Everything, but the Fall pt. 1

May 31

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The door was already open.
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Not wide -- just enough to suggest invitation. Or warning. The kind of gap that makes you ask: Do I knock, or do I confess?
I step inside.
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Warm air greets me -- spiced, deliberate. Bergamot cut with cedarwood, softened by vanilla and musk. This wasn’t sprayed. It was summoned.
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The lights are low -- not out. A candle on a brass plate flickers by the floor. In the corner, a fireplace mutters to itself like it knows the ending already.
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She’s not in view. But she’s here. I feel her.
My shoes fall silent on the old wood floor. The place is dressed like memory -- deep tones: molten bronze, obsidian velvet, smoked plum, cognac shadow. Every surface looks touched. Every object looks like it stayed behind after someone else left.
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Then I see her.
Back to me, framed in the mirror.
She’s barefoot. Wearing a man’s white shirt -- unbuttoned just enough to ask a question. One cuff still buttoned, the other rolled to the elbow. Intentional asymmetry.
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“I thought you might hesitate,” she says, not turning. I smile. “I thought you might pretend to be surprised.”
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The room tightens. And just for a flicker, I wonder -- what version of me did she imagine? The confident one? The cruel one? The one who says everything with his hands?
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Or the one who still believes in things he shouldn’t?
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I shift, and the floor creaks -- the sound of being caught in my own hesitation. She tilts her head. “Still thinking about whether this is a good idea?” “No,” I say, finally moving toward the chair. “I’m wondering what kind of man shows up to something like this and thinks it was his idea.” I sit.
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The mirror catches both of us now -- my reflection, unreadable and unsettled; hers, luminous and composed.
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“Do you always leave the door open?” I ask, voice lower now. “Or just when you want to be seen?” She doesn’t blink. “Only when I want someone to make a choice.” “And if they walk away?” She shrugs, casual as a sin confessed too late. “Then they were never the one worth remembering.”
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Her eyes settle on me. And this time, they do not wander. They search. Not for permission. Not for power. But for proof.
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That I am not just another man looking for a clean escape route after a messy decision. I lean forward. Not aggressive -- curious. Caught between strategy and surrender.
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“And what happens if I remember you?”
She stands. Steps closer. Each move deliberate -- like she’s walking into the question, not away from it.
When she reaches me, she doesn’t sit.
She kneels. Hands on my thighs. Her breath grazes my neck -- soft and sure.
My scent hits her first -- clean heat, cardamom and cedar, with a thread of something darker. It doesn’t shout.
But it lingers -- the way memory does when it wants to misbehave. Her eyes flicker at the scent, not quite smiling.
“Mmm,” she breathes. “You smell like someone who keeps their regrets warm and well fed.”
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The weight settles ... between ache and impulse, where trouble waits.
It is not just want.
It is not just heat.
It is consequence -- the kind that might spill into my life if I am not careful.
And maybe I am tired of being careful. No script. No safety net.
Just her, the chair, the mirror -- and me, caught in her web, unsure if I’m the prey or the partner.
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Either way, I’m not leaving.
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She rises slowly.
Her hands slide up my chest -- not possessive, but testing. Reading my breath, my stillness. My resolve.
“I almost didn’t send the address,” she says. “Why?”
“Because men like you are dangerous. Not in the obvious way. In the way that makes women ask themselves better questions.”
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I laugh -- quietly. Like I’m afraid to startle something real. “And you like questions?”
“I like answers that take their time.”
I stand now, inches from her. My scent and hers blend -- tonka bean and lavender, desire made patient.
In the mirror behind her, I catch my reflection -- something about it looks different. Not dishonest. Just less defended.
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“Do I get to ask something now?” She nods. “Why me?”
She looks at me like she already knows I’ll remember this.
“Because you smell like restraint -- and act like you’ve already lost it.”
Then she touches my lip -- thumb grazing, not to silence, not to tease. Just to confirm I’m real.
“I want you to ruin my evening,” she says. “But not my control."
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I inhale.
The candle flares.
The fire growls.
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And in the mirror, two people pretend this doesn’t mean something.
But it does.
And it already has.
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