“So I love her, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

My eyes blurred as I sat frozen, watching the woman I’d loved for six years tell me she had fallen in love with someone else.

“Okay, sure,” I whispered. That was all I could manage.

She tilted her head. “Is there anything else you want to say?”

I took a shaky breath and ended the conversation with, “Look, I can’t force you to love me back. I’d rather you be with someone you’re in love with. Besides, I’m sure you’re finally having sex now too.”

I tried to laugh but tears slid down my cheeks before I could stop them.

We both knew what I meant. We hadn’t had sex in over a year. I’d started coming home early to cook dinner while she, apparently, had been satisfying her cravings somewhere else.

She looked away. “I’ll pack my things and leave.”

I sank deeper into the couch, numb. The apartment felt like it was closing in on me, all the corners echoing with memories I didn’t want to relive. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw anything. But God, I wished I had.

Before she left, I finally asked, “Why?”

She stopped, halfway to the door.

“Why what?”

“Why’d you cheat?”

She set her bag down and leaned against the dining table, looking tired in a way I’d never seen before.

“Aria, we fell out of love a long time ago. When was the last time we even said ‘I love you’? Or held each other just to feel close?”

I looked at my hands and saw tears drip onto them. She came closer and held my hand gently.

“I promise you,” she said, voice soft, “this was what we needed. It was time.”

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it quickly, but the way her face shifted told me everything I needed to know.

“I gotta go,” she mumbled. “Aria, I’m sorry. Baby, I really am.”

She closed the door behind her.

And that was it. I took a pillow, buried my face in it, and screamed until my lungs burned. Six years. Gone. Just like that. My tears didn’t stop for hours.

I called in sick for the next few days. All I did was cry and watch Adam Sandler movies while eating takeout. I was grieving the idea of a life I thought we were building. I was grieving someone who had already left me long ago.

But after a while, the sadness grew quiet. I realized I missed things I hadn’t even thought of in months. The weight of a body next to mine. The feeling of being wanted. Of being touched with care. We hadn’t had that in forever. If I was being honest, the sex had always leaned toward what she wanted.

Maybe it was time to find someone who wanted to know what made me feel good too.

I wasn’t looking for a fairytale, just a little spark again.

So, I downloaded Tinder.

It felt weird. Like stepping into a room I hadn’t entered in years and trying to remember how the lights worked. I uploaded a few decent pictures. Nothing too glamorous, just me before the crying and the heartbreak and the unwashed hair.

I left my options open to men and women. It had been a while since I’d been with a man, and while I wasn’t expecting fireworks, I figured I might as well try. I swiped until the app cut me off for the day.

The next morning, I woke up on the couch, sun spilling across my face, alarm buzzing. Work. Reality. Ugh.

While getting dressed, I found a black thong tucked in the back of my closet. I used to wear these for her. I stared at it for a minute, then thought, why not? Maybe I needed to feel sexy again. Maybe I needed to feel like me again.

I snapped a picture, looked at my reflection, and something shifted. Not confidence exactly. But maybe the beginning of it.

I paired the thong with a skirt that hinted at its outline, subtle enough for work but still suggestive. Just a tiny act of rebellion. A little reminder that I was still here.

When I reached the office, Mila was already sitting at my desk. Of course.

Bright. Cheery. My opposite in every way. The kind of person who radiated sunshine and had no idea how much light she gave to people just by existing.

She looked up and tapped her fingers on the desk like a disappointed mom. She didn’t even have to ask. Her expression said everything.

I sighed and muttered, “Single now. She cheated.”

Her eyes widened, but not with surprise. More like…confirmation.

She stood, walked around the desk, and pulled me into the kind of hug that made my knees weaken. She smelled like coconut and lavender, and I hated how comforting it was.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That cunt didn’t deserve you. Let’s get ice cream and cry about it later.”

I gave her a half-smile. I hated clichés, but somehow, ice cream sounded like exactly what I needed.

The rest of the day flew by, mostly because I buried myself in tasks. But sometime in the afternoon, my phone buzzed with a Tinder notification.

