Chapter Text
Quistis hadn’t cried in front of them.
That, at least, had been within her control.
She’d made it through the call to Rinoa—voice steady—and the drive to Selphie’s apartment without incident. She’d even laughed, once, when Selphie opened the door in sweatpants and said, “I already hate him,” and handed her a glass of red on the stoop.
Now she was curled into the corner of Selphie’s couch beneath an impressively fluffy throw blanket, her shoes abandoned somewhere by the door. The apartment smelled faintly of candle wax and takeout—sesame oil and ginger still hanging in the air from the cartons sweating on the coffee table.
Rinoa was splayed out on the rug, chin propped on her hands like she was settling in for story time.
“So like—what exactly did Adrian say?”
Quistis stared down into her drink, watching the lamp light catch on the rim of the glass.
“He said,” Quistis began, and stopped. Her throat worked.
“He said he didn’t feel we were aligned long-term.”
Rinoa made a small, wounded noise. “That sounds like he thinks it’s a calendar conflict.”
Selphie refilled her glass without asking, topping her off to the very edge.
“Fucking investment bankers.”
“We were eating pizza,” Quistis added distantly. “He brought it over. From that place on Fifth that he knows I like. We were supposed to watch something. And then suddenly it was—” She gestured vaguely.
Selphie’s mouth flattened.
“That’s sociopathic.”
“I thought we were happy,” Quistis said. “We went to brunch last weekend. I met all his friends. He asked about my research funding timeline. That feels like someone who’s invested.”
Her laugh came out thin.
“I mean, I know people say these things aren’t data points but—”
“Quisty,” Rinoa said softly.
“I just don’t understand what changed,” she finished quietly.
Silence settled for a moment—the low hum of the fridge from the kitchen, the muted traffic outside. She wiped her eyes, feeling rather than seeing as Selphie’s arms came around her from the side, chin dropping onto her shoulder.
“I cannot do this again,” Quistis said at last.
Selphie gave her a tight squeeze. “Do what?”
“This.” She waved a hand, not looking at either of them. “Meeting someone new. Getting attached. Waiting for the moment they decide I am insufficient.”
Rinoa rolled onto her back.
“You don’t have to get attached right away,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but that’s the only way it works for me,” Quistis said. “You meet someone who might be Mr. Right—”
Selphie made a face.
“—and then you invest time and emotional energy and—”
“No, no,” Selphie said, sitting up. “That’s where you’re messing up. You don’t go looking for Mr. Right.”
Quistis frowned.
“You go looking for Mr. Right Now.”
Rinoa’s head snapped toward her. “You mean like a rebound.”
Selphie clapped, delighted with herself. “Yes! A palate cleanser. Someone hot and emotionally unavailable who you can make out with until your brain stops associating love with stock portfolios and betrayal.”
Rinoa sat bolt upright, nearly knocking over her glass. “Oh my god.”
Selphie’s head whipped towards her. “What?”
“I know someone,” Rinoa said, already reaching for her phone.
Panic began to build in Quistis’ stomach.
“…Who.”
Rinoa looked up, a little dreamy.
“Seifer Almasy.”
Quistis blinked. “…that fling you had the other summer?”
Rinoa nodded.
Selphie gasped like Rinoa had just pulled out a loaded weapon.
“He’s a bit of a—” Rinoa bit her lip, blushing faintly as she scrolled. “Well.”
“A fuckboy?” Selphie supplied helpfully. “A really, really hot asshole fuckboy? Oh, I love this for you, Quisty.”
“I was going to say no strings attached,” Rinoa said, shooting her a look. “Great for a getting-over-him guy.”
“Yes! What better way to get over a dude than to get under another, Quisty?”
Quistis closed her eyes. “This is a terrible idea.”
Rinoa shrugged, clearly wine drunk.
“Probably,” she agreed, thumbs flying. “But I think you deserve it. And anyway, it’s just temporary. Consider it a palette cleanser.”
Quistis took a swing of wine and a deep breath.
Yes. A palette cleanser.
Put that way, it almost sounded like a good idea.
The knock nearly jolted her out of her skin.
It was the wine’s fault she had gotten so far down this road.
That and Rinoa. Quistis made a personal vow to never listen to her friend again, heart pounding as she made her way to her apartment door.
Quistis almost didn’t open it.
She’d buzzed him up before she could think better of it—before she could sit with the quiet, nauseating certainty that this was a mistake. But now those footsteps in the hall outside her apartment sent her heartrate spiking. Heavy. Unhurried. Like someone who had never once in his life wondered if he ought to turn around and go home.
She opened the door to one Seifer Almasy. He was taller than she was prepared for, and even more handsome than his picture. And just as unfairly, he was far more composed than her, too. Leather jacket. Dark shirt. Hair slicked back. Crooked little grin on his face.
His gaze flicked over her—quick, assessing—and then that little grin deepened.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” she managed.
