Amelie

I catch a glimpse of him across the bar and my chest gives a tiny lurch before I can stop myself. No, surely not, it can’t be him. 

He turns towards one of his friends, giving me the full sweep of his face; still so young and impossibly perfect. The swagger is there, painted on too thick, the cracks in his act so obvious they’re almost endearing. The little side glances and nervous laughter reveal a layer of insecurity. I try to look away but my eyes betray me, tugging back to him before I can stop. My secret crush, one that still feels indecent, a guilty thrill I shouldn’t indulge in. I feign interest in the condensation sliding down my glass, but the heat that creeps up my neck is hard to ignore. He’s there, real, close and I’m completely unravelling.

I turn my body to force myself to look away, trying to convince my brain he is not there. My friends collapse into laughter at some filthy punchline and I laugh so hard my stomach muscles cramp, tears catching in my mascara. I love these women; they remind me I am still me and more than just a mother and a wife. For a moment I let myself sink into the conversation, naturally everyone turns to talking about the chaos of juggling family life, work and relationships. I try to immerse myself in our chat but it’s no good, my gaze slips sideways, uninvited. He is still there and this time he is looking back. Not casually, but with intent, holding me in place. Shit, I need more alcohol for this.

“Drinks?” I question, and everyone nods enthusiastically, still laughing too hard to speak. I smile and laugh a little more with them. “OK I’ll go, same again?”   

I head to the bar, weaving through bodies, and order four cocktails that might require me to remortgage if I’m going to settle the bill. The barmaid looks harassed, her ponytail coming loose, eyes glazed with indifference to my presence. I can feel the sweat gathering on the back of my neck. When did bars become so hot? I used to be the one shivering, always the coldest person in the room; perhaps this is menopause arriving early? The barmaid disappears to the far counter to start mixing, leaving me stranded with nothing to do but shuffle my weight and try, with all the willpower I can muster, not to turn and see if he is still watching me.

“Hi.” 

The voice beside me cuts through the noise and makes me jolt, the sound so close I almost drop my phone. I turn, pulse stuttering, and there he is. Rowan. He looks even more handsome at close range, his dark hair ruffled in a slight quiff, familiar angular jawline speckled with stubble and his eyes a deep, liquid brown. They’re framed by thick, perfectly shaped brows, that give his face a natural intensity. He is wearing dark jeans and a bright white T-shirt, clean and simple. I catch his gaze, losing myself immediately in those velvet, enquiring eyes. Always searching, speaking in some wordless language I could never translate. 

His brows draw together in a small crease, a tiny pout tugging at his lips as he dips his head, eyes darting to the left as his thumb grazes across his bottom lip. He looks nervous, uncertain, almost shy; yet I can feel him trying to throw up that thin shield of cocky bravado. The effort of pretending he’s in control only makes him more magnetic. The contradiction is exquisite; fear and swagger wrapped in the same moment. I should be immune to it by now, but the truth is, I find it utterly hypnotic.

“Oh, Rowan. Hi, how are you doing?  I saw you from across the bar, but, you know, I didn't want to cramp your style.” I cringe inwardly, pretty sure no-one under the age of thirty-five has ever uttered the words cramp your style.

“Yeah, nah, that's OK, you wouldn't.” He smiles, it's a little sheepish, unsure.

“How have you been? You look good.” Shit, I shouldn't have said that, the alcohol has loosened my tongue. He does look good though, really fucking good. He pouts his lips a little more, some of his bravado returning.

“Oh yeah, alright thanks.”

“You working? Or studying?”

“Wor-kin yeah, you know me, never one for my studies.” I scoff at this admission. “You still…”

I cut him off mid-sentence with my reply. “No actually I quit, a few months ago now.”

He looks a little shocked. “That's a shame, so, what you doin now?”

“Oh, just working on a few side hustle type things. Actually I wrote a book and randomly started designing a website. Dunno, might not go anywhere, but still, it's fun. I guess my real job now is mother… housewife?... tradwife?” I shudder at the word. “That sounds very old-fashioned and anti-feminist doesn't it? But I just couldn't stand to do my job anymore, it was sucking my soul dry.” I realise I’m sounding over-dramatic, but it's true, I gave too much of myself to my career and it just left me feeling empty and burned out. 

