulder. There’s a particularly nasty one across his ribs that looks like it required stitches, puckered and still slightly pink, and your fingers find it almost unconsciously.
“Boxing,” he says, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, then your wrist, then the inside of your elbow. “I’m better now. Usually.”
“Usually?”
“I still lose my temper sometimes, but I’m working on it.”
You should probably be concerned about that, but your brain has officially gone offline, all blood redirected south. When he leans in to kiss you again, you forget why any of that—the admission of violence, the scars—should matter.
His hands are warm on your skin. They slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra, and then that’s gone too, tossed somewhere in the general direction of your blouse. He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown wide and dark.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
You’re not used to being looked at like this. Most of your previous encounters have been fumbling, rushed things with men who were more interested in the destination than the journey.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—I don’t know. Special or something.”
Childe smiles. “Maybe you are.”
Before you can formulate a response to that, he’s kissing his way down your body: your collarbone, where he pauses to suck a mark; the swell of your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before taking it into his mouth. You arch into him, hands fisting in his hair.
He takes his time with your breasts, lavishing attention on each one until you’re squirming beneath him, aching and empty. When he finally continues his descent—kissing down your ribs, your stomach, pausing to trace his tongue along the waistband of your skirt—you’re squirming and moaning for more.
“Childe,” you gasp.
“Patience,” he murmurs against your hip bone.
He works your skirt down your legs, taking your underwear with it, before you’re completely bare before him. The air feels cool on your heated skin. You resist the urge to cover yourself, to hide, because he’s looking at you like you’re a feast and he’s been starving.
“Beautiful,” he says again, running his hands up your thighs, pushing them wider. “Can I taste you?”
“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes.”
He settles between your legs, broad shoulders forcing your thighs even wider, and for a moment, he simply looks, studies, as though he’s memorising this too, adding it to whatever internal catalogue he’s building—then his mouth is on you and coherent thought becomes impossible.
Childe’s tongue traces through your folds slowly, exploratory, like he’s learning what makes you gasp, what makes your hips jerk, what makes your hands tighten in his hair. When he finds your clit—circling it with the tip of his tongue, then flattening against it—you actually see stars.
“Fuck,” you breathe, and feel him smile against you.
He’s good at this, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that have you trembling. When he slides one finger inside you—just one, slow and careful—you keen.
“More,” you demand, rolling your hips against his face.
He hums in acknowledgement, and adds a second finger. The stretch is delicious, his fingers thick and skilled, and when he crooks them just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision white out, you have to bite down on your own hand to keep from crying out.
“Don’t,” he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your wet skin. “I want to hear you.”
“Your neighbours—”
“Can deal with it.” He punctuates this by sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, and the hand you’d been using to muffle yourself flies to grip the sheets instead. When he adds a third finger, his tongue still working your clit in circles, you feel heat spread from the base of your spine.
“Childe,” you gasp. “I’m going to—”
“Let go,” he murmurs. “I want to feel you come on my tongue.”
The words alone nearly sound you over, but it’s the addition of his fingers pressing just right, his tongue flicking over your clit, that finally makes you orgasm. Your back arches off the bed, thighs trembling around his head. He works you through it, gentler now, until the aftershocks fade and you’re left panting and boneless, staring at the ceiling.
“Fuck,” you manage, eloquent as ever.
He grins up at you from between your thighs, chin glistening, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Good?”
“Smug bastard,” you say, which just makes him grin wider.
“Is that a yes?”
Instead of answering, you hook your leg around his waist and use the leverage to flip him onto his back. It catches him off guard—his eyes widen, then darken with renewed interest as you straddle his hips.
“My turn,” you announce, working at his belt with fingers that are still slightly unsteady.
“You don’t have to—” he starts, but you cut him off by pressing your lips to his.
“I want to,” you say against his mouth.
You can feel his cock hard beneath you, straining against the fabric of his pants, and the knowledge that you did that to him sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. You make quick work of his belt, then his zipper, and he helps you, lifting his hips so you can pull his pants and boxers down and off.
His cock is big, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip. Your mouth waters. When you wrap your hand around him, he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking involuntarily.
“Sensitive?” you tease, stroking him slowly from base to tip.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he grits out.
You stroke him a few more times, watching the way his abs contract with each movement, the way his hands fist in the sheets. Leaning down, you lick a stripe up his length, base to tip, and the sound he makes is absolutely filthy.
“Fuck, malyshka,” he breathes, one hand flying to your hair.
You take his cock into your mouth slowly, watching Childe’s face as you do. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, a flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. He’s gorgeous like this, all that control fraying at the edges, coming apart under your touch. You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, using your hand on what you can’t fit, and establish a rhythm, bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks, using your tongue along the underside.
“Christ,” he gasps, fingers tightening in your hair. “Your mouth is—fuck, that’s—”
You hum around him and his hips jerk, pushing deeper. You let him, opening your throat, and the moan he lets out is worth the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes. For several minutes, there’s no sound but the obscene wet sounds of your mouth on him, his increasingly ragged breathing, the occasional curse or gasp when you do something he particularly likes. You feel powerful like this, in control in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.
This man who was accused of murder, who fights for fun, who moves through the world with such confidence—you’re reducing him to trembling need with just your mouth.
“Wait,” he gasps suddenly, tugging gently at your hair. “Wait, stop, I’m going to—”
You pull off him with a pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Don’t you want to come?”
“Not yet. I want—” Childe reaches for the nightstand, fumbling the drawer open. “Condom. I want to be inside you when I come.”
The words send heat pooling low in your belly. You watch as he pulls out a box—thank God he has them, you hadn’t even thought to bring any—and extracts a foil packet.
“Let me,” you say, taking it from him.
You tear it open carefully, then roll it onto him slowly, enjoying the way his breath catches, the way his hips twitch with each touch. When you’re done, you stay straddling him, positioning yourself over his length.
“Can I?” you ask.
“God, yes.”
You sink down slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch feels good. He’s big and you’re still sensitive from your orgasm, and you have to pause halfway, breathing through the burn.
“Okay?” His hands are on your hips, steadying but not pushing. When you look down at him his face is tight with the effort of holding still.
“Yeah,” you manage. “Just—give me a second.”
“Take your time.” Childe sits up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close so your chests are pressed together. He presses kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, sweet and soft. “You feel incredible. So tight and perfect.”
The praise makes you clench around him and he groans into your neck. You take a breath, then sink down the rest of the way, taking his cock fully. You feel impossibly full, stretched in the best way, and when he shifts slightly, the angle has him hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur.
“Move,” he says roughly against your neck. “Please, move.”
You do, rolling your hips experimentally. You find a rhythm—slow at first, learning what angles work, what movements make him groan and dig his fingers into your hips. Then faster, chasing the pleasure building in your core.
Childe’s hands roam your body like he can’t decide where he wants to touch most. Your hips, guiding your movements. Your waist, fingers spanning your ribs. Your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples and making you gasp. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking marks into your skin.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Ride me.”
You do, picking up the pace, using his shoulders for leverage. The pleasure builds with each roll of your hips, each time he hits that perfect spot inside you. You’re chasing it now, desperate for it, and when his hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing it, you nearly sob.
“Childe,” you gasp. “I’m close, I’m—”
“I know. I can feel you. So tight around me, malyshka. Come on, let me feel it. Let me feel you come on my cock.”
The words are your undoing. Your second orgasm makes you clench around him. You hear yourself cry out, some nonsensical combination of his name and profanity, and distantly you feel him shift, gripping your hips and moving you faster, harder, chasing his own release.
“Where?” he gasps. “Where can I—”
“Inside,” you manage, still trembling through aftershocks. “I want to feel you come inside me.”
He buries his face in your neck with a groan, hips stuttering. His arms wrap around you tight, holding you close, and you cling to him just as desperately. Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat, and you’re pretty sure his is doing the same because you can feel it against your chest.
“Christ,” he mutters into your shoulder.
You huff a laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah.”
Slowly, carefully, you extract yourself from him. He winces slightly as he slips out, and you do too, suddenly feeling very empty. He deals with the condom while you collapse onto the bed beside him, boneless and satisfied.
The sheets are a disaster—rumpled and half off the bed, definitely in need of washing. You feel a petty sort of satisfaction at having thoroughly ruined his pristine bedroom.
