The previous evening
871 Words
Adrian Sinclair POV
I shouldn’t have gone out.
But that night, the pressure of everything—the looming engagement, the hollow smiles, the months of pretending—clawed at me until I couldn’t breathe inside my own skin.
So I left.
No driver. No security. Just me, a hoodie, and a need to disappear. I slipped into the heart of the city like a ghost searching for something to haunt.
The bar was loud, cramped, and lit like a fever dream. It smelled of tequila, cheap cologne, and spilled regret. In other words—perfect.
No one recognized me. Or if they did, they didn’t care. And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t care either.
I ordered shots like I was trying to fill a hole that had no bottom. One after another, burning down my throat, each one numbing a little more of the ache. The music vibrated through my ribs, a steady thrum I could lose myself in.
By the time I climbed onto the bar table, I was drunk off my ass.
“I’m buying drinks for everyone!” I shouted.
Cheers erupted around me. A guy in a beanie fist-pumped the air. A girl flashed her bra. Someone handed me another shot like it was a blessing.
Then I saw him.
Across the crowd. Leaning against the far wall, a drink in hand, the only person in the room not moving.
He didn’t cheer. He didn’t laugh.
He just watched me.
Dark hair. Lean jawline. A black button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing veins along his forearms like something carved from stone. He looked at me like he saw something no one else had ever bothered to.
And maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the music. Or maybe it was the fact that I had never wanted anything so selfishly in my life—but I jumped down, shoved through the crowd, and marched right up to him.
He raised an eyebrow. “Having fun?”
“I was,” I said. “Now I’m curious.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” I said. “About how your mouth tastes.”
His lips curved, amused. “You’re bold.”
“You have no idea.”
Then I kissed him.
And he kissed me back like he’d been waiting for it.
The noise, the crowd, the lights—all of it vanished. All I felt were his hands, steady and hot on my waist, his mouth claiming mine with a mix of hunger and control that made my head spin faster than the shots ever could.
We didn’t exchange names.
Didn’t talk.
We just stumbled out the back, laughing and kissing like we were the last people left alive.
A cab. A hotel. His hands pulling off my shirt in the elevator. My breath caught in my throat as his mouth found my neck. I pressed him against the door the moment we entered the room.
“You sure?” he whispered, something sharper in his eyes now.
I grabbed his collar. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
That night wasn’t just s*x.
It was escape.
It was a moment that didn’t belong to the version of me that smiled in boardrooms and nodded through his father’s speeches. It belonged to me. The real me. The one no one knew.
He moved like he wanted to memorize me. Every kiss felt deliberate. Every touch told me: You’re not broken. You’re alive.
Afterwards, we laid in the dark, tangled in sheets. I hadn’t planned to speak. But something about the silence between us wasn’t empty—it was safe.
“Do you believe in fate?” I asked, staring at the ceiling.
He paused. “Not really.”
“I used to. When I was a kid.”
“What changed?”
“My life,” I said.
He turned his head toward me. “You want to talk about it?”
I did. I wanted to pour everything out to him. My father. The engagement. The way I was being led toward a future that had no space for me.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I whispered, “No one knows I’m gay.”
He blinked. “No one?”
I shook my head.
His voice softened. “That’s a lot to carry alone.”
I nodded.
He reached over, brushed my hair from my forehead. “I won’t tell.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
He smiled faintly. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”
And it was. Because it meant I didn’t have to explain anything when I slipped out in the morning without saying goodbye.
I left a note, though.
Thank you. You reminded me who I am, even if just for a night.
I didn’t expect to see him again.
Which is why, when I stepped onto the engagement stage and saw him standing beside my fiancée—smirking like the universe had played a cruel joke—I felt something inside me fracture.
Because now I had a name for the man who saw me at my most real.
Rowan.
And now, I couldn’t pretend he was just a dream.
- Writer
