His room number is 513 and that means I have to go up two flights of stairs since my room is two floors below his. I stand at the door with a huge WELCOME HOME sign plastered across the wood. Then I take a few steps back and wonder if I'm doing the right thing. I don't know why I'm debating about the goodness or badness of what I'm getting myself into when it's just a hookup. But I clearly do know why I'm hesitating. I know I'm only doing this to run from the shitstorm that fell upon me. And this is what I do to fix it, by doing something I'm not even sure I'm committed to doing.

I raise my hand in a fist and knock on the door three times. My hands become clammy as I wait for my hookup—my first ever—to welcome me inside.

What's taking him so long? He's probably taking more time showering. Or lighting candles around his room to set the mood. Or perhaps he can't pick what colour of thong he should wear.

The door finally swings open and I am met with a man much, much taller than me. He's wearing an apron over a tank top. I'm not sure if he's wearing anything down there.

“Oh. Hi. You must be the guy my friends set me up with?”

I blink. “I-I'm sorry?”

“Never mind.” He steps aside and gestures me to go inside. “Sorry for making you wait. I was cooking Aglio e Olio for our dinner.”

I am so confused about what's happening right now. I thought this was going to be just a simple hookup. But this guy cooked dinner for us? This seems more like a date to be honest. And I have zero complaints.

“Please, have a seat.” He pulls a chair out and lets me sit first before serving me a dish I haven't heard or even tasted in the entire twenty-five years of my existence. What's it called again? Alyo… oylo? “I'm just going to change my clothes.”

“Okay,” I say, although I doubt he even heard me.

I look around his space and I'm so amazed at how everything is organised and arranged properly. Nothing is littered on the floor. There are potted plants on one side and then a shelf filled with business and economics-related books on the other. How can he live like a prince in a small flat? My place looks like it's been hit by a hurricane and no matter how hard I try to clean my stuff, I just end up making more clutter. Tragic.

“I'm sorry to keep you waiting again.”

I glance up and, oh my goodness, he's wearing a white dress shirt with two buttons down and tight black trousers. He's not just living like a prince but also looking exactly like one, while I'm looking basic and plain as fuck. Maybe this is why my ex broke up with me. I don't even look in the mirror to check how I look.

“You look good,” I say. “I feel bad because you made an effort to cook and dress up, but I come here not putting the slightest bit of effort to present myself well.”

“It's fine. All of this is actually a last-minute decision so I couldn't have possibly informed you to wear something formal.” He smiles. “Let's just enjoy dinner.”

Silence stretches between us as we eat this garlic-filled spaghetti he cooked. I should probably look up this recipe later and try to make some for myself soon. As I am too shy to utter a word, I wait for him to speak first since he seems like the type to have the courage to start and carry conversations on.

“So, what do you do for a living?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“I worked for three years as an editor for this sports magazine. I don't know if you've heard of them since they're not that popular like Match or Rugby World. It's called Champs Today, in case you're wondering.”

“Interesting. But you said ‘worked’. Did you quit?”

“I would never quit a job I really liked doing even though I don't know anything much about sports.” I prodded at my pasta absently. “My bosses fired me for ‘inappropriate behaviour’. And by that, they meant having a boyfriend.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that. You didn't know that you were working for homophobic people?”

I shake my head. Thinking about it now, I should've known it. No wonder why one of my friends from the IT department, Gavin, acted differently when he encounters them. He deepens his voice and calls me bro an unhealthy amount of times.

“Right now, I just want to move forward and look for a new job that doesn't discriminate their workers just because they're attracted to the same sex.” I twist the spaghetti around my fork and ask, “How about you?”

“I work in the same industry as you. I'm a writer for this certain magazine. I can't say the name to you for privacy reasons.”

Privacy reasons? Okay, then. As much as my curiosity is killing me right now and I want to press on, I nod in understanding. Besides, I'm in absolutely no position to force him to tell me anything about him if he feels uncomfortable. Still, it kinda sucks. “It's okay. I understand.”

“Thank you… I forgot to ask for your name. I'm sorry.”

“I'm Kian Montereal.”

“Nice to meet you, Kian. I'm… uh, Lory. Lory Sanders.” His voice. Lord help me. It sounds so rich and full but also gentle at the same time. The right amount of sexy and sweetness. Irresistible.

“Lory. That's a nice name.”

“Thanks.” Is he blushing? Oh my God. I made a man blush. “How does the pasta taste?”

“This is so nice. What's it called again?”

“Aglio e olio. It's just the Italian way of saying garlic pasta.”

“Mind sharing the recipe? This seems easy to cook.”

“Google is your best friend.” He shoots me a wink and I think I'm melting in my seat.

I lock my eyes with him and notice how blue his iris are, the colour giving him this smouldering look as if he's a wolf luring his prey. That's the best description I would give Lory: a wolf. Charming but dangerous.