I’m on my back, gasping for air as my eyes fly open. My heart is racing so hard I feel like it’s going to pound out of my chest. I sit up, clenching my covers as I realize I’m in bed. My phone alarm is going off, and I look at my screen as I hit snooze. 

2:00PM WAKE UP

I groan, gripping my chest as I still fight to catch my breath. I comb back my hair, trying to calm myself as I say in my mind, It was just a dream. I’m sweating, and my hand comes away from my hair tinted pink. 

I feel damp and sticky, and it’s not just from sweat. 

Lifting the covers, I peer down between my legs. My face heats with my blush and I know I’m beet red. 

Hunching over, I hold my head in my hands. Steam might as well be coming off of me, my flush is so hot. I can still remember the dream—it felt so real. 

How the hell am I supposed to face him now? I think to myself, trying not to picture Mr. Sharpe’s handsome face. It takes me all of 0.5sec to fail at that. I can see his dazzling grin so vividly in my mind; I groan and fall back onto the bed, hitting the mattress and pillows with a heavy thump. 

I don’t even know this guy. How can I be so hung-up on someone I don’t even know? It’s not fair to make him the subject of my fantasies just because he’s hot. 

My chest is tight as I remember the conversation we had in the pharmacy. He’d defended me, saved me, stayed to make sure I was okay, and offered me a ride home. Even when I’d fucked up and embarrassed myself yesterday, he’d been so kind…

It’s not just because he’s hot. 

I throw off the blankets, shivering as I get out of bed. I’m hesitant to leave the cocoon of warmth, but I should. I’ll probably forget all about the dream soon anyway. Besides, I have work tonight. 

The thought is bracing. 

I walk through my dark room—careful not to trip over any unpacked boxes—and down the hallway to the bathroom.

Switching on the bright lights makes me wince, and I peer through my scrunched up narrow eyes. I peel off my briefs and toss them in the dirty laundry basket. I’m ashamed, but I try not to dwell on it anymore. Forget and move on. 

After turning on the shower, I lean against the sink counter, waiting for the water to heat up. I catch myself in the mirror, unable to look away. There are butterflies in my stomach as I take in my reflection, remembering the reflection of myself in the glass window in my dream.  

I push myself away from the sink and get into the shower. It’s still cold, but that’s probably for the best. Don’t think about him, Micah. 

Lathering soap through my hair and over my body only makes me think of my dream and how Vincent touched me. I don’t think anyone has actually ever touched me like that, and I wonder how my body knows the feeling. I must have seen it somewhere and had it burned into the back of my mind, or maybe it’s just something I never knew I wanted so badly. 

Reaching for the faucet valve I crank it over to as cold as it will go. It’s a shock to my system. I did it to myself, but I can’t help yelping as the frigid cold hits me; it’s like ice. Enduring the harsh temperature, I finish rinsing without incident, determined to keep my mind out of the gutter. 

Stepping out of the shower, I dry off with a towel and head back to my room. Turning on the ceiling light, I sit on my bed and grab my phone. I’ve missed a few texts from my mom and some app notifications, but I swipe through them all, ignoring them as I bring up my search engine. 

I type in the company name along with: VINCENT SHARPE, CEO. 

My eyebrows lift as I see how many articles pop up about him; I wasn’t expecting so many. Seems he’s well-known in the business world. There are articles about his success and accolades—how fast he grew his business. I have some trouble following what exactly his company does, but it seems like it has something to do with industrial design. 

A lot more complicated than mopping the floors and taking out the trash, I think to myself, and it hurts. I shouldn’t put myself down. Maybe I’m still embarrassed by yesterday or feeling inferior as I compare myself to his long and impressive track record. It feels like we’re worlds apart. 

I’m about to close the search when I see a social media account. Curiosity gets the better of me and I click on it, expecting a business account for the company—something professional and boring. 

It’s not. 

The profile picture is of a black and white cat, lying on its back with a deeply unimpressed look; like the cameraman is getting on its nerves. It makes me smirk. For a moment I figure this must not be his account—Vincent Sharpe isn’t exactly the most unique name in the world—but I can see the bio has his company listed, as well as his position, CEO. 

My heart pitter-patters as I look through the pictures on his profile. There are more than I expected, mostly of the cat in his profile image, but every now and then there are photos of him. 

I look at all of them, spending way too much time staring at each one. He looks so happy and care-free. I wonder what it’s like to have a life like that. 

My chest feels tight and achy as I see him on vacation; he’s somewhere tropical. He’s wearing sunglasses in a tank-top, his muscular arms on full display. The sunlight is a red glow on him, and it fills me with a kind of longing I wish I could escape.  

If I was standing there beside him, I’d burn to a crisp and be hospitalized for days. 

There’s no point even fantasizing. 

I scroll away from the picture, stopping on one where he’s laughing, standing in front of a cake. He’s wearing a dumb, cheap party hat that makes me grin and laugh a little. I can see blurs of people clapping, like the picture was taken from in the middle of a crowd. Does he have that many friends? He must, I think. There are sparklers on the cake, surrounding candles that are shaped into the number 35. 

Posted May 5, last year, I read. 

He’s 35. That’s almost 10 years older than me. 

I grimace and my inferiority complex grows. 

My alarm goes off on my phone, buzzing and beeping like sleeping in is a life-or-death situation. It scares the shit out of me and I fumble the phone, almost dropping it on my face. I’m panting and my heart is racing a mile a minute. Checking the time, I realize I’ve been lost in a doom-scroll and now I have to get ready for work. I can’t believe how long I’ve been staring at Vincent’s pictures. 

I was supposed to call my mom, but I don’t have time. I quickly send her a text instead, saying I was tired after work and overslept. It’s not really true, but I’m sure as hell not explaining the reality of my sad, pathetic little crush that plagued my dreams and distracted me for hours. 

Pulling on a fresh set of briefs and jeans, I look around all the boxes in my room, waiting to be unpacked. My mom’s right, I should make a point of unpacking. I crashed last night, but tonight I’ll unpack at least one box. I need more clothes out anyway. I know I still have some in a bin somewhere. 

Throwing on socks and a cozy sweater, I make my way through the empty apartment. 

I stop next to the kitchen, eyeing the fridge. My mouth waters as I think of the blood in there. I’m still thirsty. I’m always thirsty. 

Yanking my gaze away from the fridge, I try to remind myself I can drink more in a few days. It’ll be fine; I’ve done it all my life. 

I get ready to leave—same routine as yesterday. I remember to pack sneakers this time. 

I’m about to head out the door when I feel my phone buzz. I know it’s just my mom replying to my earlier message, but as I pull out my phone I feel my whole body grow cold. 

VINCENT SHARPE LIKED YOUR COMMENT.

Comment?! I’m panicking as I quickly open the app where I was looking at his profile. For a minute I’m deathly afraid that I sent the text meant for my mom to him, but it’s so much worse. 

Under his birthday post, I’ve somehow managed to comment a single, solitary emoji…

♥️