"Are you?" His eyes searched hers, and Maya felt stripped bare. Seen in a way she hadn't allowed in two years. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like someone who's already lost everything important. What do you have left to protect?"
The words should have made her angry. Instead, they cracked something open in her chest something painful and raw and alive.
"I don't even know you," Maya whispered.
"Good. Then there's no reason to lie."
Ethan's thumb brushed her cheekbone. "I leave for Portugal in a week. Six-week assignment, then Thailand, then New Zealand. I'm never in one place. I'm the worst possible person for you to be interested in."
"I'm not interested."
"Liar." His smile was soft, knowing. "You've been looking at my mouth for the past five minutes."
Maya's breath caught. "Observant."
"Occupational hazard." He leaned in slowly, giving her time to retreat. "Tell me to stop."
She should. God, she should. This was everything she'd been avoiding connection, risk, the possibility of pain.
Instead, she tilted her face up and breathed, "Don't stop."
Ethan kissed her like she was air and he'd been drowning. His mouth was soft and urgent at once, tasting like champagne and something darker. Maya's hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, two years of grief and loneliness and fear pouring into the kiss.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Ethan rested his forehead against hers.
"Come upstairs with me," he said roughly.
Maya's heart hammered. "That's a terrible idea."
"Completely terrible." His hands tangled in her hair. "But I've been making safe choices my entire life, and I'm exhausted. What about you?"
She was. God, she was so tired of being careful. Of living small. Of protecting a heart that already felt broken beyond repair.
"Just tonight," Maya heard herself say. "No names, no numbers, no promises. Just tonight."
"Just tonight," Ethan agreed.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, and Maya let herself fall into it. Into him. Into the terrifying possibility that maybe, just for one night, she could be someone who took risks.
Someone who lived instead of survived.
Someone brave.
They barely made it to his hotel room before clothes started coming off. Ethan pressed her against the door, his mouth on her neck, her collarbone, everywhere. Maya's hands fumbled with his shirt buttons, desperate to feel skin.
"Are you sure?" he asked against her throat.
"Shut up and kiss me."
He did. The kiss was fire and need and two broken people trying to feel something other than empty. They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and champagne-soaked bravery, and for the first time in two years, Maya felt alive.
Not happy. Not healed.
But alive.
And it was terrifying and perfect and completely unsustainable.
Maya woke at dawn to unfamiliar ceiling and the warm weight of an arm across her waist. Memories of the night crashed over her Ethan's mouth, his hands, the way he'd said her name like a prayer.
What have I done?
Panic clawed up her throat. This was exactly what she'd sworn to avoid. Connection. Vulnerability. The possibility of loss. She'd broken every rule she'd built to protect herself.
Carefully, she slipped out from under Ethan's arm. He stirred but didn't wake, his face peaceful in sleep. Maya grabbed her dress from the floor, her shoes, her dignity.
She should leave a note. Should say something.
Instead, she ran.
She made it to the elevator before the tears came. Made it to her car before the full weight of her mistake hit her. She'd felt something. For the first time in two years, she'd wanted someone. And that was unforgivable.
Because wanting meant losing.
And she couldn't survive another loss.
Maya drove home as the city woke around her, promising herself she'd forget him. Forget his crooked smile and his honest eyes and the way he'd made her feel human again.
It was just one night.
It didn't matter.
It couldn't matter.
Three Weeks Later
Maya stared at the postcard in her hand, her heart doing complicated things in her chest.
Iceland. A glacier so blue it looked like a fairy tale. And on the back, messy handwriting:
Maya,
I know you left. I know you probably don't want to hear from me. But I can't stop thinking about our night. About the way you kissed me like you were drowning and I was air.
I'm in Iceland again. Same glacier, different existential crisis. And I keep wondering what if you're wrong? What if protecting yourself from loss means you've already lost?
If you want to find out, text me. If not, I understand. But I had to try.
The guy who's apparently terrible at one-night stands,
Ethan
P.S. - You forgot your earring. I'm keeping it hostage until you answer.
Maya's hands shook as she pulled out her phone. She should throw the postcard away. Should block his number. Should protect herself before this got any deeper.
Instead, she found herself typing: You're blackmailing me with jewelry? That's a new low.
His response came immediately: Desperate times. Does this mean you're talking to me?
This means I want my earring back.
Come to dinner with me when I'm back in town. I'll return it in person.
That's manipulation.
That's flirting. Say yes, Maya.
She stared at her phone for a full minute, her therapist's voice echoing in her head: What risk can you live with?
The risk of trying and losing? Or the risk of never trying at all?
When are you back?
Three days. Best three days of my life, assuming you're saying yes.
Maya closed her eyes, made the choice that terrified her, and typed: One dinner. That's it.
One dinner. I promise.
She set down her phone and picked up the postcard again, studying the glacier. Beautiful and cold and slowly melting.
Just like her.
Maya spent the next three days trying to convince herself she could cancel.
She drafted the text approximately forty-seven times:
Something came up. Can't make dinner.
Delete.
This is a mistake. I can't do this.
Delete.
I don't think this is a good idea.
Delete, delete, delete.