His name was Emmet. Thirty-nine. Nerdy smile. A little scruffy. His profile said, “Whimsical, in a positive way of course. Musician, not professionally—yet. Intense. Is there any other way to live?”

I rolled my eyes but smiled.

I messaged him:

“So what’s stopping you from being a professional musician?”

He replied almost immediately.

“My job. I source ingredients for the food industry. In a perfect world, I’d have multiple hands to play the piano, guitar, and double bass all at once in some dark jazz bar.”

Okay. Funny guy.

I replied, “So in a perfect world, you’re an alien jazz musician?”

“Yes, that would be ideal.”

He followed with, “And you? In your perfect world?”

I paused. The real answer felt too tender.

So I joked, “I’d be filthy rich, living in the countryside with cows as my best friends.”

Then I added, “Kidding. I’d be a space traveler exploring galaxies, finding jazz aliens like you.”

He replied, “You’re already close. You found one.”

He was cute. Smooth in a dorky way.

Then: “Free tonight for a drink?”

Wow. That escalated fast.

But tonight was for crying with Mila over vanilla macadamia and her toothpaste-flavored mint chocolate chip.

Still, I was tempted. My body definitely was.

Instead, I wrote, “Tomorrow. 8:30. Kenny’s?”

A jazz bar. Felt fitting.

He replied, “Sounds like a date.”

By the time Mila showed up at my desk again, I was practically buzzing. She didn’t even have to ask.

“Let’s go,” I said before she could speak.

We bought ice cream. We ate it straight from the pint as we walked back to my place. She teased my flavor choice. I teased hers.

Later that night, while I sobbed in her lap and she gently brushed my hair away, my phone buzzed again. Emmet.

She peeked at the screen.

“Wow, moving on already?” she smirked. “I mean, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. You’ve always had slut energy.”

I gasped, fake offended, and threw a pillow at her.

“No slut shaming,” I said with a grin. “It’s about time I get some good sex.”

I showed her Emmet’s profile. She approved, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. I didn’t think much of it.

She stayed the night. She always did when I needed her.

Before bed, she held my hand and whispered, “You know you deserve someone who really loves you, right?”

I wanted to believe her.

But all I could say was, “I’m not sure I’m built for that. But I’m fine.”

She held my hand tighter, and we fell asleep like that.

“There’s no way you’re wearing that,” Mila said, arms crossed like a disapproving older sister. “And there’s definitely no way you’re going to want to be kissed in that. Be serious.”

I turned around, confused. “What’s wrong with it?”

She walked straight to my closet, brows furrowed, and pulled out a black dress I’d nearly forgotten existed. A little revealing in the front. Hugged my waist in all the right places.

She tossed it on the bed. “Wear this. He’ll go crazy.”

I stared at it, then back at her. “It’s a first date. Isn’t this a little… much?”

She held it up to my body and raised her brow. “Don’t you want to feel wanted tonight? Start here. Stop resisting.”

I groaned but smiled. She was right. Again. So I laid it out on my bed for later.

Work ran late. I barely made it home by 7. I had an hour. I jumped into the shower, shaved like my life depended on it, and stared at myself in the mirror for a long time.

“You’ve got this,” I whispered, more for reassurance than belief.

I slipped into the dress. Took a couple of deep breaths. Poured myself a shot of whiskey. Then another.

Before leaving, I snapped a picture and sent it to Mila. She started typing. Then stopped. Then started again. I waited, standing awkwardly in the kitchen.

Nothing.

Five minutes later, a single fire emoji popped up.

That’s it?

I rolled my eyes. She was always the essay kind of girl. But whatever. I grabbed my coat and headed to Kenny’s.

The moment I stepped in, I heard the deep hum of John Hammond Smith’s “Tell Me What to Do” playing softly in the background. The bar was dim and woody, warm with flickering candlelight and soft conversation. The kind of place you could fall in love in without realizing it.

I looked around, heart thumping.

That’s when I saw him.

Sitting in the corner, near the low lounge area. He waved, his smile crooked and gentle.

He stood up as I approached.

“A jazz bar,” he said, grinning. “Great call. We’re one step closer.”

