Possession Timide

I didn't plan to cry in a stranger's bathroom. But here I was, pressed against cold marble tile, my forehead resting on the edge of a sink that cost more than my monthly rent. The faucet was gold. Actual gold. I knew because I'd touched it, left a smudge, wiped it off with my sleeve like a prayer.

Two hours earlier, I'd been sorting books at the library where I work. The smell of old paper and dust. The quiet hum of fluorescent lights. My life was small and I liked it that way. I had my routines, my tea at exactly three, my walk home past the bakery where the woman with gray hair always saved me a day-old croissant. I had my mother's texts every Sunday and my collection of vintage postcards and my cat who slept on my chest like she was guarding a treasure.

Then Thomas happened.

Thomas doesn't happen to people. Thomas happens *at* people. He's a force, a weather system, a car crash you see coming but can't look away from. I met him at a gallery opening my coworker Marina dragged me to. "You need to see art," she said. "Real art. Not the pictures of sad dogs you pin to your mood board."

The gallery was white and cold and full of people who smelled like money. I wore my best shirt, the blue one with the collar that doesn't fray. I'd ironed it twice. I'd put on cologne, the one my sister gave me three Christmases ago, half full, mostly dust.

Thomas found me in front of a painting that was just a blue square. A very expensive blue square.

"Interesting choice," he said.

I turned. He was tall. That's the first thing I noticed. Tall and built like he'd been carved by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Dark hair, dark eyes, a mouth that curved like he knew a joke you weren't smart enough to get. He wore a gray suit that fit him the way water fits a river.

"I don't know anything about art," I said.

"Good. Neither do they." He nodded at the crowd. "They know what they're supposed to like. You're the only honest person here."

His voice was low and warm, the kind of voice that made you want to lean in. I leaned in. I couldn't help it.

"I'm Thomas."

"Lucas."

He smiled. It was a slow smile, the kind that took its time reaching his eyes. When it got there, something in my chest went tight.

"What do you do, Lucas?"

"I work at a library."

"A library." He said it like it was a secret password. "That's perfect."

I didn't ask what he meant. I was too busy trying to breathe normally. He stood close, closer than strangers should stand. I could smell him. Something expensive and clean, like cedar and rain.

"You should let me buy you a drink," he said.

"I don't really drink."

"Then you should let me buy you dinner."

"I already ate."

"Then coffee. Tomorrow. There's a place on Mercer Street. They burn the beans just right."

I should have said no. I should have made an excuse, any excuse. But his eyes held mine and I felt like a moth, small and stupid, flying toward a flame I knew would burn.

"Okay," I said.

His smile widened. He touched my arm, just a brush of fingers against my sleeve. "Perfect. Tomorrow at seven."

I spent the next day in a state of low-grade panic. I changed my shirt four times. I Googled him. Thomas Devereaux. Thirty-four. CEO of some tech company I'd never heard of. Photos of him at galas and charity events, always with a woman on his arm, always laughing. One article called him "the city's most eligible bachelor." Another mentioned his "notorious charm."

I went anyway.

The coffee shop was small and dark and smelled like roasted almonds. He was already there, sitting at a corner table, nursing an espresso. He stood when I walked in. He kissed my cheek. His lips were warm.

"You came," he said.

"Of course I came."

"I wasn't sure you would. You seemed nervous last night."

"I'm always nervous."

"That's sweet." He said it like it was a compliment. Maybe it was.

We talked for two hours. I don't remember about what. His voice, his hands, the way he laughed at my awkward jokes. He made me feel seen. He made me feel interesting. When I mentioned my postcard collection, he leaned forward and asked questions like he actually wanted to know the answers.

When I got home, my phone buzzed with a text from a number I didn't recognize.

*Tonight was good. I want to see you again.*

*Me too,* I typed. My fingers were shaking.

*Tomorrow. My place. I'll cook.*

I should have asked how he got my number. I should have wondered why he was moving so fast. Instead I said yes.

And now I was in his bathroom, crying against a gold faucet, because he'd kissed me and I'd felt something I'd never felt before. Something huge and terrifying and completely out of my control.

He knocked on the door. "Lucas? You okay?"

I wiped my eyes. I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was flushed, my lips swollen, my hair a mess. I looked like someone who'd been caught in a storm.

"Yeah," I said. "Fine. Just give me a minute."

I heard him lean against the door. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? He wasn't going anywhere. And I had no idea what that meant for me.