The rest of the afternoon at work felt unreal, a hazy dream playing out. Every sound or distant movement blurred together beneath the haunting memory of Hazel's lips on mine. I could still taste the sweetness of her lip gloss, feel the soft, trembling pressure of her kiss, and hear the whispered "I'm sorry" that followed me back to my desk.
No matter how many emails I answered or how many spreadsheets I stared at, I couldn't shake the feeling. My blood was boiling, my mind replaying the moment on a loop and spinning it forward into wild, dirty imaginations I couldn't seem to control.
Hazel carefully avoided looking at me for most of the day, but every so often, our eyes met by accident across the cubicles. When they did, the world seemed to go quiet for a single heartbeat. I wanted to say something, just anything—to bridge the gap between us, but the office, with its listening ears and watching eyes, wasn't the place for the words stuck in my throat.
Mark caught me in the middle of one of these distant stares, sliding into my sight. "Hey, you're smiling alone over here. What's making you so happy?" he asked, a knowing glint in his eye. I just shrugged, unable to form a lie. He showed me a picture on his phone. "Look." I asked who it was. "It's my girl," he said proudly.
When I brought up Anna, he just waved a hand. "Nah, changed my focus." I nodded, pretending to listen, but my mind was a thousand miles away, tangled up in the scent of lavender and the memory of a desperate kiss.
When five o'clock finally came, I watched her grab her bag in a rush and head for the elevator. Before anxiety could talk me out of it, my fingers flew over my phone's keyboard.
Luke: "Can we talk tonight? Maybe at my place?"
The three dots appeared. My breath caught. They disappeared, and my heart raced. Then they appeared again, steady.
Hazel: "I don't know if that's a good idea."
The disappointment filled my heart. But before I could type a reply, another message flashed up.
Hazel: "Fine. Just to talk."
A wave of pure relief washed over me. She said yes.
By the time her knock came at my door, my nerves were already a storm. I'd cleaned the apartment as best I could, but it still looked like what it was—a temporary space shared with a guy who thought laundry baskets were decorative. At least for today, it was presentable and Jean was out, thankfully.
When I opened the door, she stood there with her hair slightly darkened by the evening drizzle, a small smile playing on her lips. She was wearing simple jeans and a soft-looking sweater, and she looked so good it almost hurt. "Hey," she said softly.
"Hey," I replied, stepping aside to let her in. "Thanks for coming."
She stepped past me, her eyes doing a slow sweep of the room, taking in the stacked mugs, the couch I'd hastily straightened, the half-dead plant by the window that Jean swore he'd water. "It's… cozy," she said, and we both laughed, the sound cutting neatly through the remaining tension.
We ended up sitting on the edge of my bed, mainly because the couch was still buried under a mountain of Jean's clothes. We started with safe topics, talking about work, about Mark being a clown, about anything but the thing hanging in the air between us.
"So," she said, her voice a little too light. "What did you want to talk about?"
The directness caught me off guard. I didn't have a prepared answer. "I don't know," I admitted, running a hand through my hair. "I just... needed to see you. Outside of there."
She nodded slowly, understanding in her eyes. "Me too."
But every time she smiled, I noticed how close she was. How her knees were just inches from mine. How the scent of her perfume, lavender and vanilla—was slowly claiming the tiny space of my room.
I watched as she nervously played with her bottom lip, her teeth gently worrying the soft, wet skin. The silence that settled over us wasn't awkward; it was heavy, charged with everything we weren't saying.
She looked at me, her eyes soft and searching. "You've got a mark on your cheek," she said slowly, her hand lifting slightly as if to touch it before she pulled back, curling her fingers into her palm.
I touched the yellowing bruise, laughing quietly. "Souvenir from Ethan."
Her face fell, the guilt returning to her features. "Luke… I'm so sorry about that."
"It's fine," I said, meaning it. "Really. I'm just glad you're okay."
She looked like she wanted to say a hundred other things, but instead, she just gave a small nod. Our eyes locked again, and the air in the room shifted, grew warmer. Something unspoken and powerful passed between us, and for the first time, I didn't feel the urge to look away.
Her hand found mine on the bedspread, her fingers brushing against my knuckles, a testing touch. Then, as if pulled by an invisible string, we were moving closer, so close I could feel the warmth of her breath against my neck, see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes.
Our lips met again, slower this time, softer, like both of us were trying to memorize the other's shape and taste. The kiss was gentle for only a second.
Then the kiss deepened fast, becoming fierce. My hands moved without thinking, gripping her tight and moving across her body. "Ahhh!" She moaned out of pleasure.
She pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes sharp, not blinking, and daring me. There was a challenge in them, like she wanted to see if I'd hesitate or back down. I didn't. I held her gaze, refusing to look away.
I slid one of my hands up and pressed the weight of her breast, feeling its softness and warmth.
"Aah," she let out a deep, soft moan as she leaned her head back, her face looking straight up at the ceiling. I knew, instantly, that I had touched her in the right place.
She came back for my mouth, and this time, she didn't hold back. She was devouring, pushing me back, I could barely keep up with the force of her kiss.
My hands found their way to her waist again, and her fingers curled holding my shirt, as if I were the only solid thing in the world. The world narrowed down to this: the two of us, tangled in quiet, ragged breaths and half-whispered names.
And then—
"Yo! Luke! You here, man?"
The door to my room banged open.
Hazel froze against me. I jerked back, my eyes wide, just as Jean's head poked through the doorway. He blinked, his brain processing the scene, our flushed faces, my half-unbuttoned shirt, the intimate space between us, and his grin spread.
"Ohhh damn! Sorry, man. Didn't mean to... well, actually, yeah, I kinda did!"
"Jean—" I started, my voice a mix of fury and embarrassment.
But he was already laughing, loud, filling the entire apartment. "Finally! My boy's not a monk anymore!"
Hazel's face turned a deep crimson. She pulled away, putting distance between us. "I... I should go," she stammered, standing up fast and smoothing down her sweater.
"No, wait, you don't have to.."
"It's fine," she said quickly, forcing a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Let's… just get some air."
We walked in silence for a while, the night cool and quiet around us. The city was a backdrop of distant traffic sounds and the soft patter of leftover rain dripping from rooftops and leaves.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice quiet in the darkness. "For tonight. And for what happened before."
"It's not your fault," I replied, my hands shoved deep in my pockets. "I should've locked the damn door."
That earned a small laugh from her, and I felt the knot of tension in my chest finally begin to ease.
We stopped under the glow of a streetlight, our faint reflections shimmering in the pavement at our feet. She turned toward me, her expression softer now, stripped of its earlier panic. "I'm really glad you texted me," she said. "Even if it didn't exactly go as planned."
"Yeah," I said, a faint smile touching my lips. "Guess I'm still learning how to have a normal night."
She took a step closer, her eyes searching mine in the dim light. "You did fine, Luke."
Before I could answer, she leaned in, slowly this time, kissed me once more. There was no rush, no chaos. Just warmth, and quiet, and something that felt heartbreakingly real.
When she pulled away, her voice was barely a whisper, a secret meant only for me. "I'm sorry," she said again, and this time it didn't sound like guilt, it sounded like emotion, a beautiful promise wrapped in a single word.
I didn't say anything. I just stood there, my heart pounding against my ribs, watching the tiny droplets of rain gather in her hair, knowing that something inside me had changed.