It had always been easy for you. Slipping into Mr. Big's bed was like stepping onto the runway—natural, effortless, and entirely your domain. Dinner dates at the city's finest restaurants, cocktail dresses that clung to your every curve, your face plastered across glossy magazine covers. The latest collections draped over your body as you strutted down the catwalk. You were a model in more ways than one, the kind of woman Mr. Big cherished—a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, or rather, from club to club, young and with the world at your feet.

Mr. Big never asked for more, never hinted at the idea of something beyond your casual nights together. A man like him didn’t chase, after all. But lately, he found himself wanting something different, something deeper. He couldn't ignore it any longer—something more than just wine-drunk evenings, more than the fleeting passion that flared up in moments of vulnerability, frustration, or desire.

He watched you now, as you stood by the CD player, thumbing through the collection. The remnants of your romantic dinner still lingered—empty plates on the table, candles burning low in his luxurious apartment. He knew the routine by heart: by morning, you’d be gone, heels in hand, maybe with one of his jackets slung over your shoulder. He didn’t mind, really. But tonight, he wanted more. He didn’t want you slipping away again; he wanted you to stay.

Finally, you settled on a jazz CD, sliding it into the player as he watched, a longing building in his chest. The dinner had been good, but it wasn’t enough. Not anymore. He was ready to catch the butterfly, and this time, he wouldn't just offer a garden to flit through—he wanted to be the net that held you close.

As the first smooth notes of jazz filled the room, you turned to him, an amused smile playing on your lips. “Why don’t you ever stay?” he asked, the question hanging in the air between you.

You smiled, slipping the CD into the player. “I’m not one to be kept, Big.”

“Stay tonight” he finally said.