Childe collapses beside you, reaching for you immediately, pulling you into his side. You go willingly, resting your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from its frantic pace. His fingers trace idle patterns on your shoulder, up and down your arm, soothing and mindless. Sex is just biology. This—the gentleness—feels like more.
You should leave. This is getting too comfortable.
But you’re warm and sated and his bed is incredibly comfortable, and when you try to sit up, his arm tightens around you.
“Stay,” Childe mumbles, voice heavy with approaching sleep.
“I have work in the morning,” you say.
“So do I.”
You should say no. This is supposed to be about the story, the article and the promotion. You’re not supposed to actually like him. You’re definitely not supposed to fall asleep in his arms after the best sex of your life.
But his breathing is already evening out, and you’re so comfortable, and just this once won’t hurt, right?
“Okay,” you whisper. Within minutes, Childe’s breathing has deepened into sleep, but you lie awake for a long time, staring into the darkness, trying very hard not to think about what you’re doing; eventually, exhaustion wins, and you drift off in his arms.
You wake to pale morning light filtering through the windows, disoriented for a moment before the events of last night come rushing back. Childe is still asleep beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other draped across your waist. His hair is a disaster, copper strands sticking up at odd angles where you’d run your fingers through it. He looks younger like this, peaceful, the sharp edges softened by sleep.
Logically, you should feel triumphant. Phase one complete: sleep with the target, establish intimacy, begin the emotional manipulation. Everything is going according to plan.
Instead, you feel vaguely nauseous.
You carefully extricate yourself from his grip, moving slowly so as not to wake him. He makes a small sound of protest in his sleep but doesn’t wake; he simply rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. The pillow you slept on, you realise. The one that probably smells like your perfume now.
Your clothes are scattered across the floor—blouse, skirt, bra, underwear, all evidence of last night’s activities. You gather them quietly, getting dressed in the pre-dawn dimness. One of the buttons on your blouse is missing, you notice. Childe had torn it off in his haste. The memory sends an unwelcome flutter through your stomach.
You’re halfway to the door when you remember the plan, the tactics you’d researched, all those articles about “how to make him chase you” and the “psychology of desire.” Rule number one: always leave them wanting more. Never be too available. Create mystery, create distance, make them wonder.
Leaving without goodbye is textbook. It’s supposed to make you seem aloof, independent, not too eager. It’s supposed to make him anxious, worried that maybe you didn’t feel the same connection he did. It is, also, manipulative as hell, and you hate yourself for even thinking it.
But this is work. It’s everything you’ve been working towards.
You glance back at him one more time. He’s still sleeping, one hand now stretched out across the space where you’d been lying, as if searching for you even in sleep. Then, you notice your purse on the chair by the door. Your phone is inside it, along with your keys, your wallet, your ID. The idea comes to you fully formed: leave the purse. Give yourself a reason to come back.
More importantly, give him a reason to reach out and prove he’s thinking about you. Men are hunters, one article had said. They need to chase. If you make it too easy, they lose interest.
Your hand hovers over the purse for a long moment, and quickly, you decide to take only your phone and wallet with you, leaving the purse on the chair and slipping out the door.
The elevator ride down feels interminable. The morning doorman gives you a knowing look that makes your cheeks burn—walk of shame, clearly—but you lift your chin and stride past him into the cool Fontaine morning.
“Flowers for the Lifestyle editor?”
The bellboy at The Steambird stands awkwardly by your cubicle, holding an enormous bouquet of white roses and pale blue hydrangeas that probably costs more than your weekly salary. You stare at them.
“There must be some mistake,” you say.
“Are you the Lifestyle editor?” The bellboy checks the card. “It just says ‘Lifestyle section, The Steambird.’”
You’re not the editor—that would be old Monsieur Bellerose, who’s been at the paper since before you were born and who wouldn’t know a hydrangea from a turnip. But you’re the only one currently in the lifestyle section this early in the morning, so you reach for the flowers with growing dread.
“Thanks,” you mutter, and the bellboy looks relieved to be rid of them.
You sneeze.
“Bless you?” the bellboy offers uncertainly.
You sneeze again, and again. Your eyes are already starting to water.
“Oh, no,” you say, holding the bouquet at arm’s length. “Oh, no, no, no—”
You’re allergic to flowers—every flower that isn’t a cactus or possibly a succulent. It’s why you’ve never understood the appeal of botanical gardens, why you avoid the flower district like the plague, and why your last boyfriend had learned very quickly that giving you flowers was the equivalent of biological warfare.
The irony of being a lifestyle journalist who can’t be within ten feet of a floral arrangement without turning into a sneezing, watery-eyed mess is not lost on you.
“Are you okay?” the bellboy asks.
“Fine,” you wheeze, even as your nose starts to run and your eyes begin to itch. “Just—thanks for delivering them.”
Trying to decide what to do with the bouquet brings you to an impasse. You can’t just throw them away—they’re clearly expensive, and there’s a card, and you should at least read the card before disposing of it. You grab a tissue from your desk drawer with your free hand, pressing it to your streaming nose, and use your pinky to extract the small cream envelope from among the blooms. This, naturally, requires you to bring the flowers closer to your face, which triggers another round of sneezing so intense that Monsieur Bellerose looks up from his desk to see if you’re dying.
The card reads: You left something behind. Including this.
Inside is your lipstick, and beneath it, in elegant script: Dinner tonight, 7pm. I’ll text you the address. — C.
Under normal circumstances, this would be romantic, the kind of gesture that would make any reasonable woman smile and perhaps swoon a little. You are not, currently, any reasonable woman.
“Holy shit, what is that?”
You turn to find Navia standing behind you, coffee in one hand.
“Flowers,” you manage between sniffles. “From Childe.”
“Are you—are you crying?” Navia’s eyes widen in horror. “Did he send you breakup flowers? On day two? That has to be some kind of record—”
“I’m not crying, I’m allergic,” you say. “I’m allergic to flowers. All flowers.”
Navia stares at you before laughing.
“This is not funny,” you say, which is undermined somewhat by the violent sneeze that punctuates the sentence.
“Your rich murder suspect sent you the most romantic, expensive bouquet I’ve ever seen, and you’re allergic to it,” Navia says. “The universe has a sense of humour, I’ll give it that.”
“Help me,” you plead, sneezing again. Your eyes are fully streaming now, mascara probably running down your face. “What do I do with them?”
“Give them to someone else?” Navia suggests, still giggling. “Bellerose’s wife would probably love them.”
“I can’t give away flowers that were specifically sent to me! That’s rude.”
“Ruder than showing up to your date tonight looking like you’ve been crying for six hours straight?”
She has a point, and as soon as you acknowledge this, your phone rings. The caller ID reads Childe.
“Don’t answer it,” Navia whispers, suddenly serious. “You sound like you’re actively dying.”
“I have to answer it,” you whisper back, voice congested. “It’d be weird if I didn’t.”
“You’re going to sound like you’ve been crying!”
“I’ll just—” Sneeze. “—explain—”
You make an executive decision, set the flowers down on the farthest corner of your desk, grab another tissue, and answer the phone. “Hello?” you manage, and immediately wince. You sound like you’ve been gargling gravel and crying into a pillow for the last hour.
“Are you… okay?”
“I’m fine!” you say brightly.
“You don’t sound fine,” Childe says. “You sound like you’re crying.”
“I’m not crying!” This is technically true. You’re not crying from emotions; you’re crying because your body has decided that flowers are the enemy and must be destroyed via excess mucus production.
“Are you sure? Because if the flowers upset you—”
“The flowers didn’t upset me!” You sneeze.
“That’s the third time you’ve sneezed since you answered,” Childe says slowly. “And you sound extremely congested. Are you sick?”
“No, I’m—” You pause. Either you admit that you’re allergic to his thoughtful, expensive, romantic gesture, or you lie and pretend you’re mysteriously coming down with something. The first option makes you seem ungrateful. The second option is dishonest, but it’s also easier, and you’ve already lied to him about basically everything else, so what’s one more lie—
“I’m allergic to flowers,” you admit miserably. “All flowers—though the ones you sent me are very beautiful, by the way, and very thoughtful, and I really appreciate the gesture.”
Childe, too, starts laughing. Full, genuine, from-the-belly laughter that goes on for so long you start to feel offended.