I laughed, “Had to show you your future performance venues. Manager instincts, remember?”

He let out a small laugh, and I noticed how much softer he looked in person. His photos were handsome, but in real life he had a warmth that didn’t translate through pixels. A gentleness in his eyes. A slightly nervous edge that made him endearing.

He passed me the menu and I skimmed through the cocktail list, settling on a martini.

We talked. And talked. Somehow, two hours passed. We laughed about terrible work stories. We touched on music, on pain, on what kept us up at night. He asked good questions. The kind that made you pause before answering.

And somewhere between the second drink and a story about his childhood guitar teacher, I felt something I hadn’t felt in so long—desire. Not just sexual, but that electric sort of curiosity that made your chest ache. Like you were drawn toward something you didn’t quite understand yet.

His eyes kept flicking down to my lips. To my thighs. I knew I looked good tonight, but the way he looked at me made me feel like I was glowing.

The martini warmed my bloodstream. My body relaxed. The music in the background melted into a hum.

I leaned a little closer. So did he.

Then there was that silence. The kind that hangs between two people just before something changes.

I bit my bottom lip. He looked like he wanted to kiss me.

I whispered, “Let’s go.”

We took a cab to his place. We didn’t touch the entire ride. But my leg pressed against his, and he rested his hand on my knee in a slow, deliberate way. His fingers moved gently, almost like he was memorizing the shape of me.

The tension between us was unbearable, but I didn’t want to break it yet. I liked the way it was built.

When we reached his apartment, he opened the door for me and stepped aside, eyes never leaving mine.

“Come in,” he said softly.

I texted Mila my location just in case. Stranger danger was real, even when chemistry was strong.

His apartment smelled like sandalwood and cedar, clean and masculine but understated. A single lamp cast a honey-colored glow across the room. He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked behind me and gently placed his hands on my waist.

I felt his breath on the back of my neck. My skin lit up in goosebumps.

“You look… unbelievable,” he said, voice deep and low.

My knees almost buckled. I turned to face him and we were chest to chest. I could feel how badly he wanted me. I could feel my own heartbeat hammering beneath my skin.

Still, I paused.

He leaned forward. Our lips brushed but didn’t connect. We stayed like that, breathing the same air.

Then I whispered, “Show me what you’ve been thinking about since we started texting.”

His hands tightened slightly around my waist and pulled me in. Our lips met and every nerve in my body came alive. His kiss wasn’t rushed. It was steady, searching, filled with the kind of hunger you only feel when you’ve waited for something.

I could taste his whiskey. Feel his restraint slipping.

His hands slipped lower, over the curve of my hips, and I knew this night was going somewhere I hadn’t gone in a long time. But something about it felt new. Less about the act. More about the way he paid attention. The way he slowed down and watched me, like every reaction mattered.

We kissed our way into his bedroom without even noticing. I didn’t remember how we got there, just that I was suddenly on his bed, heart racing, dress wrinkled beneath me.

He stood above me, watching, and said, “You’re stunning, you know that?”

I blushed. No one had made me feel that way in a long, long time.

What happened next was slow. Sensual. Like two people who had forgotten how good it felt to be desired. Really desired and were relearning it through each other.

That night wasn’t just sex.

It was something warmer. Something we both needed.

And it wasn’t even the best part.

“I love the way you’re fuc—fucking me.”

He could barely get his words out and that only made me grind harder, slower. I wanted him messy. I wanted him ruined by me. My body was slick, and every thrust of my hips had him unraveling. But just when I was about to push him over the edge, he grabbed my waist and flipped me over, his voice low and rough.

“Get down.”

I looked back at him, surprised—but also not. I’d teased him too far, and now he was ready to take over. The shift in control sent a thrill down my spine. I positioned myself, and he entered me fast, no hesitation, and the room filled with the sound of skin and desperate breath.

He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t need to be.

“Grab my hair,” I said through ragged moans. “And fuck me like you mean it.”

His hand wrapped around my hair and pulled, not cruelly but enough to make my mouth fall open. My back arched instinctively. The ache of his rhythm collided with the sharpness of the pull and my body started to tremble from the flood of sensation.

