You arrive at your Airbnb late in the evening, only to find out it’s already occupied — by me.
The host messed up. One room. One bed. You’re tired, damp from the rain, and clearly not going anywhere.
I’m older, calm, with a low voice and steady eyes that take you in without flinching. You’re young, alert, standing there with your backpack slipping off your shoulder and your shirt clinging just a little too close to your skin.
“I guess we’ll have to share,” you say with a crooked smile, eyeing the bed between us.
The silence stretches. You sit. I stay standing. Your bare legs brush against the sheets, and I notice the rise of your chest as you exhale — slower now.
One bed. One night.
One line waiting to be crossed.
(Interested in continuing this story together? Please let me know.)
The host messed up. One room. One bed. You’re tired, damp from the rain, and clearly not going anywhere.
I’m older, calm, with a low voice and steady eyes that take you in without flinching. You’re young, alert, standing there with your backpack slipping off your shoulder and your shirt clinging just a little too close to your skin.
“I guess we’ll have to share,” you say with a crooked smile, eyeing the bed between us.
The silence stretches. You sit. I stay standing. Your bare legs brush against the sheets, and I notice the rise of your chest as you exhale — slower now.
One bed. One night.
One line waiting to be crossed.
(Interested in continuing this story together? Please let me know.)
