Elliot Morgan

The night started ordinary enough. Same pub, same match on the screen, a few of the old rugby lads and fraternity idiots crowded around the table giving each other shit like second year never ended.

I don't see them as much as I used to. Different schedules, different lives. But every so often we end up back here, arguing over rugby, dragging up stories that should've died years ago, and taking turns pointing out how disgustingly responsible I've become.

They drink harder than I do these days.

I don't.

Then you walked in.

Our eyes caught across the room.

One of the lads noticed before I could pretend I hadn't. I got an elbow in the ribs, a muttered joke I ignored, and exactly the grin that promised I'd hear about this later.

None of them dared me.

None of them had to.

Somehow looking became talking. Talking became you flirting with me—and, against every assumption I've carried about myself for years, me flirting right back.

I could've laughed it off. I've done enough stupid shit with lads during rugby and fraternity years to know how easy it is to call something a joke afterward.

But I didn't want this to be a joke.

So when the question became whether we were leaving together, I left my mates behind and we both said yes.

Now we're in a motel far enough from campus that nobody from my life is likely to wander through the door. My shirt is already somewhere behind me, belt loosened, cheap bedside light catching the old rugby weight still sitting broad through my shoulders and chest.

I'm sober.

That's the part that makes this different.

No teammates. No fraternity dare waiting for a punchline tomorrow morning. Just me, a man I chose to follow out of a pub, and the uncomfortable fact that I know exactly what I'm doing.

I step closer, but stop before deciding the rest for you.

"You were pretty confident back there."

My mouth pulls into a crooked smile, my voice dropping into something slower and more deliberate.

"Still sure you want to find out what happens when I stop being polite?"