Chapter 3

That was, without a doubt, the best I've slept in years. A contented sigh escapes my lips as I stir back to consciousness, and then, I remember.

David.

My eyes dart open, and I look around quickly. I'm still on the sofa, covered in a blanket. I wince as I try to move my stiff body and groan as I stand.

Okay, quick inventory of the pain: my neck, back, and hips are all sore from sleeping in an awkward position. And yet I feel like I could run a marathon, or whatever humans did to show off their excess energy.

"David?" I call, leaning into the room he'd gone into last night. The bed is empty.

Then I spot a note on the coffee table and smile. Ah. He was at work. Yes, he had mentioned having a life.

'How does this weekend sound?' the note asks.

My first thought is not soon enough, but I find a pen and lie that it's fine, and sign it with a couple x's and o's. Then three big x's for good measure.

I leave the note where I found it before slipping into the crisp morning air.

I feel amazing. I don't even care that I'm shirtless and freezing my nips off. I stretch my arms up as far as they can go, then lean over to touch my toes. I take a deep breath in, and then exhale slowly.

Everything is great.

I slide into my car and drive without a destination, just going around the town to watch the city wake up.

I'm not even a little hungry. I feel like I fucked all night, and we'd barely done anything more than a little kissing.

I couldn't wait to fuck him. And, paradoxically, I could. I… liked him.

Holy shit. I liked him.

I turn on the radio and turn up the volume when I find a channel that's playing the right kind of music.

Since I like him, I should do something special before our next date. But what? What did humans exchange besides fluids and favors?

Ah. The other f-word: flowers.

Then I grin and take a hard right. I knew exactly what to get him. I pull into a florist's parking lot and walk quickly inside. I eye some of the bouquets on display, but go straight to the counter and stare at the woman standing behind it.

I release some of the pleasure thrumming in my veins to coax her into a nice, pliable, cooperative state. It was easier than trying to find a shirt to abide by the arbitrary 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' sign.

"Hi," I say with a smile. "I need roses. Blood red. The darker, the better."

She gives a warm smile, her eyes half-lidded. "Of course, sir," she replies in monotone.

I rest my elbows on the counter to lean in. "And do you have a black vase you could fill with some water dyed red?"

There's a pause, but she nods. "Yes, sir."

She goes into the back room, and I can hear her rummaging around. It takes a little while, long enough for me to start getting bored, but then she comes back with the bouquet and it's perfect.

The vase is a gradient of jet black at the base to clear at the top, and the fake blood is a deep, dark red. The roses are the same color, as if they've been stained with the water their thorned stems rise out of.

I write down David's address for the delivery and leave the store with a grin. I wish I could see his face when he gets them, but I'll settle for sloppy seconds this weekend.

The week crawls by at an agonizingly slow pace, made worse by the fact that I was actually a little nervous.

What if the bouquet is weird, or it's too soon? I don't know shit about human courtship. Did men send men flowers? Or was that only for women?

They're the absolute longest three days of my life. The first, I'm just bored. The second, I start to get hungry. And the third? I'm like some kind of drug addict, twitching and pacing my apartment with a need that burned inside my bones.

It's finally the day of our date, and I drive in circles until I can't take it anymore and show up a little over twenty minutes early, knocking on the door.

I'm jittering when David opens the door.

"Hey," he says, smiling. "You're early."

"Is that okay?" I ask, a little too desperately. I want to kiss him. I want to take him right then and there. I want him to take me, and then I take him, and then we kiss, and maybe do it all over again.

"It's fine." He closes the door behind me. "Thanks for the roses, by the way." The words sound sincere, but he doesn't meet my gaze.

I shift awkwardly, then break. "Was it weird?" My hands bury themselves deep in my pockets, because that's better than wringing them in front of him. "Sorry. I just wanted to, I don't know. Be a gesture." I feel my skin heat up, and not in a way I'm used to. "Of feelings. And that it meant something."

He pauses, then shakes his head. "No! It's not that. No, they're great. They're perfect, really. It's not that at all. It's…" He sighs and drops his gaze to the floor. "You didn't sign them, and it made me realize that I don't know your name."

I look up at him and frown. "Oh. Really? Shit." I give a small huff of laughter and hold out my hand. "Hi, my name is Sebastian. I usually just go by Seb."

"Seb." His expression brightens with a smile and instead of taking my hand, he leans in. His lips are bold on mine, and when I give a sigh of relief and pleasure, he pushes me up against the wall.

Then he pulls back, our faces close as he says, "You taste like candy."

I laugh breathlessly. "I wanted to be prepared. It's lip gloss."

He smiles and gives me a quick peck of a kiss. "I like it. Come on, dinner's probably cold now."

For a moment, I think about protesting. I don't want food. I want him. But I didn't know he was going to make dinner, and I feel giddy at the idea of him cooking just for me.

As I follow him into the kitchen, I see the bouquet sitting prominently on the little round dining table. And, in that moment, I feel full.