I came again. Loudly, helplessly. My thighs were shaking and he wasn’t slowing down.

He gripped me tighter, pulled me up so my back was flush against his chest. His lips grazed my neck, his breath hot and heavy. We were soaked in each other. He fucked me with slow, hard strokes now, drawing out my sounds, letting the build carry us both somewhere new.

And then I felt it. Him pulsing deep inside me, moaning as he came with a long, aching release. I could feel his heat, his weight against my back. For a moment, it was nothing but breath and sweat and the hum of satisfaction buzzing between our skin.

Perfect. It was everything I’d wanted. And I wasn’t done.

I stayed over, not just for the sake of comfort, but because I wanted to feel him again in the morning light. A Sunday kind of sex. Slow. Real. I woke up early and made coffee, hoping he’d be half as happy to see me as I was to still be wrapped in last night.

When he walked into the kitchen, he gave me this soft little smile like I was the most beautiful sin he’d ever committed.

“You really can’t be perfect,” he said.

I leaned against the counter, bare legs, messy hair, mug in hand. “I’m definitely not,” I said with a grin. “But I’d love to fuck you again.”

He groaned and pulled me into him. “You really are perfect,” he whispered into my neck before dragging me back into the bedroom for another two hours of tangled limbs, bruised thighs, and greedy mouths.

By Monday, I was back at my desk pretending to be productive, pretending my body wasn’t sore in the best ways possible. But mostly, pretending I wasn’t counting the hours till I could spill everything to Mila.

Of course she was already perched at my desk, watching me with that raised eyebrow, practically vibrating with curiosity.

“Come over tonight if you want to hear it all,” I teased.

She groaned dramatically. “I have to wait till tonight?! That’s a whole day. Cruel.”

“I don’t think our colleagues want to hear graphic details about how my weekend went.” I winked.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Fine. Your place. Eight. Don’t hold out.”

Evening came, and just like that, we were on my couch in pyjamas, ready-to-eat dinners on our laps and a movie humming in the background. Mila turned down the volume.

“So?” she asked, eyes gleaming. “You kept me waiting this long. Better be good.”

“Oh, it is,” I said with a smirk.

And I told her. Every delicious, dirty detail. The way he touched me. The way he came. The sounds, the bruises, the things I never thought I’d like but couldn’t get enough of.

But as I watched her face, something shifted. Her usual giggly, nosy excitement faded. Her reactions were soft. Muted. Detached. I thought maybe I was dragging it out, so I wrapped the story faster than I intended.

“Wow,” she said finally. “Sounds like you had one hell of a night… and morning.”

That was it? No follow-up questions? No shrieks or teasing? She wasn’t acting like herself. My chest tightened. I knew her too well for this to be nothing.

“Hey,” I asked slowly. “What were you typing for so long when I sent you that picture? I know it didn’t take five minutes to send a fire emoji.”

She got up fast, brushing it off. “Oh, that was nothing. Probably just a glitch.”

Glitch? Mila never sends emoji-only responses. She’s an essay queen. Her silence was screaming. She suggested we head to bed early. Claimed she was tired.

We lay facing opposite directions, the space between us louder than anything on TV. I couldn’t take it.

“Mila,” I whispered. “What’s wrong?”

She turned, reluctantly. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

“No you’re not. Please don’t lie to me. I can feel it.”

I reached out instinctively, brushing my fingers along her jaw. Something strange surged in my chest. A tug. A question I didn’t want to ask myself.

Her eyes welled up. She touched my hand, pressed it to her cheek.

“Maybe not tonight,” she said softly. “Is that okay?”

I nodded, even though it wasn’t okay. Even though my head was racing, even though I could barely breathe with how much I suddenly wanted to kiss her.

The next morning, I made her breakfast hoping it might ease whatever weight she was carrying. She walked in, surprised.

“What is all of this?”

“I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you,” I said gently. “Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”

She looked at the table, then back at me. Her eyes welled again before she dropped her bag and ran into my arms.

I held her tight. Her breath against my neck. Something shifted inside me. I couldn’t stop thinking about her the rest of the day. Her laugh. Her scent. Her body curled next to mine. My heart was not listening to reason.