They stood there for a second too long.
“You gonna let me in,” he asked mildly, “or is this the whole thing?”
“Oh—right. Sorry.” She stepped aside, mortified. “Come in.”
He took in the apartment in a sweep. Bookshelves. A plant she was fairly sure was dying. The stack of essays she hadn’t touched in three days.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Another pause.
She clasped her hands together so he wouldn’t see them fidget.
“I should probably—just—say,” she began, and immediately wished she hadn’t. “I’ve never had a one-night stand before, I—”
He had the nerve to laugh.
“I can tell.”
Her spine stiffened.
“Is that supposed to be an insult? Because all I meant was—”
“Hey,” he said, holding up a hand, still smiling a little. “It’s fine.”
She took a breath. Reminded herself why she was doing this. Reminded herself of Selphie saying what better way to get over a dude than to get under another, and Rinoa nodding dreamily like this was an act of public service.
And it absolutely didn’t matter what this stranger thought. No matter how hot he was.
“If it makes you feel better,” Seifer added, dropping onto the end of her sofa like he’d been invited to do so all his life, “ask me three questions first.”
She blinked. “Like a background check?”
“Exactly,” he shrugged. “Make sure I’m not an axe murderer or whatever’s got you staring at me like I might chop your head off.”
“I never accused you of being an axe murderer.”
“You thought it.”
She hesitated. He wasn’t wrong. But who could blame a woman, living by herself, for being careful?
It wasn’t the worst idea.
So she sat down too, as far from him on the couch as she could get, and asked, “What do you do, when you’re not having... casual sex?”
“I’m a bartender,” he said. “Place downtown called Stir Crazy. Fancy enough that the drinks have smoke in ’em and nobody orders a beer unless they’re trying to make a point.”
She nodded, trying to picture him with a cocktail shaker.
“What’s your favorite hobby?”
He leaned back against the arm of the sofa.
“Working out. Boxing. Taking care of my bike.”
“You have a motorcycle?”
“Yeah.”
“That seems…” She stopped herself.
“Like exactly the kind of thing I’d have?” he offered.
She pressed her lips together.
“You got one more.”
Her eyes flicked up to his.
“…Do you do this a lot?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her for a second, like he was deciding how honest to be.
“Enough.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line.
“That’s—” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Not particularly reassuring. Though I suppose it’s to be expected.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“You want reassuring?”
“I would prefer,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice despite her best efforts, “to not feel like I’ve invited over a complete stranger who—”
“—what,” he cut in mildly, “is gonna fuck your brains out and then steal your TV?”
Quistis felt her face flush wild with heat.
“How dare you.”
He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, studying her with open interest now.
She faltered. “What?”
“You’re extra hot when you’re mad.”
Her face went warmer still.
“I’m not mad.”
“Little mad.”
“I am not mad.”
“Tiny bit mad.” His mouth tipped. “And I bet you kinda liked the dirty talk too, didn’t you.”
She drew herself up, glaring.
He smiled.
“Won’t steal your TV, scout’s honor. But the rest…”
Quistis rubbed her forehead, eyes squeezing shut.
That’s what he’s here for. Just let him do that and leave.
When she’d properly clamed down, she opened her eyes again to find that smirk fixed on her.
“Can I offer you a beer or something?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
“Nah.”
And then he leaned forward, hands coming up to her jaw—warm, steady—and suddenly he was kissing her. Not tentative. Not asking. Mouth open, confident, like this was the part he understood and the rest had just been useless preamble.
For a second she was frozen.
And then she wasn’t.
“I’ll have to thank Rinoa.”
She was still catching her breath, staring up at the ceiling when she said it. Her skin still felt too aware of itself, like his hands had left something behind she couldn’t quite shake.
She shifted slightly beneath the sheets—and stilled.
A slow, unfamiliar awareness settled in. Not pain. Not discomfort. Something… deeper. A lingering, almost indulgent soreness that made heat curl low in her stomach as she exhaled softly through her nose.
Not a single partner she’d had before had come at it with that kind of confidence—earned, not assumed.
He huffed a laugh from somewhere next to her.
“She would know.” And the smugness that dripped from his tone made her glance over.
“That you were good in bed?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
He grinned—lazy, unapologetic—and pushed himself upright, reaching for his underwear.
“Not bad yourself for your first ever round of casual sex,” he added, glancing back at her.
Heat crept up her throat. It would’ve been easier if it had felt like a mistake. It hadn’t.
He dressed quickly. Efficiently. She watched those strong hands button his fly. Zip it. And shivered, thinking how they’d felt gripping her thighs.
He grabbed his jacket, tugged it on.
At the bedroom door, he paused just long enough to say,
“Text me next time some idiot makes you cry.”
And then he was gone before she could scoff.
Quistis pulled the covers to her chest and stared at the door.
How dare he.
No boy was going to make her cry again. She’d see to that.