“It’s not that funny,” you mutter, grabbing another tissue.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps, still laughing. “I’m so sorry, it’s just—I spent twenty minutes at the florist this morning. Twenty minutes. The woman kept suggesting different arrangements and I kept saying no, it has to be perfect, it has to be romantic, and I settled on roses and hydrangeas because they looked classic and elegant, and—” He dissolves into laughter again. “And you’re allergic to them.”
“Very allergic,” you confirm, sniffling pathetically. “I look like I’ve been crying for hours. My coworker thought you’d broken up with me.”
“On day two?” He sounds delighted by this. “What kind of monster do people think I am?”
“You were accused of serial murder, so the bar is pretty low.”
“Okay. Okay, new plan. Where are you right now?”
“At work. At my desk. The bouquet’s three feet away from me.”
“Can you move it?”
“I tried. I had to get the card out. It triggered another sneezing fit.”
“Right. Okay. Don’t touch them. I’m sending someone to pick them up.”
“You don’t have to—I can just give them to my boss—”
“I’m sending someone to send them to your boss’s home, then,” he says firmly, “and I’m sending you something else. Something you’re not allergic to. Do you have any other allergies I should know about? Chocolate? Wine? Sunlight?”
“I’m not a vampire.”
“Good to know. How do you feel about food?”
“I’m pro-food, generally.”
“Excellent. Give me two hours.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “And in the meantime, go wash your face. You probably look terrible.”
“Wow. Romance.”
“You said you look like you’ve been crying for hours,” Childe says. “Go fix that before your editor sees you and thinks I’m some kind of insane boyfriend who sends his girlfriend flowers that make her cry.”
“You’re not my boyfriend,” you point out, even as something warm unfurls in your chest at the word.
“Not yet,” he replies easily. “But I’m working on it. Now, go. I’ll text you when it arrives.”
He hangs up, and you lower the phone, only to find Navia staring at you. “What?” you ask.
“You’re smiling,” she observes. “Like, really smiling.”
“I’m not—” You catch sight of your reflection in your dark phone screen and realise she’s right. Despite your watery eyes and general mucus situation, you’re grinning like an idiot. “Shut up.”
“This is bad,” Navia says, shaking her head. “You’re falling for him.”
“I’m not falling for him! He just—he was nice about the flower situation.”
“He made you laugh while you were actively having an allergic reaction. That’s not just nice, that’s—” She waves her hand vaguely.
“I don’t have feelings. I have a job to do,” you lie, and grab the flowers—at arm’s length, holding your breath—and march over to Monsieur Bellerose’s desk.
“For your wife,” you announce, setting them down and immediately backing away. “With my compliments.”
Bellerose looks up from his crossword, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? These look expensive.”
“I’m allergic,” you explain, already feeling your sinuses start to clear, “and your wife will appreciate them more than I can.”
“Well, that’s very thoughtful. She’ll be delighted.” He inhales deeply, his large, walrus-like moustache quivering. “Beautiful blooms. Someone must think very highly of you.”
“Sure,” you say, and retreat to the bathroom. Navia was right—you look terrible. Your eyes are red and swollen, mascara smudged down your cheeks. You spend ten minutes with cold water and paper towels trying to repair the damage, and by the time you’re done, you look almost human again.
When you return to your desk, the flowers are blessedly gone, and Monsieur Bellerose gives you a cheerful wave. “My wife says thank you!” he calls. “She’s already showed them off to our neighbours. They’re absolutely divine!”
You try to focus on work—there’s an article about seasonal pastries that needs finishing—but you keep checking your phone. What is Childe sending? And why does it matter so much? You shouldn’t care. This is all manipulation, part of the game. He’s trying to win you over with thoughtful gestures; you’re supposed to be documenting it all for your article, not getting flustered over it.
Your phone buzzes. You grab it so fast you nearly knock over your own coffee.
Childe: Delivery incoming. Hope you like it.
Five minutes later, the bellboy from earlier appears. He’s carrying a large paper bag that smells absolutely incredible.
“For you,” he says, setting it on your desk. “And the sender said to tell you that he’s checked, and there are no allergens.”
You open the bag. Inside is a feast from Café Lutece—the same place you’re supposed to be having dinner tonight. There’s a container of their famous seafood soup, fresh bread still warm from the oven, a small salad with vinaigrette on the side, and a slice of chocolate tart. There’s also a note written on the café’s stationery in what you recognise as Childe’s handwriting.
I figured if I can’t give you flowers without causing a biological incident, I should at least feed you. Consider this a preview of tonight. I’m sorry for laughing. Actually, I’m not sorry. It was objectively hilarious. But I am sorry you’re allergic, malyshka. — C.
Your phone buzzes again.
Childe: Did it arrive?
You: Yes. Thank you. It’s too much.
Childe: Nothing is too much for someone who suffered through anaphylactic shock for my romantic gesture.
You: It wasn’t anaphylactic shock. Just mild respiratory distress.
Childe: That’s basically the same thing.
You: It’s medically very different.
Childe: Are you eating the food or are you arguing with me via text?
You: Can’t I do both?
Childe surprises you the next day with front row tickets to the opera. Despite having lived in Fontaine for a majority of your life, you haven’t actually attended one of the many shows that take place at the Opera Epiclese; that sort of thing usually falls under the purview of Galanopoulo and Houallet, who cover the Arts & Culture section of the newspaper.
The tickets arrive via courier at noon, tucked into a cream envelope with your name written in that now-familiar handwriting. Inside: two tickets to tonight’s performance at the Opera Epiclese, along with a note.
I know it’s short notice, but I had a feeling you might like this. Pick you up at 6? We can get dinner after. — C.
This is good, you tell yourself. This is perfect, actually. Opera attendance is exactly the kind of thing that would make for good article material. Subject demonstrates excessive romantic gesturing in attempt to impress target. Opera tickets, expensive dinner, etc.
It’s also, according to the three different articles you’d read last night, the perfect opportunity to start implementing phase two of the plan: acting weird.
The theory, as explained by various relationship experts, is that men are initially attracted to mystery and normalcy. To drive them away, you need to shatter that illusion. Be too available. Too interested. Too much. Talk about marriage on the third date. Introduce them to your parents. Pretend to name your future children.
You’d read the articles with growing horror, but Euphrasie had been clear: Make him fall, then make him run. The readers want to see the progression. They want to understand the psychology.
So. Opera. Weird behaviour. Get information for the article. Break his heart. Simple.
You spend the rest of the afternoon oscillating between working on your pastry article (which is mind-numbingly boring) and researching Childe (which is significantly more interesting but also makes you feel like a stalker).
There’s not much available beyond the trial coverage. His social media presence is essentially nonexistent. There’s a LinkedIn that lists him as “Independent Consultant” which tells you absolutely nothing. The most you can find is a brief mention in a business journal about a real estate acquisition, and a photo from some charity boxing match where he’s shaking hands with the Commissioner of the Maison Gardiennage, which is either ironic or ballsy or both.
“Stalking your boyfriend?” Navia appears behind your desk. Apparently, she has nothing better to do than monitor your descent into moral bankruptcy.
“He’s not my boyfriend. And I’m not stalking. I’m researching.”
“For the article where you manipulate him and break his heart?”
“Yes.”
“Just checking.” She peers at your screen. “Find anything good?”
“No,” you say. “There’s nothing about him anywhere except the trial.”
“Maybe he’s boring.”
“He’s not boring.” The words come out more defensive than intended. “He’s just… private.”
“Private or hiding something?” Navia raises an eyebrow. “You know there’s a difference, right?”
“He was acquitted, Navia. He’s innocent.”
“So you keep saying. You know what’s interesting? Three days ago, you didn’t care if he was innocent or guilty. You just cared that he’d make a good copy. Now you’re defending him like he’s actually your boyfriend.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Navia sets down her coffee. “Look, I’m trying to be a bitch here. I’m trying to be your friend. And as your friend, I’m telling you that you’re getting in too deep.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re going to the opera with him tonight, and I’m willing to bet you’re already planning what to wear, and you’re probably going to end up sleeping with him again, and then you’re going to feel even worse about the whole thing.”
She’s not wrong, which is infuriating. “I have a plan,” you say.
“Oh, this should be good.”