My phone buzzed. Emmet.

“Free tonight? In the mood for my perfect person.”

Perfect. That word again.

Maybe I needed to clear my head. I texted back, “See you tonight. At yours. Buy me dinner and wine.”

He replied in seconds. “Your wish is my command.”

But when I told Mila, that same shadow crossed her face. No teasing. No playful questions. Just that barely concealed frown.

She wasn’t mad at Emmet. She was mad at me. And suddenly, I wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

If she wanted to play silent games, fine. But I needed answers.

Back at Emmet’s, we had sex again. Good sex. Wild sex. But it wasn’t the same. And when I came, it was Mila I saw. Her lips. Her laugh. Her voice whispered my name.

Four days passed. She avoided me. At work, she barely looked my way. My chest ached. It felt like a breakup. And I didn’t even know if there had ever been anything to break.

That night, I was halfway into an Adam Sandler movie, wine in hand and tears threatening when I heard a knock. A hard, fast, angry knock.

I opened the door. Mila stormed in like a thunderstorm in human form.

“So what?” she snapped. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

I blinked, stunned. “You’re the one ignoring me. I don’t even know what’s going on.”

She dropped her bag, pulled out a chair, sat and took a breath like she was about to burn everything down.

“I’m jealous,” she said.

And that’s when my entire world tilted.

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Jealous? Of what?”

Her eyes were shining now. Her voice cracked.

“He gets to do those things to you,” she said. “Emmet.”

Oh. Oh my god.

“He gets to kiss you. Hold you. Fuck you senseless. And I’m just here. Fighting for scraps of your attention. Waiting for you to notice that every time I say I love you… I fucking mean it.”

I couldn’t speak. The lump in my throat was thick and burning.

She stood now, pacing. Her voice was shaking.

“He calls you perfect. But he doesn’t know you. Not like I do. Not like I see you. Every part of you. Every ache. Every guarded piece of your heart. And I want to be the one who touches that. Not him. Me.”

“Mila…”

She looked at me, eyes wild with emotion.

“When you sent me that picture, I wasn’t just typing. I was breaking. I wanted to rip that dress off you. I wanted to beg you not to go. I wanted to say stay with me. Let me have you instead.”

Tears filled my eyes.

Because I wanted that too. I just hadn’t known it until now.

She stood there, flushed and teary-eyed, waiting for my reaction. I was frozen, her words still echoing in my head. I love every bit of you. Let me have you instead.

She stepped closer, her hands hesitating at my face before finally cupping my cheeks. Her thumbs brushed my tears away like she was scared she had broken me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have scared you like that. Just know that I love you, and I want you so badly. Please don’t hate me.”

Her voice cracked like glass under pressure.

I searched her eyes. They weren’t asking for pity. They were pleading for truth. And it was my turn now. No more hiding behind what-ifs. No more pretending I didn’t already know.

She was still holding my face, her forehead almost touching mine. I lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to meet mine again. My heart pounded so hard I was sure she could hear it.

“I love you too.”

Her breath hitched. She blinked, and I saw her entire body relax, just a little. Like she was finally letting go of the fear she’d been carrying all this time.

I let my hands explore her. From her jawline to her neck, down her arms, her back, to that curve of her waist I’d always noticed but never admitted to wanting. She felt so good under my touch. Familiar, but new.

Our lips met. Hesitant at first, testing. Then hungrier. Desperate. Like we were making up for all the kisses we never had.

“Aria…” she moaned, trying to catch her breath, her forehead resting against mine.

“I want to show you how badly I want you too,” I said, and kissed her again, deeper this time.

She giggled softly against my mouth. “God, you’re ruining me.”

“No,” I whispered into her neck. “I’m just finally giving you what you deserve.”

We stumbled toward the bed, tugging at each other’s clothes. Her shirt unbuttoned halfway, revealing that burgundy lace bra I hadn’t even known would become my favorite thing.

I pushed it aside, exposing her soft, perky nipples. I couldn’t stop myself from tasting her, teasing her, watching her body tremble every time my tongue circled just right.

