Saturday evenings have a rhythm of their own. The world winds down, even the sun seems reluctant to disappear. But that day, my rhythm was off. I was waiting.
Not for the sunset, not for sleep—just for a call. Her call.
Nina and I had exchanged a flurry of texts earlier that afternoon, playful and promising. But it was the call that mattered. The call where she'd confirm it was happening. Dinner with her parents. The start of something real.
I must've checked my phone a dozen times in under ten minutes. I paced. I sat. I stared at the screen like it owed me a piece of her.
Then finally, the screen lit up: Nina calling.
I picked up on the first ring.
"Hey," I said, a little too fast.
She laughed softly on the other end. "Were you waiting for me?"
"Like a schoolboy," I admitted. "You said we'd talk and… well, I couldn't think about anything else."
"Good," she said, her voice all silk and fire. "Come pick me up. We'll drive together."
I exhaled, finally allowing myself to relax. "I want them to like me, Nina. Your parents. I want to do this right."
"You will," she said. "And… thank you. For wanting this."
She lived in a small but elegant apartment tucked between tall oaks. When I pulled up, she was already waiting by the sidewalk, wrapped in a black trench coat, her raven-dark hair cascading over her shoulders like waves made of silk. Her blue eyes pierced through the dusk light—sharp, feline, almost unreal. Her nose pointed, sculpted like it had been chiseled with precision, and her lips held that soft, mischievous smile that could undo me in an instant.
She was like the Black Widow—dangerous in beauty, impossible not to watch.
"You clean up nice," she teased, sliding into the passenger seat.
I caught a whiff of her perfume—vanilla with something darker underneath, something sinful.
"You look… like a fantasy I don't deserve."
She gave me that smile again, then leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Let's go."
Her parents' house was nothing short of a dream. A warm colonial-style home with twinkling porch lights, hedges trimmed to perfection, and a stone path that invited you in like an old friend. The door opened before we could knock.
Her mother was the first to appear—tall, silver-haired, graceful, wearing a wine-colored dress that hugged her frame like a whisper. Her smile was warm, her hug warmer. Her father followed—a man of stature, voice like old jazz, and a firm handshake that said I see you.
"Ethan," her mother beamed, "we've heard so much about you."
"All lies, I hope," I said with a grin.
They laughed, and it felt good. Natural. The house smelled like rosemary and roast beef. Cozy, welcoming. Like the kind of place that held memories in its walls.
Dinner was set for four—crystal glasses, heavy silverware, candles flickering between dishes. Her father poured wine. Her mother passed the potatoes. Conversation flowed.
But something felt… missing.
There was a place setting left out. Not forgotten—set aside. Like a presence was expected, and then erased.
No one mentioned Vivienne.
Not once.
I waited through small talk, stories about Nina's childhood, polite laughter. Until finally, I couldn't hold it.
"So… I heard Nina has a sister?"
Silence.
Complete.
The kind that stretches time.
Then Nina looked up, tilting her head like she genuinely forgot her own question. "Mom… Dad… where's my sister?"
Her mother blinked. "Oh. Right. Vivienne left for Alaska this morning. She received an internship offer—last minute. We thought she would've told you, dear."
"She didn't," Nina said softly, looking down at her plate.
Her voice didn't tremble. Her face didn't flinch. If anything, I saw something else.
Relief.
A loosening in her shoulders. A long breath that seemed to stretch from her soul. She rolled her eyes in the most subtle way, and then gave a small smile. Not wide. Not obvious. Just a corner-lip curve, like a secret she was glad to keep.
"Oh. Nice," she said. "I'm happy for her. She finally gets to live the life she deserves. Up in Alaska."
Her parents exchanged a quick glance.
Her parents exchanged a quick glance.
"Yes," her mother nodded, lifting her wine glass. "Indeed. Alaska will suit her."
Her father added, "Vivienne's a sweet girl. Reserved, respectful. We wish you'd met her, Ethan. But she insisted she had to leave today."
The conversation shifted, but I couldn't stop thinking about it—the way they all seemed relieved. Like Vivienne's absence had lifted a burden off the table. No one mourned her departure. No one toasted to her success. Just a collective exhale.
But Nina… she was glowing. Not obviously. Not dramatically. But enough for me to notice. She looked freer. Lighter. Like something had been peeled off her skin and thrown away.
And I… I loved her.
So I didn't push. I let it slide. For her.
The evening ended in warmth—goodbyes, lingering hugs, her mother slipping a container of leftover lemon cake into my hands with a wink.
"You're welcome back any time," she said.
As Nina and I stepped into the cool evening, she slipped her hand into mine and leaned her head onto my shoulder. We walked slowly, like two lovers in a forgotten world, wrapped in something unspeakably tender.
She held me tighter than usual.
And I felt it all—the skip in my heartbeat, the shiver down my spine, the stupid grin I couldn't wipe off my face. Like I was hers. Entirely.
We drove in silence, fingers laced across the gearshift, stealing glances and quiet smiles all the way back to her place.
When we arrived, I parked in front of her building. The engine idled. Neither of us moved.
Then she turned to me.
"Walk me up?" she asked.
"Always."
I walked her to her door, her hand still clutching mine. And when we stopped, she turned to me, pressed her back against the door, and pulled me in for a kiss.
Her lips—warm, velvet-soft, slow at first, then deeper, tasting like wine and something sweeter underneath. I let my hand rise to her jaw, fingers brushing her hair, feeling it cascade like silk. Her body pressed to mine, her chest against my chest. I felt everything. The rise of her breath. The press of her breasts. The way her hips tilted into me like she wanted more.
And God, I did too.
She broke the kiss, just long enough to whisper, "Would you like to spend the night here?"
I smiled.
Then kissed her again.
She jumped—literally jumped—into my arms, legs wrapped around my waist, laughing softly into my mouth as I fumbled for the key she handed me. I pushed the door open without breaking the kiss. We stumbled inside, our bodies still tangled.
The door slammed behind us.
And the world disappeared.
I carried her across the room, her breath hot against my neck, her lips finding that spot just below my ear that made me groan. Her coat dropped to the floor. My jacket, too. Her blouse slid from her shoulders like it was begging to be removed.
She wasn't wearing a bra.
And the way her nipples hardened in the cool air made me pause—just to look. Just to feel the weight of her in my hands. She pulled my shirt over my head, her fingers running down my chest like she was memorizing every inch.
She was wild. Beautifully wild.
She kissed down my neck, then across my collarbone, moaning softly as I pressed her against the wall. My hand slid down her back, over the curve of her hips, pulling her tighter into me.
"You feel so good," she whispered. "So fucking good."
I lifted her again, carried her to the bedroom, dropped her on the bed like she was made of stars.
She spread beneath me—hair splayed across the pillow, eyes burning blue fire, lips red and swollen from our kiss.
I kissed my way down her stomach, slow, teasing. Her thighs trembled when I reached them. I looked up, met her eyes.
"I want to remember this forever," I said.
"Then don't stop," she whispered.
And I didn't.
We made love like the world was ending. Like nothing else existed but the way our bodies fit, the way we moved together. She arched beneath me, nails digging into my back, breath catching with every thrust.
She gasped my name like it was a prayer.
And when we both came—clinging, shaking, whispering—it felt like something holy.
After, we lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest, her fingers tracing circles on my skin.
"I've never…" she started, but stopped.
I kissed her forehead.
"You don't have to say it."
But I felt it. In her touch. In the way she clung to me. In the silence that felt safe.
For that one night, everything felt real. Like nothing could go wrong.
I didn't know then—couldn't know—that the truth was already in motion.
But for now, I just held her, and let the world wait.