It was supposed to be a night of distraction, not destruction.
The air outside the bar was thick with summer heat and the buzz of city life. I'd followed my roommate out that night after one too many tears had soaked my pillow and one too many bills had gone unpaid. I needed an escape. Just for one night. One night when I wasn't the girl juggling two part-time jobs, dealing with depression, and failing all her classes.
Just Lia.
Inside, the bar pulsed with music and warm neon lights. My friend had disappeared onto the dance floor somewhere between her second and third cocktail. I sat at the bar with a drink I hadn't ordered — some guy had sent it over, but I didn't have the energy to play along.
Then he walked in.
Dark hair, tailored suit, and a smirk that looked both expensive and dangerous. The kind of man who didn't walk into rooms, he owned them.
And somehow, he saw me. In a sea of bimbos and flashy boobs, women dripping confidence and designer heels. I was barely holding myself together in borrowed clothes and a chipped manicure. But he saw me.
He smoothly slid onto the stool next to mine. "You look like you hate being here as much as I do."
I blinked. "That obvious?"
He chuckled, the sound smooth like velvet. "Only to someone doing the same."
I raised an eyebrow. "What's your excuse?"
"Obligations." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "And overpriced whiskey."
I smiled faintly. "Sounds about right."
There was a pause. The kind that shouldn't feel comfortable between strangers — but somehow did.
"Mind if I know your name?" I asked.
He looked amused. "Z."
I laughed. "Z?"
He leaned in slightly, lips curled in a smirk. "One letter. That's all you need."
"Fine," I said, matching his tone. "I'm L."
I tipped my glass toward him, and the drinks I'd downed gave me just enough courage to wink. "To anonymous nights."
"To no regrets," he replied, clinking his glass against mine.
We talked about everything and nothing. He liked numbers more than people, he said, "less messy". I told him I used to want to be a writer until life told me I couldn't afford to dream.
He laughed when I made a joke about being broke enough to consider writing a memoir titled Broke, Tired, and Depressed. I laughed when he pretended to jot it down on a napkin and offered to finance the publishing if it ever became a best-seller.
"I'm good at spotting potential," he said, tapping the side of his head like he was some business prodigy.
"Yeah?" I teased. "What am I then? A tragic heroine or a comedic relief?"
He took a long sip before answering. "Neither. You're the story."
The way he looked at me when he said that, like I was some kind of enigma he was trying to solve, made my chest tighten.
Changing the subject, I asked, "How about you? Are you living out your dream or letting it die out like me?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stared into his glass, swirling the amber liquid like it might help him find the words. "I guess you could say I am."
I leaned in a little, curious. "Oh? Do tell."
"I'm a doctor."
I gasped, nearly choking on my drink. "You? A doctor?"
He raised an eyebrow, amused by my dramatic reaction. "Is it that hard to believe?"
I pointed at him, eyes wide. "You're sitting here in a designer suit, drinking whiskey like it's water, and you smirk like a man who's made at least five women cry in the past week."
"That's oddly specific."
"It's oddly accurate."
He chuckled, tilting his head. "What? Are you programmed to believe doctors can't have fun?"
"Fun, sure. But you look more like a secret billionaire or one of those morally grey villains who charm their way out of trouble."
"Ouch. Villain?"
"Stylish villain," I corrected. "Like the kind who donates to orphanages but also might own a black-market casino."
He laughed, a real one this time, deep and unguarded. "I'll have you know I work in pediatrics. Saving little lives and handing out lollipops."
I squinted at him. "You? With kids?"
He nodded, setting his glass down. "They like me."
"Oh, I bet they do. The tall, mysterious doctor who probably gives the best piggyback rides."
"You're mocking me."
"Absolutely."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dipping into something slower, softer. "You don't seem like someone who's let her dream die."
That threw me off. My smile faltered, just a little. "What makes you say that?"
He shrugged. "People who've truly given up don't ask others about their dreams. They stop caring."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I sipped my drink instead, hoping it would fill the silence.
"But I could be wrong," he added casually, looking away. "Wouldn't be the first time."
I found myself smiling again. "You talk like someone who's used to being right."
He glanced at me, eyes glinting. "Maybe I am."
I shook my head, amused and a little dizzy from the drinks and the attention. "God, you're annoying."
"And yet," he said, sipping his whiskey, "you haven't walked away."
"Touche."
We sat in the comfortable lull that comes after a good conversation. Two strangers sitting too close, sharing too much, and not nearly enough.
I didn't know his name.
He didn't know mine.
But in that moment, it felt like we knew everything that mattered.
I didn't want the night to end, and apparently, neither did he.
We ended up in a fancy hotel downtown.
"I can't tell if this is wildly irresponsible or deeply empowering," I muttered as we stepped into the suite.
"Can't it be both?" he offered, kicking off his shoes.
I laughed. "You're dangerous."
He tilted his head. "And you're not?"
We talked more. Sitting on the couch. Then, lying on the bed. Closer. Warmer. Softer. And before long, words turned into touches. His fingers traced the curve of my arm as if he were memorizing it.
"You're sure?" he asked.
I nodded.
I wanted this. I wanted to forget everything. To lose myself, even for a few hours.
And I did.
It was the best night I could have asked for.
I woke up just as the sun began to peek through the curtains. He was asleep, one hand curled near his face, the other resting between us.
For a second, I just looked at him. Let the silence settle over me like a blanket.
I could've woken him up. Asked his real name. Given him mine.
But that would've made it real. And real came with consequences.
So instead, I scribbled a note on the hotel stationery:
Thanks for the escape. No names. No regrets.
I placed it beside him, slipped out the door, and never looked back.