Double fuck.
I look around desperately for an escape route, but my table is backed against the wall. Short of diving under the table or climbing the bookshelves like some deranged monkey, I'm trapped.
He approaches with the confidence of someone who's never questioned his place in the world. He pulls out the chair directly across from me—because of course he does—and sits down.
"This seat taken?" he asks, though he's already settling in.
I stare at him, waiting for... something. A smirk. A suggestive comment. A reference to last night.
Instead, Asher simply pulls a laptop from his bag, opens it, and starts typing like we're strangers who happen to be sharing a table. Like nothing ever happened between us.
And somehow, that's worse.
Ten excruciating minutes pass. I haven't read a single word on my page. I'm too aware of Asher's presence—the soft tapping of his fingers on the keyboard, the way he occasionally rubs the back of his neck, the faint scent of his cologne that reaches me every time he shifts in his seat.
This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to pretend nothing happened? How is he so calm about all this?
I tear a piece of paper from my notebook, the sound jarringly loud in the quiet space. I scribble quickly, barely thinking: 'Give me your phone number.'
I slide the note across the table, watching Asher's face for a reaction.
He glances down at the paper, one eyebrow rising slowly. His lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close—as he picks up a pen and writes something before sliding the note back.
'Why?'
That's it. One word. I feel a surge of irritation. Is he really going to make this difficult?
"Just do it," I hiss across the table.
Several heads turn in our direction. A guy with thick glasses makes an exaggerated shushing motion. The girl from earlier glares daggers at me.
My cheeks burn. I slump in my chair, mortified, while Asher watches me with undisguised amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Fuming, I grab the note and scrawl: 'Because I have things to say.'
I shove it back at Asher, who reads it and responds with infuriating slowness, like he's savoring my discomfort.
'Things you can't say here?'
I write back immediately: 'Obviously.'
Asher's reply comes back: 'About?'
I stare at the word, my pen hovering over the paper. What exactly do I want to say to Asher? That last night was a mistake? That it can never happen again? That I haven't been able to think about anything else since?
I settle for: 'Last night.'
When Asher reads this, something shifts in his expression. The amusement fades, replaced by something more serious. He writes: 'What about it?'
Me:'We need to talk about what happened.'
Asher: 'Do we? Seemed pretty straightforward to me.'
The casual dismissal makes my blood boil. I write back: 'Not to me.'
Asher studies me for a moment, then writes: 'What part confused you?'
I stare at the question, my mind racing. How do I even begin to answer that? The part where I enjoyed another man touching me? The part where I can't stop thinking about it? The part where my entire identity feels like it's been thrown into a blender?
