Page 13

FLICKER OF VULNERABILITY

LUKE

I slide onto my usual barstool and wave off the bartender who wants to slide me a menu. I ask for the house IPA. I’m sulking. At least I can admit it.

I notice that Alex isn’t behind the bar. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Do I want to sit in silence with my thoughts, or do I want a listening ear? I’m undecided.

Alex shows up five minutes later, beer in hand, not even pretending to be surprised to see me.

“My guy, you couldn’t look any more distraught if you tried.”

My alone time has come to an end and, well, that’s probably for the best.

“It’s been a night,” I tell him.

“Didn’t you go to a wedding?” he asks, sliding onto the stool next to me.

“Yeah. But Stella was there. She was taking photos.”

Alex lets out a whistle. “Damn, this girl seems to be in all the most random places. Did you get her number yet?”

I shake my head.

“Shit. I’m guessing, by the mood you’re in, things didn’t go well?”

I take a gulp of my beer. “Honestly, they went great. Until it didn’t. We danced. Then I asked her to come over.”

“She turned ya down, didn’t she?”

I grunt.

“She said she needs causal. Nothing lasting. Told me she doesn’t stick around. Then she said that whatever might be between us is more than casual.”

“She isn’t wrong. You don’t do casual, man. Never have. You need to be careful. And if she’s the type to run, it was the right move on her part. You’ve got that look in your eye again.”

I stare down at my bottle, watching the condensation drip down the side. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m too far in already.

She’s like a glitch in my system. I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s the only person who’s ever walked away and made me want to chase after her.

“I’m not sure if I’m being careful… or if I’m already in too deep.”

Alex shrugs. “Either way, sounds like you’re screwed.”

I don’t say anything to that. I know he’s not being a dick, but I’m really conflicted.

“Maybe it’s for the best” Alex says. “You know. That she walked away. That tells you everything you need to know.”

I want to believe that. I should believe that. But I keep replaying the way she looked at me on that dance floor. Like she was two seconds from staying. Like maybe she wanted to.

I don’t do maybes. And I don’t chase people who aren’t willing to stay.

I try my damnedest to pull myself out of the funk I’m in and enjoy another beer with Alex. He tells me about some shit going on with Wade and his girlfriend—who are back in Chicago.

I’m contemplating having a third beer or calling it a night.

Alex has his back to the bar, surveying the late-night crowd. For a Saturday night, it’s packed, but it’s not rowdy. The Trading Post usuals know the rules. They enjoy the low-key vibe of this place, so rough and rowdy nights aren’t usually a thing.

“Well, just remember, keep your head on straight, Luke,” Alex says. “I’m gonna head back to my office and wrap up some paperwork,” he says, catching me off guard.

“Paper work at one in the morning?” I question.

“Yeah. It is what it is.” He shrugs, setting his empty bottle on the bar and exiting stage right.

I shake my head. I’m so fucking confused by what just happened when I notice someone standing nearby in my peripherals. I turn my head slightly and finally understand the context Alex didn’t give me.

Standing there, hesitant, as if she’s asking herself if she’s really doing this, stands Stella. She’s dressed down from earlier, her hair loose, and her eyes guarded but sparkling. She finds my gaze and gives me a small smile.

Within only a few seconds, she closes the space between us and stands at my side. I twist toward her, trying to hide my shock.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again tonight,” I tell her cooly.

“I didn’t think you would either.” She lifts a shoulder. Then she climbs onto the stool that Alex vacated. She orders something easy, and I watch her carefully.

“So why you here, Trouble?”

There’s a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes, a tight pull at the corner of her mouth that tells me she’s bracing for something. Maybe rejection, regret, even her own reaction to what she’s about to say.

“I got home and wasn’t ready to call it a night. The music is good here, and the beer doesn’t suck.” She’s deflecting, but I’m not going to let this go.

“Uh, huh. Right,” I say.

She bristles at my mocking reply. “Look. I didn’t come here for you.

” She sighs. “At least I told myself I wasn’t, anyway.

” She pauses, clearly searching for the right words.

Her eyes dart away for half a second before meeting mine again—like she regrets being that honest, but refuses to take it back.

“I told myself if I showed up and you weren’t here, it was just a night out. If you were, maybe it meant something.” Her voice is steady, but something shifts when she says it.

“And?” I ask, my voice a gruff whisper.

