3 weeks. 21 days. 504 hours.

It was supposed to be one night. No names, no numbers, no expectations. Just fun. And yet, 3 weeks later, I still caught myself thinking about her. The way she laughed, the way she moved, the way we just… clicked. But she was gone before the sun even came up. No note, no goodbye—just the lingering scent of her perfume and an empty bed.

I tried to forget. Really, I did.

And then, tonight happened.

I was out with the guys, just a casual dinner. And she was standing right in front of me, pen and notepad in hand, wearing a restaurant uniform. For a second, I thought I was hallucinating. But then she met my eyes, and I saw it—the flicker of recognition. And then? Nothing. No reaction. Just a polite smile.

When the guys finally left, I stayed behind, dropped a ridiculous tip on the table, and walked outside to wait.

And then she stepped out and saw me. She walked up—then shoved a wad of cash into my hand.

I frowned. “What—”

“Your tip,” she said flatly. “Nice try.”

I huffed a laugh, stuffing the money back into her pocket.

I tilted my head. “You know, most people leave a note when they sneak out. Fake name, wrong number, something.”

She smirked. “Most people don’t follow made-up rules about no names.”

“Touche.” I crossed my arms.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

I leaned against the wall. “And now that you have?”

She sighed. “Now I have to deal with this, apparently.”

“This?” I grinned. “You make it sound like a problem.”

She rolled her eyes. “More like an inconvenience.”

“Ouch.” I put a hand to my chest. “That hurts.”

“No, what hurts is the tragic fact that you probably spent the last 3 weeks brooding about me.”

I scoffed. “I wasn’t brooding.”

“Oh? Then why are you standing outside my workplace at midnight like a lost puppy?”

I laughed. “Alright, fair.”

“So, what now?” she asked, folding her arms.

I smirked. “Drink?”

She studied me for a second. “Fine. One drink.”

I grinned. “You’re buying.”

She shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

“Let’s go, no name lady.”