“Oh yeah? That's cool. So, a book?” 

Shit, I've said something else I didn't mean to.

“Oh, um, yeah. I mean only about ten people have read it, but still, yeah. I guess I'm still pleased with it anyway. And, did you know, apparently ninety-seven percent of people who start writing a book never finish it? So. That's something.”

“Oh yeah? Do they? I can't imagine writing a whole book, don't even read them.”

“No? Shocker!” He snorts at my retort.

“Yeah… well… maybe I'll start with yours,” he challenges, sticking out his tongue at me playfully. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, opening the Amazon app and typing in my name.

“I'm afraid you won't find it like that.”

He looks up, eyebrows lifted. “No?” he questions.

“I used a pen name.”

“Oh, and what's that then?” His fingers hover over the keypad. 

“Hah, no chance. There's a reason I didn't publish under my real name.”

“Why?” He looks at me intently, imploring, trying to read my face for the answer. 

“Well, let's just say it's not suitable for younger audiences, and would give my parents a stroke if they ever read it.” He looks confused for a moment, but then his eyes widen, the penny starts to drop. 

“What, like… porn?!”

“I prefer the term erotic fiction.”

“Fuck-in hell, I wouldn't have imagined you writing stuff like that.” He pauses and I wait for a ripple of judgement to roll across his face, but it doesn't; instead he smiles broadly, a pink hue blushing his cheeks. “I'd definitely like to read it then.”

“Hah, well maybe try your luck after I've had a few more drinks, you might even persuade me to give you a free copy.” What the fuck am I actually saying? I’d better leave before I really get myself in hot water.

“Four basil berry spritz,” the barmaid announces, and I nod in thanks, reaching out to grasp the drinks. I clutch them awkwardly, pressing the glasses together, surface tension the only thing stopping them slipping to the floor. 

“I'd better get these to the table before I drop them, lovely to see you. Have a good night.”

“Yeah sure,” he says. “I'll see you later about that book.” He winks as I step back and then turns sharply to rejoin his group of friends. 

I make my way back to the table, clutching the cocktails far too tightly. My friends erupt in cheers as I set them down and the chatter flows back around me like a warm current. I slip into my seat, smiling, nodding and pretending to be present.

“Who was that at the bar?” one of them asks, leaning in with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, just a distant relation on Martin’s side,” I reply, brushing it off with a vague shrug. I take a long sip of my drink, trying to numb my brain, but it doesn’t stop the thoughts. The curve of his mouth when he pouted and the faint scrape of stubble that I can imagine far too vividly against the inside of my thigh. A question lands in my direction, something about holidays, or maybe children, I can’t tell. I blink, caught mid-daydream, heat rushing to my face. 

“Huh?”

My friends howl with laughter, one of them pointing a manicured finger at me. 

“She’s going senile already! Honestly, you’re worse than my mum.”

I laugh along, cheeks burning, but my mind is elsewhere. I try to hold space in the safety of conversation, but I lose myself, again and again, eyes straying across the room to where Rowan sits with his friends. 

And then he looks up and I’m caught, pinned by his stare. He turns his head slightly, just enough that his friends won’t notice, and smirks. A slow shake of the head, playful, a pantomime of disapproval that makes me want to bite my lip. I lift my hands, palms out, a mock surrender, guilty as charged. His laugh is low, private, and he tips his gaze down between his legs before looking back up at me. This time the look is steadier and every hair on the back of my neck rises in a way that feels both dangerous and addictive. I turn away, determined this time not to look back.

The evening unravels quickly after that, laughter piling on laughter, the kind of chatter that grows looser as the drinks sink in. I keep telling myself to stay in the moment, to hold onto my friends’ jokes, but the pull across the room gnaws at me. Eventually we call it a night, gathering our bags, coats, and the remnants of our dignity, herding ourselves toward the door. I tell myself not to look back, but of course I do. And there he is, half-turned in his seat, catching me in the act one last time. He doesn’t say a word, just lifts his chin, a subtle nod as I’m swept out into the night 

Rowan

The morning drags me out of sleep and I down some water, rub at my face, then tug on my work uniform and check the time. My head aches and I’m already late, but the hangover isn’t what is weighing on me. It’s her.