“And here you are.” Her reply isn’t loud. Isn’t dramatic. Just enough.

She says it like its nothing. Like she’s not cracking open the door just a little to see what I’ll do with it. But I hear it.

She walked away from the dance floor like she had no interest in anything beyond that moment.

And now she’s here, in the same bar where we met. With no plan.

Just… here.

Maybe she’s not ready to stop running. But she came back to the first place we collided.

Maybe that means something, too.

“So… is the Professor Meatball buying drinks tonight, or what?”

I blink. Then smile.

Yeah. I’m screwed.

I don’t know what surprises me more, that she’s here… or that she came looking for me.

Stella’s sitting beside me at the bar like she didn’t just walk out of my arms only just hours ago. Her thigh is flush against mine. Her gaze flicks between me and her drink, like it’s a toss-up which one she wants more.

She’s only had one beer, and I never had that third. No, no foggy beer brain here. I’ve downed two waters. She hasn’t said much. She really doesn’t need to.

There’s something different about this version of her. As if she’s wearing less armor. She’s still sharp around the edges, but she’s not using her mouth as a weapon tonight.

She’s using her eyes, though.

They land on me—slow and deliberate—like she’s searching for something. Like she’s testing a theory she’s too stubborn to say out loud.

And I can’t help it…I lean in.

“Tell me this wasn’t just coincidence.”

She doesn’t look away. Her lips part, and for a second, I think she might make a joke to slide out from under the weight of it.

But she doesn’t. She holds my gaze.

“I wanted to go home with you.”

It’s a confession. It’s a full truth. It feels like the most honest thing she’s said all night.

And it’s enough.

I shift, just slightly, letting my hand brush against her bare leg. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.

But I catch the way her breath skips.

My voice drops. “Tell me to back off, Stella, and I will.”

Her eyes find mine. Steady. Heated.

“Don’t,” she says.

That’s all it takes.

The kiss happens fast—our mouths meeting like we’ve already been through this a dozen times and still haven’t had enough. She’s not holding back this time. She kisses like she wants to forget how careful she’s been. My hand slips behind her neck as her fingers fist my shirt, pulling me closer.

The bartender clears his throat from somewhere behind us. We both ignore him.

Barely .

She breaks the kiss with a small gasp and leans in, her lips brushing against my jaw.

“If we don’t leave this bar or find a room with a lock, I’m going to climb you right here.”

Yeah. We’re not waiting.

“Still time to change your mind,” she says.

“Not a chance.”

Her smile is lazy. Dangerous. She’s all heat and contradiction. And she knows exactly what she’s doing when she leans back in and kisses me again, deeper this time.

My hand slides down to her hip, the other cradling the side of her neck. She shifts toward me, practically in my lap, and if we have an audience, I don’t care.

When Stella is in my arms, the rest of the world shuts up.

She presses her forehead to mine.

“I bet the bathroom has a lock.”

I chuckle. “You really are trouble.”

She stands and takes my hand without looking back, and I follow with no hesitation.

She leads the way like she’s done it before, all cool, unbothered, her hand gripping mine like a silent dare.

She opens the bathroom door, glances behind us, then pulls me inside.

The door barely clicks shut before she’s pressing me against it, her mouth on mine again. It’s fast, hot, and frantic—in the best way.

She tastes like beer and that strawberry ChapStick I’ve seen her put on half dozen times since we met.

My hands find her waist, sliding under her top, thumbs tracing the warm skin just above her cut-off jeans. She kisses me harder this time, less teasing. Her tongue brushes mine, and I groan, already drowning in her again.

Her fingers tug at my shirt, palms flat against my stomach, then slide up my chest like she’s reacquainting herself. Like she missed this.

And maybe she did.

I lift her easily—like she weighs nothing—and set her on the counter. Her legs wrap around me, locking me in.

She bites my bottom lip, and I groan as I grip the hem of her shirt and slide it up. She gasps when my fingers trail along her skin just below her bra.

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet.

But it’s us.

Breathless, she says, “Still not a one-night stand kind of guy, huh?”

“Still not pretending I don’t want you,” I murmur into her skin.

I trail kisses down her neck, grazing her collarbone with my teeth. She shivers and arches toward me, one hand fisting the fabric at my shoulder.

I drop to my knees.

She exhales sharply, but doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t say a word.