Waking Up Wanted

Roy woke slowly, a soft, warm coming to consciousness. Unbidden, a sigh of contentedness slipped from his lips as he felt his dreams slip away from memory. He lay still, as if moving too quickly might break the spell that had brought him such unexpected comfort.

Lying as he was, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling, sunlight filtering through tall windows and painting pale shapes across it, Roy couldn't think of a more perfect morning. The sheets beneath him were soft, impossibly so, cool where they touched his skin. For a long moment he wondered if this, too, might be a dream, that he might be suspended in that fragile place between sleep and waking where things could still be anything.

Then he shifted, ever so slightly, enough that he felt the unmistakable weight of reality settle around him.

Charlotte's bed.

Charlotte's apartment.

Somehow... Charlotte.

His heart began to thud, equal parts exhilaration and panic. He swallowed and turned his head, half expecting her to be there beside him, an arm draped over his chest, proof that the previous night had really happened. But the space next to him was empty.

From somewhere beyond the bedroom, he heard the muted rush of water. A shower.

Roy let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Memory began to drift back in fragments, disordered but vivid, coloured by the **** he had consumed. The bar. Her smile. The way she had spoken to him; warm, easy, like he belonged at her side. He remembered standing awkwardly at first, unsure what to do with his hands as they talked, the way she had leaned into him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He remembered hailing the cab, his voice almost shaking when he gave his address, only for her to laugh and correct him gently with her own. He remembered watching the city blur past the windows, her knee brushing his, her hand resting lightly on his thigh as if it had always lived there.

Uptown. The building had been elegant and imposing, the kind of place Roy had only ever walked past before. A doorman who nodded at Charlotte by name. An elevator that whispered them upward.

He remembered standing in her apartment, still wearing his coat, still half-convinced that someone was about to tap him on the shoulder and tell him there had been a mistake.

Instead, she had closed the door.

Locked it.

And then she had kissed him.

The memory of it made his chest tighten. He had never been kissed before. Not really. Not like that. He hadn't known what he was doing, hadn't known how close to stand or where to look or when to breathe. But Charlotte hadn't seemed to care. She had smiled against his mouth, kissed him again, slower this time, and something in him had simply followed her lead.

He had learned by echoing her, by trusting her. Where she leaned, he leaned. When she deepened the kiss, he followed, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as she responded warmly, encouragingly.

From there, everything had felt like swimming downstream. He hadn't initiated much. He hadn't needed to. She guided him with a touch here, a murmur there, until they were in the bedroom, the lights low, the world narrowed to the warmth of her body and the feeling of being wanted.

They had spent the night together.

The words barely felt adequate.

It had been incredible. Not just physically, though that alone had exceeded anything he had ever imagined, but emotionally. The closeness. The way she spoke to him. The way she lay on the bed, offering her body to him, who should have been a complete stranger. The way it felt to enter her, her body shaking in pleasure, his in the fulfillment of the connection. The way she held him afterward, tracing idle shapes against his arm, telling him how much she cared, how good it felt to be together, how happy she was that she had ended up with a good man.

She had told him she loved him.

More than once.

Now, alone in her bed, Roy stared at the ceiling and felt the other shoe hovering somewhere above him.

Wishes were not real. That much he knew. There was no cosmic mechanism that turned lonely thoughts into reality. Which meant there had to be another explanation.

Charlotte must be... going through something.

The thought made his stomach twist. Some sort of mental health crisis. A projection. Loneliness. Something that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her needing someone, anyone, to pour herself into.

Had he taken advantage of that?

The question sat heavy in his chest, souring the warmth he had woken with. He had been inexperienced, overwhelmed, carried along by her confidence and affection. He hadn't questioned it nearly enough.

He should feel worse than he did.

And yet, when he imagined her offering again, imagined her smile, her voice, the easy certainty of her touch, a part of him answered immediately.

Yes.

He would do it again.

In a heartbeat.

The shame of that answer prickled, but it did not erase the truth beneath it: he felt better than he had in months. Maybe years. His problems at work felt distant, muted, like something happening to another man entirely.

So what if he lost his career?

Charlotte loved him.

She was rich, apparently. Trust fund brat, she had joked. The words replayed in his mind, absurd and tempting. She could take care of him. He wouldn't be alone. He wouldn't be invisible.

The water shut off.

Roy's pulse jumped.

Footsteps approached, unhurried. The bedroom door opened, and Charlotte stepped inside without a stitch of clothing on, her hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, a towel draped loosely over one arm.

She smiled when she saw him watching her.

"Good morning, Roy-Roy," she said warmly. "I thought I'd give you a little show to cheer you up."

Roy's mouth went dry.

"I've got an appointment this morning," she continued casually, crossing the room and stopping near the foot of the bed. "Otherwise I'd be crawling right back in there with you. But I want you to remember me like this when you start feeling down."

She tilted her head, her expression softening. "And when you're ready to talk about whatever's been weighing on you, I'm ready to listen. Always."

Roy nodded, unable to find words.

"Oh," she added, glancing at the clock on her nightstand. "My sister's coming over in about forty minutes. You might want to get dressed unless you want her to see you like that."

She grinned. "If I were her I wouldn't complain, but I'm pretty sure you're not her type."

She leaned down and kissed his forehead gently before turning to get dressed.

Roy sat up slowly, marveling at how natural it all felt. The ease. The affection. The way he belonged here, at least for now. At least until Charlotte came out of whatever madness had settled on her.

He swung his legs out of bed and stood, determination settling over him.

If her sister was coming, he wanted to make a good impression. After all, she might be upset. She might think he'd taken advantage of Charlotte.

Roy straightened his shoulders.

He would show her otherwise.

And somehow, impossibly, he believed he could.