“I’m going to start acting weird. Clingy. All the things that are supposed to drive men away.” You pull up one of the articles on your phone, showing her. “See? I’m going to implement these tactics, and he’s going to start pulling away, and then the breakup will be easier.”
Navia skims through the article, her expression growing increasingly incredulous. “You’re going to introduce him to your parents?”
“My parents live in Mondstadt, so that’s logistically challenging, but theoretically yes.”
“You’re going to talk about baby names.”
“If necessary.”
“You’re an idiot,” she says. “You think you’re going to manipulate him into breaking up with you so you don’t have to feel guilty about it. But that’s not how this works. You’re still lying to him and using him. The only difference is that now you’re being annoying while you do it.”
“It’s for the article—”
“It’s because you like him, but you don’t want to hurt him, so you’re going to make him hurt you first. That way you can tell yourself it’s not your fault.”
“I have to do this,” you say quietly. “The promotion—”
“Is it worth it?” Navia asks. “Really? Is it worth whatever this is doing to you?”
You don’t have an answer to that.
Childe picks you up at six o’clock exactly, and you hate that your heart does a stupid little flip when you see him. He’s wearing a suit, dark blue with a crisp white shirt, and his hair is styled back from his face, and he looks unfairly attractive.
“Wow,” he says when you open the door. His eyes go wide. “You look… wow.”
You’d agonised over what to wear before settling on a black cocktail dress that Navia had insisted you buy last year for a work event. It’s elegant without being too formal, and it makes you look like you know what you’re doing, which is good because you definitely don’t.
“You clean up nice yourself,” you manage.
“I try.” He offers his arm with a small, almost shy smile. “Ready?”
No. Absolutely not. You’re about to spend the evening with a man you’re actively planning to manipulate and destroy, while also trying to get information for an article about said manipulation and destruction, while also possibly developing actual feelings for him, which is the worst possible outcome.
“Ready,” you lie.
The Opera Epiclese is stunning at night. The whole building seems to glow from within, and there are well-dressed people streaming up the steps, chattering excitedly about the evening’s performance. You’ve walked past this building a thousand times, but you’ve never been inside, and stepping through the doors feels like entering a different world. The lobby is all marble and gold leaf, with soaring ceilings and crystal chandeliers. There are ushers in formal wear directing people to their seats, and a bar where people are gathering for pre-show drinks.
“Want a drink?” Childe asks, his hand settling at the small of your back.
“Sure.”
He guides you to the bar and orders two glasses of champagne without asking what you want; it should be presumptuous, but isn’t because he’s already learned that you prefer white wine to red, and champagne is close enough.
“Have you ever been to the opera before?” he says, handing you a glass.
“No. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never actually been inside this building.”
“Really?” He looks surprised. “Why not?”
“Tickets are expensive. And I’ve been busy with work.” You take a sip of champagne. “Plus, I always figured opera was for rich people and tourists.”
“I’m a rich person,” he points out.
“You’re also kind of a tourist,” you say. “You’ve only lived here for what, three years?”
“Four. And I’m hurt that you think I’m a tourist.” He’s smiling though, clearly not actually hurt. “I’ll have you know I’m very integrated into Fontainian society. I know all the best restaurants, I can navigate the canals without getting lost, and I only occasionally get my Fontaine history wrong.”
“That’s exactly what a tourist would say.”
“Rude,” Childe says. He leans closer, voice dropping. “For that, I’m not going to tell you the plot of the opera beforehand. You’ll have to figure it out yourself.”
“I’m sure I can manage.”
“It’s in Old Fontainian,” he says, grinning now.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Childe—”
“Ajax,” he corrects. “And I’m absolutely not kidding. This is a traditional performance.”
You stare at him. “I don’t speak Old Fontainian.”
“Nobody speaks Old Fontainian, malyshka. It’s a dead language. That’s what makes it art. Don’t worry, I’ll whisper translations in your ear.”
“You speak Old Fontainian?”
“Enough to get by. I had to learn it for a business deal a few years ago.” Childe—Ajax—shrugs. “It’s actually not that different from modern Fontainian once you get the hang of the grammar.”
Right. Of course he speaks a dead language. Why wouldn’t he?
The lights flicker, signalling that the show is about to start, and Childe offers his arm again. “Shall we?”
Your seats are, as promised, front row centre. You can practically reach out and touch the stage. The orchestra pit is directly in front of you, and you can see the musicians tuning their instruments, the conductor reviewing his score.
“This is insane,” you mumble as you sit down. “These seats must have cost a fortune.”
“Worth it,” Childe says simply, settling beside you. His knee brushes yours, and he doesn’t move it away.
The house lights dim. The conductor raises his baton. The music begins.
You remember, with sudden clarity, that you’re supposed to be acting weird.
The first act passes in a blur of music and incomprehensible Old Fontainian. True to his word, Childe leans over periodically to whisper translations, his breath warm against your ear. “She’s telling her father she’s in love with the poor merchant. Now the father is angry. Now he’s threatening to disown her. Now she’s singing about how love transcends social class, which is very progressive for a 200-year-old opera.”
His translations are helpful. They’re also distracting because he’s very close and smells good.
During the first intermission, you make your move.
“So,” you say brightly, as Childe returns with more champagne. “How many kids do you want?”
He nearly drops both glasses. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Kids. Children. Offspring.” You take a sip of champagne. This is what the article said to do: bring up serious relationship topics way too early. Make him uncomfortable and drive him away. “I’m thinking three. Maybe four? I’ve always wanted a big family.”
Childe stares at you. “We’ve known each other for three days.”
“I know! Isn’t it crazy how comfortable I feel with you?” You reach over and pat his knee. “I feel like I can really talk to you about anything. Like we’re already so close.”
“Right,” he says slowly. “That’s… good?”
“It is good!” You squeeze his knee. “I was actually thinking, maybe this weekend you could meet my parents. They’re in Mondstadt, but we could take the aquabus. Make a weekend of it. My mom would love you.”
“Your mom. You want me to meet your mom… this weekend?”
“Why not? When you know, you know, right?” you say, beaming at him. “My mom always says that she knew my dad was the one after their second date. We’re on our third date, so we’re technically behind schedule.”
“Behind schedule,” he repeats faintly.
“For meeting the parents, I mean. Not for getting married. I think we should wait at least six months before getting engaged. Maybe a year. What do you think?”
“I think—” He stops and takes a long drink of champagne. “I think you’re right, actually. We can meet your parents over the weekend. They sound wonderful.”
Oh. Oh, no.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
You scramble, trying to rapidly think of something even more off-putting to say, but the lights flicker once more. People begin moving back to their seats. Childe stands and offers his hand. “Come on,” he says. “The second act is starting. This is where it gets really tragic.”
“More tragic than a father disowning his daughter for falling in love with a poor merchant?” you manage.
“Way more tragic. Everyone dies at the end. It’s an opera.”
You take his hand and let him lead you back to your seats, and you try very hard not to think about Navia’s words from earlier.
The second act is indeed tragic. The poor merchant turns out to be a prince in disguise, which should make everything better, but instead there’s a complicated plot involving mistaken identities and a duel and someone drinking poison meant for someone else. By the end, there are bodies strewn all over the stage and the soprano is belting out a final aria about the cruel nature of fate.
It’s beautiful and devastating, and you maybe cry a little bit, which is mortifying.
“Here,” Childe murmurs, handing you his pocket square.
“I’m not crying.”
“Of course not. You just have something in your eyes.”
You take the pocket square and dab at your eyes, trying to salvage what’s left of your mascara. “It’s just very sad.”
“It is,” he agrees. “That final aria always gets me too.”
“You’ve seen this before?”
“Three times. It’s my favourite opera.”
“Your favourite opera is about everyone dying because of miscommunication and fate?”
“I’m a simple man with simple tastes.” He’s smiling though. “Come on. I promised you dinner.”
The next day, Childe takes you to the aquarium. You compare his face to an ugly sea urchin stuck to the bottom of the petting pool. He laughs good-naturedly and, pointing to a dull sea cucumber, says he sees the resemblance between you and it.
The day after that, you watch a movie together, and you accidentally spill caramel popcorn and Diet Coke all over his new trousers. Childe waves it off, and moves out of his chair to get you a new cup, despite the movie’s climax being shown. You feel sort of guilty after that, because he’d really been looking forward to watching it.
