Page 14 of Meet Me In The Dark

“You’ve never brought anything stupid to me.”

I exhale a shaky breath. “I can’t stop thinking about… a sex club.”

To her eternal credit, she doesn’t flinch, blink, or even pause. She simply lifts her coffee cup and takes a sip, as if I just told her I’d started a new Pilates class. “Go on.”

“That’s it? Nothing more?”

“Should there be? Everyone has their thing. Clearly,thisthing is stuck in your mind.”

I look down at my hands, feeling the full weight of her words settle in my chest before I open my mouthand unload everything—the podcast episode I listened to, the letter, the way it caught me off guard and sank its teeth in, how it awakened something in me I can’t quite put back to sleep.

“It’s just…” I shift in my chair, pulling my cardigan tighter around me. “It feels insane.”

“What exactly feels insane? Is it the idea of it? Or the fact that you want to go?”

I sink lower in my chair, heat prickling the back of my neck. “I don’t know. It’s not me.”

There’s no pity in her eyes, only openness and that shimmer of respect that’s always between us. It’s a kind of maternal protectiveness that has never once made me feel small.

“You live your life by the blueprints. That’s not a flaw, Celeste. It’s what makes you brilliant, but it’s okay to color outside the lines once in a while.”

“Please tell me you’re not comparing architecture to a sex club.”

“Both involve foundations and thoughtful design. And we both know what happens when you build on the wrong one.”

Lilian stands, but she doesn’t leave right away. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re insane. I think you’re curious, and maybe a little scared of what that curiosity means, but you don’t need my permission to want something different. You only need your own.”

She allows the moment to linger before finally turning toward the door.

“Finish those designs,” she says with a small smile. “Our clients typically prefer architecture without sexually repressed flourishes.”

I bark a weak laugh. “Got it.”

The door shuts softly behind her, and I sit therestaring blankly at my sketches. Even as I make myself pick up my pencil, I can feel my mind beginning to drift to the weight of a strong hand on the back of my neck and the warmth of breath against my ear.

This is so bad.

I press my palms to my face and exhale again.

I need to stop freaking out about this. It’s pointless. I’ll never even know if that club really exists.

Sure, there are other clubs, but I don’t want them.

I want that one.

The one from the letter.

The one that comes recommended, so to speak.

What that woman described?

I want that.

Five

Julian

Mateo’s fist connects with my ribs just as I drop my guard to breathe.