He Was Not Supposed To Be Mine

Here you go, miss. There's a puddle there, ” the cab driver warned as he pulled up by the curb. “Thanks,” Savannah murmured, handing him a bill and stepping out without waiting for change. It had rained earlier. Not the cute kind of rain. Just the annoying kind that soaks your shoes and makes your hair stick to your neck. But no one in Manhattan slowed down for it. People tugged their jackets tighter, flicked their umbrellas open, and kept it moving like always. Savannah Blake stood near the rooftop bar entrance, wet hair stuck to her jaw, mascara a little too smudged to be intentional. One heel was sunk halfway into a puddle. She didn’t bother shifting. She probably still looked put together. Black dress, smoky eyes, like someone who belonged inside with the others. But right now? She felt like a coffee cup with a hairline c***k. Looks fine on the outside, but all it takes is one more knock and it’s done. She didn’t know what she was doing here. No, but in reality, she did. She just didn’t want to admit it. The door behind her swung open, laughter pouring out like pressure from a shaken bottle. Drunk people, Rich people. The ones who had nothing to worry about in life. She stepped in. The lighting was low and warm, like the place was trying to make everyone look more attractive. She didn’t care. She didn’t want to look good. She just wanted to feel less... visible. She made a straight line to the bar. The bartender glanced over, did a quick up-down like he was trying to guess if she was trouble or just tired. Savannah didn’t give him time to ask. “Something strong,” she said. “Neat. Don’t care what it is.” He gave a nod and turned away. Her phone buzzed. She ignored it for a second, then glanced. > Come home. I’ve been trying to reach you all day, Savannah — Dad Her stomach twisted. She locked the screen and flipped the phone face down on the bar like it had insulted her. The drink landed in front of her. She took a sip. Coughed a little. Strong. Good. “You okay?” The voice came from her left. Deeper than expected. A little worn, but steady. She didn’t answer right away. Then: “What kind of question is that?” She said He gave a light shrug. “The kind you ask when someone looks like they’d rather be anywhere else.” She turned just slightly. Got a better look. He was Older. Mid-forties, maybe. Dark hair, sharp jaw, tailored suit. Handsome, charming, but quiet about it. He didn’t lean too close, didn’t stare. “So you’re playing therapist tonight?” she asked. “Nope. Just figured I’d say something before you drank yourself into the floor,” he replied Savannah stared at him. Then took another sip. “So far, you’re not helping,” she said He cracked a faint smile. “Good. You don’t look like someone who wants help.” That made her snort—quiet, but real. The first sound that didn’t feel rehearsed all day. “You're always this nosy?”Savannah queried “Only when it seems worth it,” he said Savannah let the glass rest in her hand. She didn’t speak for a moment. He didn’t push. Finally, she tilted her head. “So what’s your deal then? You just show up at bars looking for sad women to poke at?” He chuckled under his breath. “No. Usually, I keep to myself. You’re the exception.” “Oh, lucky me,” she said, faking a smile. He didn’t flinch at the sarcasm. “Look. You don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to. I’m not looking for your whole life story.” “Good. Because it’s none of your business,” she said, staring at the bottom of her glass. Another beat of silence passed. Then he asked, “Do you want to forget it for a while?” That made her turn to look at him. Look. He didn’t say it like a pickup line. There was no smile playing on his lips, no sly tilt of the head. Just the question. Plain. Quiet. Like he’d said it to himself first. She should’ve said no. She didn’t. “You offering?” she asked. “I’m not offering anything you don’t already want,” he said That hit her in the chest harder than she expected. She looked back down. Then stood up. “I don’t do names.” He stood too. “Good. I don’t either.” The elevator ride up was quiet. Too quiet. Savannah’s heart beat faster the higher they climbed. Not from nerves—at least not the panicked kind. It was something else. Like standing on the edge of something you know you shouldn’t jump from... but you might anyway. He didn’t touch her in the elevator. Didn’t even look at her for more than a second. Just stood there beside her, calm, like this wasn’t something he did often either. The door to the suite opened with a soft click. It smelled expensive. Not floral, not musky. Just… clean, Neutral. She didn’t take it in. Her heels clicked across the hardwood, and that was the loudest thing in the room. Then, his fingers touched hers. Just enough. It wasn’t rushed. He didn’t grab at her like most guys did. Not like the cheat of her ex boyfriend Nathan, who she practically did everything for and spent all her allowance on. she had broken up with him. He did slept with anything on skirt in college and when she confronted him, he denied it, even though he was the main gist in college, This made her a laughing stock among the ladies and left her an emotional wreck. No, Grayson's touch was different. No need to prove anything. Just a small touch, and then his hand found her waist, and the distance between them disappeared. The first kiss was slow. Careful. She let herself sink into it without thinking. She didn’t want to think. That was the whole point of being here. He wasn’t soft, but he wasn’t rough either. Just present. The kind of present that made her forget her name for a second. She didn’t ask him what he wanted. He didn’t ask her if she was sure. There was something unspoken about all of it, like they were both old enough to know the rules of a night like this. Some clothes came off. Some didn’t. The sheets got tangled. The silence filled in whatever words they didn’t need to say. There was no pretending it was love. But it also didn’t feel like something meaningless. She didn’t know what to call that, but she felt something deep, so fulfilling, she couldn't explain. He kissed her so passionately, like his life depended on her lips, and rode on her, that she felt every rhythm he made. After a very long, satisfying night, they passed out on each other’s arms. Savannah woke to silence. The kind of silence that made her wonder if last night even happened. The suite was dim, the curtains still drawn. A faint glow pushed in through the edges—just enough to see him. He was still asleep. One arm resting across the sheets. Jaw relaxed. Peaceful, like nothing about this was complicated for him. She sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her face. Her dress was by the chair. Her heels were under it. She moved quietly, careful not to make a sound. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want him to wake up and ask questions or try to soften whatever this was. Last night was never supposed to follow her into the daylight. She slipped the dress on and didn’t bother fixing her hair. Her reflection in the mirror looked like someone who had been somewhere she shouldn’t have. The door closed behind her with a soft thud. She walked barefoot down the hallway, heels in hand, the hotel carpet muffling each step. Outside, the city was stretching awake. Taxis hissed by. Someone was already arguing on their phone across the street. Manhattan, unchanged. She stood at the curb and took a breath. It was just one night. That was the agreement, unspoken but understood. No names. No attachments. But the tightness in her chest said otherwise. There was something there. Something she couldn’t explain. She should’ve felt empowered, maybe even relieved. But instead, all she could think was— What the hell did I just do?