The day after that, he takes you to a laser tag arena, and you accidentally kick him in the balls, say, “Oops!” and shoot at him with your gun. He wins anyway, but not without doubling over in pain for a good ten minutes.
All things considered, it seems as though everything’s going smoothly. You and Childe get along better than you thought you would.
“Why exactly are we doing couples’ therapy again?” Childe asks.
“Because,” you say, clutching a clipboard with an intake form that asks extremely personal questions about your relationship satisfaction, “it’s important to work on communication early. Preventative care for the relationship.”
“We’ve been dating for six days.”
“Exactly. That’s why we should start now, before bad habits form. Don’t you want us to have a strong foundation?”
Childe stares at you. “I want a lot of things. Therapy for a relationship that’s less than a week old was not on that list.”
“It should have been on the list.”
“Most people’s week-one list consists of things like ‘learn their last name’ and ‘find out if they’re a serial killer.’”
“I know your last name.”
“Do you?”
You don’t, actually. You’ve been calling him Childe, or Ajax when he insists, but you’ve never heard a surname. “It’s going to come up in therapy anyway,” you say, deflecting.
“It’s Tartaglia,” he says. “Professionally, at least.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means ‘stutterer.’ Someone called me that once when I was learning Fontainian as a kid and kept messing up my words. It stuck.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, but he’s smiling slightly. “Are you going to write that down on your little form, malyshka? ‘Boyfriend uses fake Fontainian name from childhood trauma’?”
“It’s not a fake Fontainian—” You stop. “Wait. Did you just call yourself my boyfriend?”
“Did I?” His smile widens. “Must have slipped out. Y’know, because of all the couples’ therapy we’re about to do.”
Before you can respond, the door opens and a woman in her fifties with kind eyes emerges. “Ajax and…?” She checks her notes. “I’m sorry, I only have one name here.”
“That’s me,” you say quickly, standing. “Sorry. I forgot to fill in my name on the form.”
“No worries, dear. I’m Dr. Rousseau. Please, come in.”
Dr. Rousseau’s office is beige, with a small fountain in the corner that makes peaceful trickling sounds, bookshelves crammed with therapy texts, and a comfortable-looking red couch. You and Childe sit down together. He’s close enough that his thigh presses against yours, and you’re acutely aware that this is insane. This is beyond insane. You’re sitting in couples’ therapy with a man you’re actively planning to manipulate and destroy, and he’s going along with it because—
Why is he going along with it?
“So,” Dr. Rousseau says, settling into her chair with a notebook. “Tell me a little about your relationship. How did you two meet?”
“At a gallery opening,” Childe says easily. “She spilled wine on my shoes.”
“It was an accident,” you say.
“A very thorough accident. Completely soaked.”
Dr. Rousseau smiles. “And how long have you been together?”
“Six days,” you say.
Her smile freezes slightly. “…I’m sorry?”
“Six days. Well, technically seven if you count today, but we started dating six days ago.”
Dr. Rousseau sets down her pen. “And you’re seeking couples’ therapy.”
“Preventative care,” you say brightly. “We want to build healthy communication patterns early.”
“I see. And what prompted this decision?”
“She did,” Childe says, gesturing at you. “She suggested it yesterday, ‘cause she thought it would be good for us.”
“And you agreed?”
“I did.” He leans back, draping his arm across the back of the couch behind you. “I figured if she’s willing to sit in therapy after six days, she’s either very committed or very crazy, and I’m curious which one it is.”
“I’m not crazy,” you say.
“I didn’t say you were. I said I was curious.”
Dr. Rousseau scribbles something down. “I see. And tell me—what are some areas where you feel your relationship could improve?”
This is where you’re supposed to unleash a litany of complaints designed to make Childe realise you’re too much work. “Communication. I feel like we don’t communicate enough.”
“We text constantly,” Childe says, turning to look at you.
“Texting isn’t real communication.”
“We talk on the phone.”
“Phone calls aren’t the same as face-to-face.”
“We’ve been face-to-face for the past six days. You kicked me in the balls at laser tag—”
“That was an accident!”
“You didn’t even apologise before shooting me.”
“I’m sensing some unresolved conflict around the laser tag incident,” Dr. Rousseau says.
“There’s no conflict,” Childe says. “I won anyway.”
“Because I let you win. You were in pain.”
“I was fine.”
“You were doubled over for ten minutes!”
“Eight minutes. And I still won.” He turns to Dr. Rousseau. “She’s a terrible shot, by the way. Very aggressive tactics, but no accuracy.”
“I have excellent accuracy,” you say. “You’re just fast.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
Dr. Rousseau clears her throat. “I’m noticing some competitive dynamics here. Tell me, do you often turn interactions into competitions?”
“No,” you say at the same time Childe says, “Maybe.”
You turn to him. “We don’t compete.”
“We do. You made that thing at the aquarium into a competition.”
“I did not make comparing our faces to sea creatures into a competition—”
“You said I looked like a sea urchin.”
“You said I looked like a sea cucumber!”
“Because you said I looked like a sea urchin first!”
“And how did that make you feel, Ajax?” Dr. Rousseau says, leaning forward in her seat. “When she compared you to a sea urchin?”
Childe considers this. “Honestly? I thought it was funny. The urchin was pretty ugly, and I was like, ‘fair enough, she’s got me there.’”
“It was a very ugly sea urchin,” you confirm.
“One of the ugliest I’ve ever seen. So when she pointed out the resemblance, I felt I had to respond in kind. The sea cucumber was right there.”
You’re trying very hard not to laugh. This is supposed to be serious. It’s supposed to be driving him away—but he’s sitting here in couples’ therapy, calmly explaining his revenge tactics, and you can feel your resolve crumbling.
“I’m sensing,” Dr. Rousseau says carefully, “that you two have very different communication styles. What attracted you to each other initially?”
This is dangerous territory. You’re supposed to say something shallow, something that suggests you’re only in it for superficial reasons. But Childe is already answering.
“She asks questions nobody else asks,” he says, and his voice is quieter now. “Everyone else wants to talk about the trial—what happened, how I felt, whether I was scared. But she just asks about normal things. About me. Not about what happened to me.” He pauses, then adds, “And she laughs at my jokes. Even the bad ones.”
Your chest feels tight.
Dr. Rousseau turns to you. “And you? What attracted you to Ajax?”
You should say something generic, meaningless. But you’re looking at him, at the way he’s watching you with those too-blue eyes, and the truth spills out before you can stop it.
“He’s kind,” you hear yourself say. “I didn’t expect that. I expected—I don’t know. Someone harder. Someone bitter, maybe, after everything. But he’s just… kind. He sends food instead of flowers because I’m allergic, and explains opera plots in dead languages. He lets me almost win at laser tag even though I kicked him in the balls.”
“I didn’t let you—”
“You did. You slowed down on purpose in the last round.”
“…Maybe a little.”
Dr. Rousseau is smiling now, a real smile. “It sounds like you two actually like each other quite a bit.”
“We do,” Childe says simply, a statement of fact.
Dr. Rousseau makes another note. “Ajax, I’d like to return to something you mentioned earlier. The trial. You said people always talk about it. Can you tell me more about that experience?”
You feel him tense slightly beside you, though his expression doesn’t change. “What do you want to know?”
“How it affected you. Not the facts—I can read those in any newspaper. But how it felt. How it changed you.”
You’re holding your breath without meaning to—this is the information you need for the article. The emotional impact of being wrongfully accused, straight from the source.
“It was…” Childe stops, seeming to search for words. “D’you know what the worst part was? Not the jail cell, or the accusations, or even standing in that box while people decided whether I was a monster. It was watching people who’d known me for years start to believe it. Friends. Colleagues. People I’d had dinner with, shared drinks with. I could see it in their eyes—this little seed of doubt. Like maybe they’d never known me at all.
“The evidence was circumstantial. I knew I was innocent, and so did my lawyer. But when you’re sitting in that defendant’s box and the prosecutor is listing all these coincidences, all these little pieces that don’t quite fit but could maybe add up to something… you start to wonder if maybe you should doubt yourself too.”
“Did you?” you ask quietly. “Doubt yourself?”
“No. I knew I hadn’t done it, but I started to doubt whether that would matter. Whether being innocent was enough, or if the narrative was too good. The rich foreign kid with a violent streak. Perfect scapegoat. When the killer struck again while I was in custody, the relief was… complicated. Because yes, I was free, but someone else had to die for that to happen. Part of me felt guilty for being relieved about that.
