They matched in the morning.
Frank was in a meeting, half-listening, when the notification popped up. He opened the app under the table. Blonde. Blue eyes. Confident smile that didn’t feel forced. The name was Rose.
He swiped right. A second later: “Hi”.
By noon, they were already talking with an ease that felt natural. The messages weren’t shallow or forced. They talked, tested, teased each other a little, as if they both knew there wasn’t much time to waste.
And then she wrote:
“I only have tonight. You want to meet me, you do it now. I don’t do second chances. You decide where”.
He stared at the message longer than he needed to.
That evening, Friday 8 February, he had bowling with the team. Something light, after work. He didn’t cancel. Didn’t say anything to anyone. He just picked a place, Warpigs, one block away. Wrote her the name. Sent the time.
At 21:55, the last game ended. He didn’t stay for drinks. “Something came up”, he said with a shrug. No one asked more.
He walked to Warpigs and arrived at 22:27. Chose a table in the back, dim light, enough privacy. He didn’t order. Just waited.
At 22:36, Rose walked in. She spotted him immediately.
No scanning the room, no hesitation. Just direct eye contact and a slow, knowing smile as she walked toward him. Like they’d seen each other just yesterday.
They hugged. Brief. Familiar. Warm.
“Frank”.
“Rose”.
No small talk.
She was exactly like her photos, only more dangerous. Hair pulled back tight, high cheekbones catching the light, leather jacket slightly open over a white ribbed shirt. Jeans tight enough to command attention, but her eyes didn’t need help. Deep blue, steady, impossible to read.
“You didn’t order”, she said.
“I was waiting for you”.
She nodded once, like that was the right answer.
He ordered two lagers. The glasses came cold. Foam sliding.
They talked. About how boring most dates were. About how everyone lied on apps, or worse, tried to be interesting.
Rose didn’t try. She just was.
Frank leaned in after a pause.
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
She didn’t blink. “Right before meeting you”.
He frowned slightly, not sure if he misheard. “Wait. What? I thought you were single”.
“I am. I had a BDSM session at a swinger club. A couple I know. I needed it. Got home. Showered. Came here”.
Her voice was calm. Not bragging. Not testing. Just telling.
“I’m a swinger”, she added. “Still active. In case that makes you want to walk”.
“I won’t judge”, he said.
“I know. That’s why I’m here”.
He looked at her for a moment. “Why me, then?”
“I liked your kind eyes”, she said. “And you didn’t write anything stupid”.
They talked more. About limits. About honesty. About how most people fake what they want, then blame others for the mess.
By the time the place started clearing out, they didn’t feel like strangers anymore. They felt like something that had paused and restarted.
They walked to her car and sat there for a while. The windows fogged just a little.
She pulled out a vape and took a slow puff. Bubble gum. Sweet, artificial. The scent hung between them.
She talked while exhaling. About trust. About how attraction dies in people who don’t speak truth. Frank didn’t say much. He just watched her, and listened.
“You want to see me again?” he asked.
“Maybe”
“Sunday. Coffee?”
She looked over. Then nodded. “You pick the place”.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Don’t screw this up”.
He opened the door and stepped out.
She stayed inside, lights from the dashboard painting her face in soft amber. No goodbye wave. Just one last glance through the window.
Frank started walking toward the station. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders tight. Her scent still in his nose. Every step slower than the one before.
He didn’t know what exactly had just started. But he already knew it was going to get under his skin.
And stay there.
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