Robin

×××

This might be one of the best weekends I've had in ages.

I know, I know-the plan was simple. Go out one Friday night after work, find someone, have a little fun, and head home. No commitments, no strings, no lingering thoughts.

It's worked for me plenty of times before. But somehow, here I am, still in Heather's friend's tiny apartment two days later, completely ignoring the rules I usually live by.

Saturday morning-if you can call it morning-comes too fast and too slow all at once. When I finally wake up, it's nearly noon.

My body is sore in the best way, a reminder of the chaos from last night. Heather's still asleep beside me, sprawled out like she owns the whole bed.

Her hair is a mess, and her face is smushed into the pillow, but she looks... peaceful. Pretty.

It makes me want to reach out, to brush the strands of hair away from her face, but I stop myself.

That feels too intimate, too much like something I'm not supposed to do.

Instead, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, until Heather finally stirs. She lets out a groggy groan and turns to me, her eyes barely open.

"Morning," she murmurs, her voice scratchy from sleep.

"Afternoon," I correct with a grin.

That earns me a glare, but it's hard to take her seriously when she's blinking at me like a confused cat.

"Shut up," she says, rolling over to bury her face in the pillow again.

We don't get out of bed for another hour, and even then, it's only because hunger forces us to. We order takeout-burgers and fries from some diner down the street-and eat it on the bed like teenagers at a sleepover.

The food is greasy and a little too salty, but it doesn't matter.

Heather tells me this ridiculous story about her boss accidentally sending a company-wide email meant for his mistress, and I laugh so hard I nearly choke on a fry.

The day slips away without me noticing. Afternoon turns into evening, and before I know it, the room is dimly lit by the glow of a single bedside lamp.

Heather's on the phone now, pacing back and forth near the window. She's speaking softly, her tone serious in a way that feels out of place compared to the rest of the day.

I watch her from the bed, trying not to listen too closely.

It's not my business.

Whatever's happening on the other end of that call has nothing to do with me. Still, there's a part of me that wants to ask if she's okay, to offer some kind of comfort.

But I don't.

That's not my job. I'm not allowed to ask questions like that with a weekend fling no matter how much concern I feel.

Heather ends the call and slips back into bed without a word. I almost ask about it, but she curls up against me like nothing happened, and I decide to let it go.

In the middle of the night, I feel her warm lips on mine and I know she wants it. So, I give it to her. The next second, she is a tired mess and collapses onto my chest.

I sleep with a smile on my face because I'm exactly who I think I am.

Sunday morning comes. We get into the shower for a quick shower, only to find ourselves cumming half an hour later.

Then we end up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of lavender and detergent.

Heather finds some cheesy rom-com on TV, the kind with over-the-top declarations of love and characters who always manage to find their happy endings in the span of ninety minutes.

Normally, I'd roll my eyes at something like this, but today I don't mind.

We eat cold pizza straight from the box, the remains of last night's dinner.

Heather keeps stealing my slices, claiming I eat too slow, and I let her get away with it because the way her face lights up when she "wins" is worth the sacrifice.

Not going there, I remind myself.

The hours slip by in a haze of laughter and lazy touches. Heather curls up against me, her head resting on my shoulder, and I feel strangely content.

It's a feeling I haven't allowed myself to experience in a long time, and it catches me off guard. I know I shouldn't care about it but it's hard.

And now, it's late afternoon. The sun is almost setting.

I should probably go. The weekend is coming to an end, and real life is waiting for me out there.

But I can't seem to move. I don't want to. If I walk out that door, this is over. This stupidly awesome bubble is over and I'm not even allowed to miss it.

Heather is lying on top of me, her weight pressing me into the couch. She's smiling, this wide, carefree grin that I'm certain will stay with me long after this weekend is over.

"You're quiet," she says, tilting her head to look at me. Her hair falls to the side and I push it behind her ear gently.

"Am I?"

"Yeah. What's going on in that head of yours?"

I hesitate. There's so much I could say, but none of it feels right. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

I glance at her, at the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles.

"This," I admit.

Her smile falters, just for a second, before softening. "This?"

"You, me..."

She doesn't respond right away. Instead, she shifts slightly, propping herself up on her elbows so she can look at me properly.

Her hair falls around her face again like a curtain, and for a moment, I forget she's just someone I slept with.

"I'm glad you stayed," she says finally.

The words are simple, but they hit me like a punch to the chest. I didn't plan on staying.

That wasn't part of the deal. And yet, here I am, not even wanting to go home.

"Me too," I say, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice.

Heather leans down, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. It's not seductive, it's comforting, tender and just in all ways not important but I can't get over it.

The apartment's growing dimmer with each passing moment. I know I should leave, but I don't want to. For the first time in a long time, I don't want to go back to the life I've carefully constructed for myself.

Heather rests her head against my chest, her breathing slow and steady, and I wrap my arms around her without thinking.

Just a little longer

××××