Chapter 4 The Loft

The day dragged like a wet cloth across glass.

I went to work. I answered emails, smiled at coworkers, nodded through meetings. No one knew I had written that post. No one could guess that underneath my neatly pressed blouse, I was burning.

Ethan hadn't said much after the message came. Just, "We'll wait," like it was as simple as that. Like I wasn't checking the app every hour, rereading those three words.

I see you.

That was all she said. No photo, no name. Just that eerie, intimate sentence that curled into the center of my spine and stayed there. She hadn't written again since. And I hated how much I wanted her to.

Thursday arrived too fast and too slow at the same time.

The sky was bruised by the time I got home. Purple clouds. A heaviness in the air that felt like thunder was trying to happen but couldn't find the strength. I stood in front of our building for a full minute before going in. The door felt heavier than usual.

Inside, the loft was quiet. Too quiet.

Ethan was already there. He had left work early. He didn't say that, but I knew. His jacket was draped over the back of the dining chair and the lighting was low, dimmer than I would've chosen. Amber lamps instead of ceiling lights. The whole space felt muted, like we were inside a breath no one wanted to exhale.

He was barefoot. Wearing jeans and a soft black T-shirt. He looked like someone I used to know. Someone from before we learned to avoid the space between us.

"You're late," he said.

"I know." I set my bag down too gently.

He didn't ask where I had been. He just watched me with that unnerving quiet, the one that made me feel like he could hear every thought I wasn't saying.

"I thought maybe you'd changed your mind," he said.

"I didn't."

"She hasn't messaged again."

"I know," I said.

He nodded. "Still, I thought we should get ready."

"For what?"

"For her. For this."

I crossed my arms, suddenly defensive, like I had to protect the idea from him even though he was the one who had said yes.

"I cleaned the place," he said. "Even vacuumed under the bed."

I laughed, sharp and surprised. "That's new."

He shrugged. "If someone's going to be in our bedroom, I don't want them judging us for dust bunnies."

"Is that what you're worried about?" I asked, tilting my head.

"No." His voice dipped lower. "But I am worried about what happens when she messages again. What happens when she's real."

I looked down at my hands. "I think that's the part I want."

"Even if it changes everything?"

"Especially if it does."

He took a step forward and something about it felt rehearsed. Like he'd played this moment out in his mind already.

"I need to ask you something," he said. "And I need you to answer without censoring yourself."

"Okay."

"If she shows up, do you want me to be part of it or just... present?"

I hesitated. "What's the difference?"

"Do you want me to watch from the edges? Or do you want me inside it too?"

The question hit somewhere deep. I hadn't gone that far in my imagination. I had only thought about her hands. Her eyes. Her confidence. I hadn't let myself think of Ethan's body in the same frame.

I thought of it now.

And I felt the pulse in my throat.

"I don't know yet," I said, honestly.

He nodded like he had expected that.

"We'll take it slow," he said. "I just wanted you to know I'm not afraid of being inside it. Not if it's with you."

I felt like crying. Not from sadness. From the strangest relief.

We moved through the rest of the evening like we were rehearsing something for the second time. We ate pasta. We didn't talk much. But there was a softness in the air now. A gentle pull instead of a wall. I could feel him watching me, not in suspicion, but in curiosity.

At one point, I dropped a napkin and leaned to pick it up. When I looked up, Ethan's eyes were already on me. They didn't drop away when I met them.

"Are you imagining her now?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What do you see?"

I swallowed. "I see her standing right there, across the counter. Watching us eat. Waiting."

"What's she wearing?"

I smiled, half embarrassed. "Something simple. Maybe just a blouse. Unbuttoned."

He looked at me like I had just given him a secret. "You think she'll take charge?"

"I think she'll make me forget I ever wanted to be in control."

He stood and came around the table. Not fast. Just purposeful.

"I want to see you," he said.

"Now?"

"Here. Like this."

My breath caught.

He came closer and touched my arm, gently, like he was asking permission with his fingers. Then his hand slid to my neck. His thumb grazed my jaw. I shivered.

"I don't want to wait for her to remind you you're still wanted," he said. "I want to start now."

I nodded. "Okay."

He kissed me. Slow. Long. Like he was tasting me for the first time. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't forceful. But it had weight. Meaning.

My hands trembled when I touched his chest. It felt like we were learning from each other again after a long war.

We didn't sleep together that night, not in the full sense. But we stayed close. On the couch. His head in my lap. My hand in his hair. We didn't speak about the post. Or the app. Or what she might say next.

We just breathed together.

Something about it felt more intimate than sex.

And that scared me more than anything else.

Friday came. Then Saturday. Still no message from her.

By Sunday night, I couldn't take it anymore.

I picked up my phone and opened the app. My thumb hovered over the message screen. Ethan saw me and came to sit beside me.

"You want to message her?" he asked.

"Is that breaking the rules?"

"There are no rules," he said. "Not really. Only the ones we don't say out loud."

I hesitated.

Then I typed.

Are you still there?

I waited. For ten minutes. For an hour. Nothing.

I put the phone down and tried to breathe.

But then, just after midnight, it buzzed.

I grabbed it so fast I almost dropped it.

Her reply was short.

Still here. Watching. Waiting for the truth.

I showed it to Ethan.

He stared at it like it was a puzzle.

"What truth?" I asked, more to myself than him.

"She wants to know what's underneath all this," Ethan said. "She wants the real version of what we want."

"How do I give her that if I don't even know it?"

He looked at me, eyes dark. "Maybe you do. Maybe you just haven't said it yet."

I looked down at the screen again.

What do you want to know? I typed.

This time, the reply came faster.

Tell me who you are when no one's looking. Tell me what you do when you're alone. Tell me the thing your husband has never dared to ask.

I froze.

Ethan was silent beside me.

Then he said, "Tell her."

I stared at him. "Even if it's something you don't want to hear?"

"Especially then."

So I typed.

Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine someone watching me undress. Not touching. Just watching. Like I'm a ritual. I imagine being told where to sit. When to kneel. I imagine someone learning me until I have nothing left to hide. Someone who lets me fall apart just to see how I put myself back together.

I hit send.

She replied immediately.

Good. Now we begin.

I closed my eyes.

And breathed in the danger of it.

This wasn't just fantasy anymore.

This was the first step down a staircase I couldn't see the bottom of.

And I wanted to keep walking.

My phone buzzed again. One more message.

Thursday. 9 p.m. I'll come to the loft. Don't speak when I enter.

I stared at the words.

"Claire?" Ethan's voice was quiet beside me.

I turned the screen so he could read it.

His throat moved as he swallowed.

And then he asked, barely above a whisper, "Do we leave the door unlocked?"