I can’t stop replaying the way she kept looking at me. I dunno what it is exactly, but there’s something about older women. Maybe it’s because they’ve lived more? There’s less of a performance with them, they don’t cling or demand attention like girls my own age, they just are. She has that about her, she just is, like, herself. And last night, those secret glances at me, in her eyes a mix of like guilt and hunger. It was electric.

And then there’s the book, erotic fiction. The idea of her writing something like that, I try to imagine her alone at night, fingers on the keyboard, pouring secret sexy stuff out onto the page. I want to know so badly what she’s imagined and what she’s written.

She won’t hand me her pen name, I know that much. So how do I find it? Could check Amazon for new titles? Or look for something that sounds like her? I dunno what that would be though. Maybe I could get her to give me a clue? By that evening, after my shift ends, I find I’m desperate to know. Sprawled on the sofa, phone in hand, thumb scrolling Instagram, I try to find her. Then, there she is. Profile picture of her on a beach somewhere, hair tied back, sunglasses crooked. Her posts are mostly kids, a dog, the usual everyday stuff. Ordinary. 

I hover over the follow button for a few minutes before tapping it, feeling like a teenager again. A second later I’m in her messages, heart thudding harder than it should. What do I even say? I can’t come straight out with send me your porn book please. I smirk, type, delete, type again. Finally I settle on something that feels the right balance of cheek and dare.

So… any chance your pen name comes with a discount code? Asking for a friend.

I hit send before I can overthink it, leaning back and grinning at the ceiling, pulse hammering. Now I wait, half of me nervous she’ll ignore it, half desperate to see how far she’ll let me push. The message hangs there, unanswered and an hour crawls by; every buzz on my phone making my stomach flip. Finally, the reply comes.

No chance.

Short and final. Except she did reply, and I can almost see the smile behind it, like she’s daring me to try again. So I tap out another message.

Come on, you can’t dangle something like that and expect me not to chase. At least give me a clue. One word. A riddle. Something.

Seen. No reply. Hours tick by, I play fifa with the lads and watch some shit on my phone in bed.  After one final check around midnight I give up and call it a night, but the next morning, groggy and stubborn, I try again.

Last attempt, promise. But seriously, I want to read it. Don’t make me buy every book in the erotic section till I find yours.

This time her reply pings through more quickly.

What’s your address?

My fingers trip over themselves as I type it out. A few minutes later, another message.

Don’t let your parents see it.

I laugh out loud, startled by how much the thought thrills me.

The next day, late in the afternoon, I hear a click of the letterbox and watch the parcel land with a soft thud on the mat. A slim Amazon package, plain and forgettable. I race it up to my room and once the door is closed my hands move fast, tearing through the strip. The black glossy cover stares back at me, bold lettering, the image suggestive enough to leave no doubt what kind of story it is. My chest tightens as I run a thumb across the title, tracing it. Turning the book over I find there’s no sign of her real name anywhere, just this alter ego. Holding it feels illicit; she’s put part of herself in my hands that no one else is meant to see and Christ, I can’t wait to know what’s inside. I tell myself I’ll just skim the first chapter for now. Just to see what kind of thing she’s written. Except an hour later I’m five chapters deep, half-hard, sweating, and there’s no chance I’m putting this book down.

I’ve not read a whole book since school, and even then it was because some teacher was spoon-feeding me line by line, yet here I am, glued to every page. It’s not just the sex, though, fuck, the sex is incredible. Who knew black and white words on the page could be so hot? It’s raw and detailed, like she’s not just imagining it, but re-living it. And that’s the bit that does me in, because the whole time I’m reading I can’t stop thinking about it being about me and her.

