My Imperfect Mr Perfect

Rock Bottom and a Shot of Whiskey

“If you don't want to be alone tonight, just say it.”

Lana rolled her eyes and ordered another drink. The bar lights blurred a little more with each sip soft golden halos that made everything feel far less tragic than it really was. The bartender had glanced at her for the fifth time that night, raising a brow each time, but he didn’t comment. She was a very pretty girl, heartbreak written in the smudged mascara beneath her lashes.

Then he walked in.

Lana’s POV

Monday, 10:00 PM

I glanced around the upscale bar dark marble counters gleaming under the dim lighting, leather seating, and shelves stacked with vintage liquor I couldn’t even spell, let alone pronounce. Everyone around me looked like they belonged. Suited men in corner booths speaking in quiet, calculated, ruthless tones. Women with sculpted cheekbones laughed into their champagne glasses, their eyes scanning the room like they were shopping for their next collections.

And me? “I looked like someone’s soggy assistant,” I muttered under my breath, biting down the bitter laugh that threatened to rise.

Then he walked in.

Dark tailored suit. Tall. Sharp jaw. Expensive watch glinting under the bar’s dim light. Rain still glistened on his shoulders. He moved like a question no one dared to answer deliberate, detached, dangerous. He looked like trouble. The expensive kind.

He took the seat two stools down, ordered something in a low voice, and said nothing else. I tried not to stare. Really, I did. But his presence pulled at me like gravity, like heat curling in the air between us, and I couldn't resist such a pullunreadable eyes and quiet danger. A man like that had stories. The kind you didn’t ask about. The kind you only whispered.

And then… he turned to me.

I forgot how to breathe for some seconds.

“Rough day?” he asked, voice smooth and low like aged bourbon poured in slow motion.

I didn’t look up right away. The tequila was already working its way through my bloodstream, dulling the ache in my chest and replacing it with something blurry… and reckless.

“Looks like you had a rough day?” he asked again, a little softer, with curiosity lacing his voice.

I blinked. “Rough week,” I muttered, sipping from my glass. Then I remembered it was Monday. The first day of the week. “It's still Monday, I guess I'm getting ahead of time,” I added with a dry laugh

.

“Life,” I quickly corrected myself, swirling the liquid in my glass. “Just… life.”

His chuckle was low and amused, and for the first time in the last twelve hours, I almost smiled.

“Then I’m just in time,” he said, pouring me a shot of something amber.

I didn’t bother asking what it was.

“Another?” he asked.

We clinked our glasses like strangers often do when they agree to an unspoken rule.

“To bad decisions,” I said, raising my glass in a lazy toast.

“To the best kind,” he replied.

One question leads to another and before I knew it, I was telling this stranger everything.

He laughed. I laughed. I told him about losing my parents one to illness, the other to grief. About my little sister Maddie, studious and bright, and the only person I still had left. I told him about my ex who left me hollow. About the job I hated but couldn't leave, but eventually lost.

I told him about the dreams I once had and how life had quietly taken them away. The weight of failing when everyone expected me to survive.

Seconds passed. Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. I stopped checking. More drinks. More laughter.

At some point, his hand brushed mine. It was small. Barely noticeable. It felt casual, deliberate. Sparks hummed low in my stomach. “If you don’t want to be alone tonight,” he said, his voice rough velvet, “just say it,” he added, whispering this time.

I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I didn’t overanalyze, calculate, or rationalize. I just nodded.

We stumbled into his hotel room like gravity had just broken wet kisses, fumbling, clumsy fingers struggling with zippers, laughter between lips. Zippers. Buttons. Clothes hit the floor in a trail of heat.

His mouth was fire. His hands, electricity. And for the first time in what felt like years, I let go.

Not even Nate, my ex, my first, had ever made me feel this way. Like I was wanted, seen. Desired. Consumed.

There was no space for names. No time to think about consequences. There was no space for regrets. I wanted it. He wanted it. We both wanted it. Just the sharp, intoxicating relief of feeling something.

I traced the curve of his jaw in the dark, wondering why someone so closed off, a total stranger, could feel so much like home.

He murmured something soft against my shoulder. I didn’t catch it. Didn’t need to.

Because this wasn’t love. It wasn’t even connection. It was escape.

Hours later, sometime before dawn, I reached for my phone through the fog of alcohol and exhaustion.

To: Amira (BFF)

I think I just ruined my life... or maybe saved it.