“After I got out, I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to relive it, didn’t want to see that doubt in people’s eyes anymore. So I just… went back to normal. Pretended nothing happened. Most people were happy to pretend along with me, because it was easier than acknowledging how close they’d come to condemning an innocent person.”
“Is that why you never gave interviews?” you ask. “Everyone wanted to hear your side, but you never spoke to the press.”
“What was I supposed to say?” Childe says. “‘I didn’t do it, please believe me’? I’d been saying that for months. Nobody listened. Why would they listen after?” He shakes his head. “And honestly? I didn’t want to be that person. The wrongfully accused guy. I just wanted to be Ajax again. Guy who likes boxing and opera and occasionally makes terrible jokes.”
“Your jokes aren’t terrible,” you say automatically.
“Liar,” he quips. “The point is… I didn’t want to be defined by the worst thing that ever happened to me. I wanted to be defined by what I chose to do after.”
The guilt sitting in your stomach has transformed into something sharper, more painful. Childe is sitting here, being vulnerable, being honest, talking about not wanting to be defined by trauma—and you’re planning to make him the subject of an article about emotional manipulation.
You’re going to be the person who proves he was right to be afraid.
“What made you trust her?” Dr. Rousseau asks, nodding towards you. “After all that?”
He’s quiet for a moment, looking at you, eyes roving over your face and studying you in a way that makes you want to squirm.
“She spilled wine on my shoes and looked genuinely horrified,” he says finally, “like it was the worst thing that had ever happened. I remember thinking—this person feels bad about ruining a stranger’s shoes. This person feels bad about minor accidents. After months of people thinking I was capable of murder, someone who felt guilty about wine-stained leather seemed like a breath of fresh air.”
Oh, God.
Oh, God, you’re a terrible person. You’re possibly the worst person in Fontaine.
“Malyshka, I know you’re drunk, but you need to get off my living room floor.”
You don’t want to get off Ajax’s living room floor. You’re perfectly content there, lying spreadeagled like a starfish, cheek pressed against the cold marble. It’s been a week since you met Childe and have seen him every day since; you figure he can handle you drunk.
“The floor is nice,” you mumble. “It’s cool.”
“I’m starting to worry about your standards.” Ajax crouches beside you, and even upside down and blurry, he looks unfairly attractive. “Come on. Let’s get you to the couch at least.”
“Can’t. Boneless. I have no bones.”
“You have bones. I can see your skeleton from here.”
“That’s weird,” you say. “Stop looking at my skeleton.”
He laughs, warm and genuine. It makes your chest hurt in ways that have nothing to do with the three (four? five?) glasses of wine you’ve had. “Okay, boneless woman. I’m going to pick you up now.”
“No,” you protest, but it’s half-hearted because he’s already sliding his arms under you, lifting you with ease. When he carries you to the couch, you mumble, “You’re strong.”
“Boxing,” Ajax says, setting you down gently. “I told you.”
“Right. The violence hobby.”
“It’s not a violence hobby, it’s a sport.”
“A sport where you punch people.”
“A sport where you punch people with rules.” He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water and pain medication. “Drink this. All of it.”
You take the glass but don’t drink. Instead, you stare at him, this man who’s been nothing but kind to you for a week straight, who you’ve been systematically lying to, this man whose trust you’re planning to violate in the worst possible way.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask.
“Because you’re drunk on my couch?”
“No, I mean—” You gesture vaguely, sloshing water slightly. “In general. Why are you so nice? You should be mean and awful. You were accused of murder, you could easily be an asshole about it, but instead you’re—you’re bringing me water and letting me compare you to sea urchins and agreeing to meet my parents who don’t even know you exist.”
Ajax sits down beside you, close enough that your knees touch. “Should I be mean? Would that make you feel better?”
“Yes! No. I don’t know.” You take a large gulp of water to avoid answering further. “You’re confusing.”
“I’m confusing? You’re the one who showed up at my door an hour ago, already three sheets to the wind, demanding to hang out and then immediately collapsed on my floor.”
“I didn’t collapse,” you say.
“You tripped over your own shoes and went down like a sack of potatoes.”
“Lies and slander.”
He’s smiling though, soft and fond, and it makes everything worse. You finish the water in three long gulps and set the glass down with more force than necessary.
“Why did you drink so much?” Ajax asks gently. “Bad day?”
The worst. You’d spent the entire afternoon with Euphrasie, going over your notes, planning the article structure. She’d been thrilled with your progress. This is exactly what we need, she’d said, the emotional vulnerability, the trust, the intimacy. When you pull the rug out, it’s going to be Pulitzer-worthy.
You’d gone straight to a bar after that meeting, and then to another bar, and then you’d found yourself outside Ajax’s building. Evidently, when you’re drowning in guilt and self-loathing, your first instinct is to seek out the source of said guilt.
“Just work stuff,” you say instead. “My editor is being demanding.”
“The lifestyle section is that intense?”
“You have no idea,” you say solemnly.
He laughs again. You wish he would stop doing that. Stop being charming and funny and easy to talk to. Stop making this harder than it already is.
“Can I ask you something?” you say.
“Of course.”
“Do you believe in karma?”
He blinks. “That’s… random.”
“I’m drunk.”
“Fair enough.” Ajax considers it. “I don’t know. Maybe? I’d like to think good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people, but my personal experience suggests that’s bullshit.”
“What if you’re doing something bad but for good reasons?” you say. “Like, objectively bad, but the outcome could be good?”
“Are we talking about murder? Because I feel I should clarify that my stance on murder hasn’t changed since the trial.”
“Not murder. Just… lying. Manipulating someone. Hurting them, but for a good cause.”
Ajax is quiet, studying your face. “I think that people are really good at convincing themselves that their reasons justify their actions. Sometimes they’re right, but usually, if you’re asking that question, you already know the answer.”
Your throat feels tight. “What if you can’t stop?”
“Then you come clean. You tell the truth and deal with the consequences.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “This is a very philosophical conversation for someone who can’t stand up without falling over.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain about a bottle of wine, maybe more.”
“Two bottles,” you admit. “And some whiskey.”
“Gods above,” Ajax says, standing up. “Okay. You’re staying here tonight. I’m not letting you go home like this.”
“I can’t stay here.”
“Why not? You’ve stayed over before.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I snore,” you say.
“Liar,” Ajax says. “I’ve slept next to you. You don’t snore.”
“I might start. Tonight could be the night.”
“I’ll risk it,” he says, heading towards the bedroom. “C’mon, I’ll get you something to sleep in.”
You follow him on unsteady legs, using the wall for support. His bedroom is exactly as you remember: pristine, minimalist, those hospital corners on the sheets that you’d thoroughly ruined last time you were here.
“Do you ever just… leave things messy?” you ask, gesturing at the perfectly made bed.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I spent three months in a cell where I had no control over anything. Now I like things orderly,” he says, rummaging through his dresser. “Is that psychologically concerning?”
“Probably,” you muse. “But you’re in therapy now, so it’s fine.”
“We went to one couples’ therapy session that you made us go to.”
“And? What did we learn?”
Ajax pulls out a t-shirt and sweatpants. “That you’re competitive, I’m defensive, and we both need to work on our communication skills. Here.” He tosses you the clothes. “These should fit.”
You catch them clumsily. The shirt is soft, worn-in, and smells like him—that cedar and something aquatic scent that you’re starting to associate with him. “Turn around.”
“I’ve seen you naked.”
“That was different. I was sober and in control of my faculties.”
“Your faculties were pretty compromised, as I recall. You couldn’t work buttons.”
“That’s ‘cause you have too many buttons! Who has that many buttons on one shirt?”
“Normal people. People who wear normal shirts.” Ajax turns around anyway. “Let me know when you’re decent.”
You struggle out of your clothes; it’s harder than it should be because the room keeps tilting at odd angles. The sweatpants are enormous, hanging low on your hips even when you tie the drawstring. The shirt falls to mid-thigh. You look ridiculous.
“Okay,” you say. “I’m clothed.”
He turns back around. “You look…”
“Like I’m drowning in your clothes?”
“I was gonna say cute, but sure.”
Your face heats. “Shut up.”
“Can’t. It’s objectively true.” He gestures to the bed. “You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say. “It’s your bed.”
