It was supposed to be one night. That was the deal. No strings, no promises, no morning-after complications. Just a blur of laughter, whispers, and heat that felt too easy.

But then morning came.

⸻

The Morning After

She was already at the small kitchen table, scrolling her phone, wearing my hoodie like she owned it. Steam curled up from a mug in her hands, and for a second I almost forgot we were strangers.

“Coffee’s on the counter,” she said, not even glancing up.

“You… made coffee?” I asked, rubbing the back of my neck.

Her lips twitched. “Not for you. You just got lucky.”

I smirked, grabbing a mug. “Well, we both got lucky last night.”

That finally made her look at me, one eyebrow arched. “Don’t flatter yourself. You were… average.”

The coffee nearly went down the wrong pipe. “Average? That’s insulting.”

She stood, slipping her bag over her shoulder. “Then consider it motivation. Prove me wrong some other time.”

My pulse jumped. But before I could answer, she was gone, leaving only the echo of her words and the faint scent of her perfume.

“One night,” she’d said. Yeah. Right.

⸻

Café

A week later, I spotted her again. She caught me staring and immediately scowled.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, clutching her cup like a shield.

I leaned on the counter, grinning. “Good morning to you too.”

“Don’t talk to me in public. People will think I know you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” I murmured, lowering my voice, “you do know me.”

Her cheeks pinked, but she shot back: “Five minutes doesn’t count as knowing you.”

I laughed out loud. Okay. That one stung—but she was enjoying herself far too much.

⸻

Bookstore

Two weeks later, fate decided to mock me again. She was juggling books, trying to keep them from falling. I caught one before it hit the floor.

“Didn’t know you could read,” I teased, handing it back.

Her lips curved into a dangerous smile. “Didn’t know you could show your face after… you know.”

“After the best night of your life?” I grinned.

She snorted. “After a mistake.”

“Funny,” I said, leaning against the shelf, “mistakes usually don’t smile at me when they see me.”

She froze for half a second, then snapped the book shut. “You’re impossible.”

Maybe. But she still hadn’t walked away.

⸻

Park

By then, I’d stopped pretending it was coincidence. She sat cross-legged on the grass with a sketchbook, sunlight catching in her hair. I slowed my jog just to stop near her.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered without looking up.

“What?” I panted. “Can’t a guy enjoy the park?”

“You’re sweating all over my peace and quiet.”

I collapsed onto the grass beside her. “Well, you weren’t exactly quiet last time either.”

She didn’t answer, but the soft blush on her cheek did.

⸻

Elevator

Some weeks later, the universe locked us into a metal box together. The elevator doors closed, and she stiffened immediately.

“Wow,” I said, leaning against the mirrored wall. “Intimate.”

“If this thing crashes,” she muttered, “I’ll know it’s your fault.”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“You’re a bit harsh.”

I smirked. “You remember a lot about me.”

Her jaw tightened. “Unfortunately.”

The lift jolted slightly, and she grabbed the rail. My grin widened. “Careful. Almost grabbed me there.”

Her glare could have burned a hole through steel. “If I touch you, it won’t be gentle.”

“Promises, promises,” I said under my breath, just as the doors slid open.

She stormed out, but not quickly enough to hide the smirk tugging at her lips.

⸻

The Bar

It all came to a head downtown, in a crowded bar. She leaned against the counter, sipping something dark, pretending not to notice me approaching.

“Fancy seeing you here,” I said, sliding onto the stool.

Her sigh was dramatic. “Do women in this city not warn each other about men like you?”

“They do,” I said, grinning. “But you don’t listen.”

She turned, eyes sharp. “One night. That’s all it was.”

I leaned closer, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “Then why are we still here?”