Her moans were loud, unfiltered, like she didn’t care anymore who heard. Like she wanted the whole world to know what I was doing to her.

“Aria… what are you doing to me?” she gasped.

I looked up, lips still wrapped around her nipple. “Just showing you how much I appreciate you.”

Her legs spread instinctively. Her thong was soaked. I traced over the delicate lace, feeling the heat of her. She was dripping for me. She wanted this as much as I did. Maybe more.

I slid the thong off, kissed my way down her thighs, and buried my face between her legs.

The first taste of her made me moan against her pussy. She was sweet and salty, wet and warm, her body already pulsing with need. I devoured her slowly at first, then with more pressure as her legs locked around my head.

“Fuck, Aria, don’t stop,” she moaned, fingers tangled in my hair.

I didn’t stop. I added my fingers, sliding one in so easily I groaned from the wetness. I pumped slowly, letting her adjust to the rhythm, then deeper, harder. Her moans turned into gasps, her hips rising off the bed. I could feel her body getting closer, that subtle shake in her thighs, that pressure around my fingers.

I kept going. Kept licking, curling my fingers just right. She came with a scream so raw I thought it might break me.

And still, I didn’t stop.

She tried to push me away, but I knew she could handle more. I stayed, sucking her clit while fingering her through every wave of her orgasm. When she finally gasped and begged for mercy, I pulled back and kissed her deeply.

“Your turn,” she whispered against my lips.

Before I could respond, she flipped me onto my back and climbed on top of me, eyes blazing with desire. She yanked off my clothes like she’d been dying to for years. When our bare skin finally touched, it was almost too much.

She straddled me, grinding her soaked pussy against mine. I cried out, overwhelmed by the sensation, by the sheer heat of her. She leaned down to suck my nipples, biting gently, then harder, until I was arching beneath her.

And then her tongue was between my legs. I gasped. She was good. Too good. Her fingers joined her mouth and suddenly I was the one moaning shamelessly, thrashing under her, clenching around her hand.

She paused for a second. “Is this okay? Am I hurting you? This is my first time—”

I kissed her hard, cutting her off. “You’re perfect.”

She gave me everything. Her mouth, her hands, her body. She listened to every sound I made and used it like a map, finding the places that undid me.

And when I asked for more..more pressure, more pain, more pleasure, she didn’t hesitate. She bit my clit just right. She sucked until I was crying out her name, cumming again and again.

She fucked me the way I needed to be loved. And she loved me in the way no one ever had.

We scissored, our bodies grinding so hard we both came again. And then we collapsed into a tangled, breathless mess, only to keep going. 69. Fingers. Tongues. Hours passed, but neither of us wanted it to end.

By the time we stopped, it had been four hours of nonstop sex. Our bodies were drenched in sweat. My legs trembled. Her voice was hoarse. We lay there, completely still, her legs resting on my hips, our eyes locked.

“That was…” I whispered.

She smiled sleepily. “Amazing? Unreal? Perfect?”

I chuckled. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. You’re everything I’ve been looking for.”

We kissed again. And again. Until we drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms.

I woke up to the most beautiful sight. Mila, still asleep, tangled in the sheets, looking soft and wrecked and mine.

A wave of emotion crashed over me. Her words still lingered in the air, wrapping around me like warmth. And then I saw it. Not drama, not performance. Just love. Quiet and certain. The kind that creeps in slowly, until one day you realize you’re already in it, deeper than you ever expected.

“I love you,” I whispered again, as if hearing it aloud would make it more real.

I kissed her forehead to wake her gently. She stretched, eyes fluttering open, and I felt my chest tighten just from the way she looked at me.

She whispers back, “I love you too.”

We smiled at each other. This time knowing things were going to be very different. 

I went to make her coffee the way she likes it. But before I could even set it down, she walked over and kissed me with so much hunger I nearly spilled it.

She took a sip, then placed the mug aside, sat on the table, and spread her legs wide open.

“Come here,” she said. “I want you for breakfast.”

And just like that, we began our morning the same way we ended our night. Completely, utterly consumed by each other.