“You’re drunk, so you get the bed.”
“We can share! We’ve shared before.”
“You were sober before.”
“So? I’m not going to do anything weird. I’m just going to sleep.” You climb into the bed without waiting for his response, burrowing under the covers. The sheets smell like fabric softener and him, unfairly comfortable. “See? Already sleeping.”
Ajax sighs, but you can hear the smile in it. “Fine.”
He disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running, the sound of teeth being brushed. When he emerges, he’s in pyjama pants and a t-shirt, hair slightly damp like he splashed his face. The bed dips as he slides in beside you.
“You can come closer,” you say. “I don’t bite.”
“You might. You’re drunk and unpredictable.”
“I’m not unpredictable. I’m very predictable. Predictably guilty.”
“…What?”
Shit. “Nothing. Ignore me, I’m drunk.”
“Guilty about what?” Ajax asks.
“Everything. Nothing. Life,” you say, rolling over to face him, which is a mistake because he’s very close and very attractive and you’re very drunk and very emotional. “D’you ever feel like you’re a bad person?”
“Frequently,” he says. “I spent three months accused of serial murder, so the bad person thoughts are kind of a given.”
“But you’re not a bad person,” you say. “You’re good.”
He laughs softly. “I don’t think good people get accused of murder.”
“Innocent people do. You’re innocent.”
“Legally, yes. Socially?” He frowns, just a little, the middle of his forehead creasing. “There are people who think I got away with it. That the second killer was a coincidence or a copycat or whatever lets them sleep at night.”
“That’s bullshit,” you say.
“Maybe. But you can’t control what people believe.” His hand finds yours under the covers, fingers threading through yours. “Why do you feel guilty?”
“Because I’m not as good as you think I am,” you say quietly.
“Nobody’s as good as anyone thinks they are. We’re all just disasters pretending to have our shit together.”
“You have your shit together. Your bed has hospital corners.”
“My bed has hospital corners because if I don’t control something, I’ll lose my mind. That’s not having my shit together.”
You’re quiet for a moment, studying his face in the dim light from the window. “Can I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
“I think you’re the best person I’ve ever met, and I think I’m going to ruin it.”
Ajax’s expression softens. “You’re not going to ruin me, malyshka. I’m pretty hard to ruin. I’ve been through worse than whatever you think you’re capable of.”
The confidence in his voice makes you want to cry. He has no idea. No idea what’s coming, what you’re planning, how thoroughly you’re going to betray him. “What if I’m worse than you think?”
“Then I’ll deal with it,” Ajax says, squeezing your hand. “But I don’t think you are.”
You close your eyes, feeling tears prick at the corners. You’re definitely going to Hell. There’s no way around it. You’re going to Hell, and you’re going to deserve it.
“Ajax?”
“Mm?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
For everything. For lying, and using you, and being exactly the kind of person you should’ve stayed away from. “For being drunk on your floor.”
“I’ve seen worse,” he says. His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. “Get some sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”
“Promise you won’t leave?”
“Where would I go? It’s my apartment.”
“Promise,” you insist, feeling like a petulant child, though you don’t relent.
“I promise.” Ajax pulls you closer, and you let him, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Sleep, malyshka. Everything will be okay.”
The next morning, Ajax tells you a business associate of his—Arlecchino, the owner of the House of the Hearth, a luxury goods business—is hosting a party to celebrate the launch of their newest diamond collection. He says he’s been given two tickets, and can bring a date, and would you please do me the honour?
You say yes.
The morning after that, he sends you food from Café Lutece to your workplace once more, piping hot coffee and croissants smeared with cream, and along with it, a diamond necklace that he says Arlecchino gifted him.
For the diamond in my heart, his note reads.
The evening of the tenth day finds you standing in front of the mirror, awkwardly fiddling with the straps of your dress.
It’s a simple black number: elegant, sophisticated, the kind of thing you’d normally never be able to afford but Navia had insisted you borrow from her mother’s closet. The diamond necklace Ajax sent you sits heavy around your throat, catching the light every time you move. It’s beautiful. Probably worth more than your entire year’s salary.
“Stop fidgeting,” Navia says from where she’s perched on your bed. “You look great.”
“I look like I’m going to throw up.”
“That, too.”
You turn to face her, and the words spill out before you can stop them. “I can’t do this.”
“Do what? Go to a fancy party with your handsome boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. And I can’t—” You gesture helplessly at yourself, at the dress, the necklace. “I can’t keep lying to him. Today’s day ten. I’m supposed to dump him tonight and turn in the article tomorrow morning.”
Navia’s expression shifts from teasing to serious. “So don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t dump him, and don’t write the article. Tell Euphrasie you can’t do it.”
“And lose the promotion? Lose everything I’ve been working towards?”
“Is it worth it?” Navia asks quietly. “Really? You’ve been miserable all week. I’ve watched you fall for this guy, and now you’re supposed to destroy him for a story? That’s cruel.”
“I know,” you say. “I know, okay? But I don’t know what else to do. If I don’t turn in the article, Euphrasie will—”
“Fire you? So what? You’ll find another job. You’re a good writer. But Ajax?” She shakes her head. “You won’t find another him.”
She’s right—but the thought of throwing away two years of work, going back to square one and proving everyone who said you weren’t cut out for real journalism right—
Your phone buzzes.
Ajax: I’m downstairs. Take your time.
“I have to go,” you say.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Navia says. “You could call him right now and tell him you’re sick. You could tell him the truth. You could do literally anything except continue this charade.”
“I know.”
“You’re going anyway.”
“I have to.” You grab your clutch, checking that you have your phone, your lipstick, and your keys. “I just—I need to figure this out. Maybe I can—I don’t know. Fix it somehow.”
“There’s no fixing this,” Navia says. “There’s only telling the truth or continuing the lie. Those are your options.”
You don’t have a response to that, so you just leave.
Ajax is waiting by his car when you emerge from the building, and the smile that spreads across his face when he sees you makes your heart clench.
“Wow,” he says, and it’s the same wow from the opera, from every date, like he’s seeing you for the first time. “You look incredible.”
“It’s Navia’s dress.”
“It’s not the dress,” he says, opening the car door for you, “though the dress is nice too.”
The drive to the House of the Hearth is quiet. Ajax seems content to just hold your hand across the centre console, occasionally glancing over at you. You stare out the window and try to figure out what you’re going to do.
Option one: Go through with it. Dump him tonight, write the article, get the promotion. Become exactly the kind of person you’ve always hated.
Option two: Don’t go through with it. Lose the promotion, probably lose your job, but keep… what? A relationship built on lies? He’ll find out eventually, and he’ll hate you anyway.
Option three: Tell him the truth right now. Come clean, face the consequences, and at least maintain some shred of dignity.
Your phone buzzes. You pull it out.
Euphrasie: We need to do something about the article by tomorrow morning if possible. The editorial calendar is tight.
You stare at the message, feeling sick.
“Everything okay?” Ajax asks.
“Yeah,” you lie. “Just work stuff.”
The House of the Hearth is stunning—a converted mansion in the wealthiest part of Fontaine, with marble walls and crystal lamps and other obscene displays of wealth. There are people in formal wear everywhere, champagne flowing freely, and you spot more diamonds in the first thirty seconds than you’ve seen in your entire life.
“This is insane,” you mutter as Ajax helps you out of the car.
“Arlecchino likes to make an impression.” He offers his arm. “If she asks you invasive questions, that’s just her way of showing interest.”
“Great. Can’t wait.”
The party is already in full swing when you enter. There’s a string quartet in one corner, ice sculptures in another, and waiters circulating with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Ajax is immediately pulled into conversation with various people—business associates, all very wealthy and very interested in talking to him. You smile and nod and try not to feel like you don’t belong here.
“You must be the girlfriend.”
You turn to find a woman who can only be Arlecchino. She’s tall, striking, with an air of authority that makes you want to stand up straighter.
“I’m—yes. Hi.” You extend your hand. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Ajax’s choice, not mine,” she says. Her handshake is firm. “But I approve. You’re different from his usual type.”
“I have a type?” Ajax asks, reappearing with two glasses of champagne.
“You did.” Arlecchino’s smile is sharp. “I like her the most, though.”
“I’m right here,” you point out.