At one point Mum knocks on the door calling me down for dinner. My voice cracks as I shout back, “Not hungry, feeling a bit rough!” She asks if I need anything and I manage to shake her off by telling her I’m going to sleep, but there’s no way I’m going to bed early tonight. I jerk off twice before I’m halfway through, but the words keep dragging me back, building me up, and I’m so far gone. Hours slide past and even though my phone buzzes a couple of times I don’t check it. By the time I hit the last page it’s gone midnight, my head’s spinning and I’ve never felt more awake. I snap the book shut staring at the cover, pulse hammering, grabbing my phone.

Holy fuck. I just finished it. Couldn’t stop. Haven’t read a whole book since school. I had no idea there were books like this.

I hit send, fully expecting silence at this hour, but then my screen lights up.

Glad you enjoyed it. Try not to tell your mum what kept you up all night.

I grin into the dark, throat dry, every nerve alive. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me. I’m sprawled on my bed just staring at the ceiling, too wired to sleep, when her next message pings through.

Working on a sequel.

I grin as I tap.

Yeah? What’s it about?

A pause, then…

The boy’s perspective this time.

I freeze. The boy. My mind stutters as something suddenly dawns. Surely not…

I pick the book back up, flick through to the description of the boy in this first chapter. The way she describes him and how he is through the story, he is kind of unsure, but also cocky, the way they half know each other and how she kept circling back to his mouth, his eyes, eyebrows. Surely not? Fuck is it… me?

I sit there, book heavy in my hands, stomach twisting. Did she write about me? The thought of her pouring these words out with me in her head, sculpting fantasies around the shape of my body, the way I look at her. Fuck. I type before I can stop myself.

This book. Sorry if this sounds like too much ego but is it me?

The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Maybe.

Oh fuck. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, hardly daring to believe it, recounting in my head every filthy thing I’ve just read, when another message pops up.

What’s your email? I’ll send you something. Draft only. Don’t show anyone.

I fire it off without hesitation. A few minutes later, the attachment lands in my inbox: Draft3.pdf. No cover, just the file. I instantly download it onto my phone and start reading. 

It’s past 4 a.m. when I finally look up from the screen. My room is pitch dark apart from the glow of my phone and my eyes burn from not blinking enough.

It’s me.

Not just a character who sort of looks like me, but my voice, my thoughts, the way I second-guess everything even when I’m trying to look confident. My nerves, cocky fronts, the way I get wound too tight, she’s written all of it. It’s terrifying and exhilarating. We hardly know each other and yet she’s reached inside and yanked out pieces of me I didn’t even know were there. 

I just finished. Haven’t slept. It’s me. How the fuck did you do that?

I hit send, crashing down onto the pillow and the next moment I’m out cold.

…

The knock wakes me. Slow, cautious, as though Mum’s not sure what state I’ll be in. Sunlight stabs at my eyes through the curtains as I turn over my phone to see it’s already gone midday.

“You alive in there?” she calls quietly.

“Yeah, just… bit rough. Think I’m coming down with something,” I croak, trying to pitch my voice low and groggy. There’s a pause, then the sound of her footsteps retreating. I let out a long breath.

It’s then I see it, the book on the bed where I dropped it last night. My stomach flips; if mum had opened the door an inch wider she’d have seen it lying there in plain sight. I stretch and let my leg swing wide so the book tumbles down the side of the bed, landing with a muted thud against the wall. Flopping back against the pillows, a stupid grin tugging at my mouth, I reach out and grab my phone to check my messages.

I guess I was just reading you all along.

I sink back into the mattress, my chest feels hot, body restless.

I need to talk to you. Not on here. Properly.

The typing dots come and go. 

I don’t think that’s a good idea.

I frown, pulse kicking up.

Why not?

Another pause.

Because some things are better left in books.

Maybe she’s right, but I can’t leave it.

You can’t write me like that and expect me to just sit on it. Please, just one coffee. I’m not gonna freak out or anything I promise.

This time the wait drags. I throw the phone down, pick it up again, pace the room for what feels like an hour before it buzzes.

Tomorrow, midday.

I grin so wide my face aches.