“I know. I’m complimenting you.” She plucks a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Walk with me. I want to show you the new collection.”
Before you can protest, she steers you away from Ajax, through the crowd towards a private viewing room. The diamond collection is displayed under special lighting, each piece more extravagant than the last.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Arlecchino says. “Each one has a story. A history.”
“They’re stunning,” you agree.
“Ajax told me you’re a journalist.”
Your stomach drops. “Lifestyle section. Nothing too exciting.”
“Hmm. And yet you’re dating someone who was the centre of the most sensational trial in Fontaine’s recent history. Curious coincidence.”
“I met him at a gallery opening,” you say carefully. “The trial wasn’t—I didn’t know who he was when we met.”
“You strike me as someone who does her research, though,” Arlecchino says. When you tense, she shakes her head. “Relax. I’m not judging. Ambition isn’t a flaw.”
Before you can respond, you hear raised voices from the main room.
“—can’t believe you actually pulled it off! Ten days!”
You and Arlecchino exchange a look, then head back towards the commotion. You find Ajax surrounded by a group of men in expensive suits. One of them—a tall man with slicked-back hair—has his arm around Ajax’s shoulders, laughing boisterously.
“When you made that bet, Tartaglia, I thought you were out of your mind,” the man is saying, loud enough that people are starting to turn and look. “Make some girl fall in love with you in ten days? I said it was impossible!”
“Dima, keep your voice down—” Ajax is trying to extract himself, looking uncomfortable.
“Why? You won! Fair and square!” Dima raises his glass. “To Childe, who proved that any woman can be manipulated with the right—”
“That’s enough.” Ajax finally pulls away from Dima. “You’re drunk. Go home.”
“I’m celebrating! You won the bet!” Dima turns to the crowd that’s gathering, oblivious to Ajax’s discomfort. “This guy, right here, said he could make any woman fall for him in ten days, and I said—”
“I said I could not screw up a relationship for ten days,” Ajax interrupts, his voice rising. “There’s a difference—”
You’re not listening anymore. The rushing in your ears is too loud. You push through the crowd, trying to get away, trying to breathe—
“Malyshka, wait—”
Ajax catches your arm, and you spin around to face him. The entire party seems to have gone quiet, or maybe that’s just in your head.
“Is it true?” Your voice sounds strange, distant. “Did you make a bet about me?”
“It’s not what it sounds like—”
“Did you or did you not make a bet that you could make me fall for you in ten days?”
He hesitates. It is answer enough.
“Oh, my God.” You pull your arm free. “Oh, my God, you—this whole time—”
“No, listen to me—” He’s reaching for you again, but you step back. “Dima said I couldn’t maintain a relationship for more than a week, that I always get bored and bail. I was trying to prove that I could commit to something for once—”
“By using me as your science experiment?”
“It wasn’t like that! I liked you—”
“You liked me?” You laugh derisively. “How generous. You liked me while you were running your little social experiment.”
“You’re twisting this—”
You’re vaguely aware that people are watching, phones are probably out; this is going to be everywhere by morning, but you can’t stop. “Tell me, Ajax—was any of it real?”
“Of course it was real!” he says. “I fell for you—”
“When? When did you fall for me? Before or after you decided to use me to prove a point to your drunk friend?”
He opens his mouth, closes it. Doesn’t have an answer.
“That’s what I thought.”
“You’re not being fair—”
“I’m not being fair?” you snap. “You made a bet about my feelings!”
“And what about you?” Ajax’s voice turns cold. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?”
You suck in a breath. “What?”
“I’m not an idiot, malyshka. The lifestyle journalist who just happens to approach the guy from the infamous murder trial? Who asks all these probing questions about trauma and feelings?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“The way you’d pull out your phone after our dates and type for ten minutes, and the fact that you work for a newspaper and I’m a story that sells.” Ajax takes a step closer, and you instinctively step back. “So, tell me—and be honest for once in your life—are you writing an article about me?”
You could lie. You could deny it, act offended, turn this back on him—but you’re so, so tired of lying.
“How to lose a guy in ten days,” Euphrasie’s voice cuts through the crowd. Your stomach plummets as your editor materialises beside you; you hadn’t known she’d been invited, too. “That was the assignment. Make a man fall for you in ten days, then dump him and document the whole thing. I always wondered who this mystery man you spoke so much about was—”
“Euphrasie, don’t—”
Ajax stares at you like he’s never seen you before. “You were going to dump me. Tonight. That was the plan.”
“It was,” you admit, because what’s the point in lying now? “But I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t going to—”
“Oh, well, that’s wonderful. How noble of you.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. “You were only going to emotionally manipulate me for ten days and write an exposé about it. What a fucking saint.”
“You did the same thing!” you cry. “You made a bet! How is that any different?”
“You wanted to lose a guy in ten days, right?” Ajax rakes a hand through his hair, fingers trembling and eyes blank now. He looks at you like he doesn’t know you anymore, as though you’ve simply ceased to exist in his world. “Congratulations. You’ve just lost him.”
You feel cold, and hot, and cold again, like your blood has turned to ice.
“No, I didn’t, Childe,” you spit. “You know why? Because you can’t lose something you never had.”
Drafts:
HOW TO ROYALLY FUCK THINGS UP IN TEN DAYS
HOW TO LOSE
HOW TO FALL IN LOVE
HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN TEN DAYS Published by The Steambird.
They say that to be a good journalist, you need to be willing to do whatever it takes to get the story. You need to be ruthless, calculating, willing to cross lines that other people won’t cross. You need to separate yourself from your subject and remember that at the end of the day, it’s just a job.
This was supposed to be an article about manipulation. About the psychology of attraction, the tactics women use to drive men away, the point at which romantic interest curdles into annoyance. It was supposed to be funny, insightful, a clever article on modern dating wrapped in a personal experiment. It was supposed to get me a promotion.
Ten days ago, I met a man at a gallery opening. I spilled wine on his shoes accidentally, and he laughed. Most men would’ve been annoyed, but he laughed, and he asked if I wanted to get dinner sometime, and I said yes.
I said yes because I had been assigned to write an article called “How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.” The premise was simple: make a man fall for you using every manipulation trick in the book, then systematically drive him away and document the whole process. My editor wanted to understand the psychology of romantic sabotage. The readers would eat it up. I would finally escape the lifestyle section.
I needed a subject. He was perfect: high-profile, and media-shy. A man who had been wrongly accused of murder and acquitted, who had never spoken to the press and moved through the world with his guard up. If I could get him to open up to me and make him trust me, the article would be dynamite.
They say you can’t unring a bell. You can’t unknow something once you know it. The man now knows that I approached him for an article. That our first date, our first kiss, and our first night together—all of it happened because I was trying to manipulate him.
It doesn’t matter that I fell for him, or that I quit the assignment. It doesn’t matter that I would give anything to go back and meet him differently, honestly, as just myself.
It only matters what I did.
This is not a how-to guide, or a divulgence on manipulation tactics or dating psychology. This is a warning.
You will meet someone who makes you laugh when you’re having an allergic reaction. Someone who sends you food instead of flowers, who whispers translations at the opera, and who agrees to couples’ therapy after six days because you asked. Someone who has been hurt before and chooses to trust you anyway.
You will have a choice.
You can treat them like a person, or you can treat them like a story. You can be honest, or you can be clever. You can build something real, or you can build something that looks real enough to write about.
Choose wisely.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This article is being published in place of the originally assigned piece. The author has resigned from her position at The Steambird effective immediately. We wish her the best in her future endeavours.
There’s a box at your doorstep, and a cream-coloured envelope on top of it, with your name written in a script you’d recognise anywhere. The note inside reads:
You left something behind.
Okay, no, I’m kidding. You didn’t leave something behind, you left someone behind. Namely, me.
I read your article. The whole city did. It was good. Better than good, actually.
Here’s what I know: we both fucked up. You lied to me about why you approached me, and I lied to you about the bet. We were both using each other for something; we both caught feelings we weren’t supposed to catch.
Here’s what else I know: I miss you, malyshka.
I’m at Café Lutece every morning at 7 A.M. I’ll be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. Come find me. I’ll buy you coffee.
— Ajax
P.S. The box has your purse in it. The one you left on purpose on day one. I kept it because I’m sentimental and pathetic, but you can have it back now.
P.P.S. Or you could leave it at my place again.