Amelie

I shouldn’t be here, every nerve in my body tells me that. I sit in the corner of the café, nursing a coffee that’s already gone lukewarm, watching the clock tick far too quickly. My bag is propped by the chair, ready to grab, legs taut with the urge to run. What the hell am I doing? I’m married, and a mother. My children’s faces flash through my mind with accusing clarity. Yet here I am, waiting to meet him. 

I should go. I should stand, walk out, and never look back.

The bell over the café door jingles and I glance up to find it’s too late. He’s there, Rowan. Looking far too good in a fitted charcoal shirt with the top two buttons open, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dark trousers that skim his frame, trainers white. Saliva pools in my mouth and my stomach lurches as if the ground just tilted. His eyes find me instantly and that’s it, there’s no escape. 

He slides into the chair opposite; the café feels too small, too warm, the space between us thick with anticipation. A silence hangs for a moment but then he shatters it with a stutter, like a seal breaking, and the words spill out of him as if pulled by an invisible current.

“You know I read it all in one night,” he says, voice low. “Both of them. Couldn’t stop….” He shakes his head. “It wasn’t just the s…. it was… The way you write. The way you wrote me. Shit.”

He looks down between his legs and I swallow. I can’t tell if he’s angry or pleased. I want to say something, but the way he looks at me makes the words die. He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on mine. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you. About the book. About us.”

My pulse thrums against my ribs, I should walk out, I should. But I don’t.

I stir my coffee for the fifth time, though there’s no sugar left to dissolve, my hands won’t stop shaking and he notices. His fingers slide across the table, warm and steady, covering mine, stealing the air from my lungs.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he murmurs. His thumb grazes over my knuckles once, deliberate, and then rests. I should pull away. I don’t

The café hums around us, the chatter of other lives going on, oblivious. But here, at this small table in the corner, it feels like the whole world has closed in. I shift, breaking eye contact. 

“We shouldn’t… I can’t… all these people…” I glance around furtively.

“Then let’s not do it here.”

Before I can think of an excuse he pulls me outside. The air is cool, a relief after the stifling café, but it does nothing to calm the thrum under my skin. We step into the narrow alley beside the building, half-shielded by bins and the smell of roasted beans wafting from the kitchen vent.

“Rowan…” I start, but his hand is already at my wrist, soft but insistent. The look in his eyes is enough and then his mouth is on mine.

It’s not careful, it’s hot, fast; a collision of want and panic, his hand sliding up my arm, mine tangling briefly in his shirt before I remember myself. I tear back, breathless.

“This is wrong, I can’t…” I whisper, though I’m already leaning back in.

He smirks, lips still brushing mine. The kiss deepens, stolen in the shadow of the alley. When we finally break apart, our foreheads rest together, hearts racing in sync, as the truth hangs heavy between us. There’s no going back now. He presses me back against the brick, hands braced either side of my body, like he’s caging me in. I should push him away, I should, but instead my hands fist the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer.

“Fuck, Amelie…” he groans against my mouth, and the sound of my name from his lips shatters what little resolve I had left. I feel him, hard, insistent, straining against me even through the barrier of his trousers. My pulse rockets and I shift my hand down between us, just to prove to myself what I already know. He jerks, eyes slamming shut, a hiss of breath escaping.

“Jesus.”

“Keep your voice down,” I whisper, though my own is shaking. My palm presses harder, unbuttoning, forcing my fingers into the tight space and stroking the heat of him, the fabric warm and tight. His hips twitch, betraying how close he is already.

“Don’t, I’ll…” he starts, but the way his voice cracks only drives me further. My fingers work at him, firm and fast. His head drops to my shoulder, forehead pressed hard against me, muffling the sounds that spill from him.

“Fuck, Amelie, I can’t…”

“You don’t have to.” My hand works quicker, relentless, and I can feel him pulsing, straining. The sheer thrill of it, here, hidden in a grubby alley, fully clothed. He stiffens, groaning into my neck, and then he’s coming, hot and messy against my hand, his body shuddering. For a moment all I hear is his ragged breathing, both of us pressed together, heat and guilt tangling. His weight leans into me, then slowly, shakily, he lifts his head. His eyes are dark, dazed, searching mine. Neither of us says it aloud but we both know, there’s no undoing this.