Chapter 1 - Shifting Currents
Michael didn't talk much on the ferry ride back from Bowen Island. Naomi was driving the car onto the lower deck, her expression calm and focused. He'd never learned to drive standard, and she never made a thing of it. Now, parked and quiet, they sat side by side in the front seats. Naomi tilted her head against the window, eyes closed. The early evening cast the sky in soft golds and oranges, the horizon blurring into the sea. He should have said something--should have used the quiet to talk about more than logistics and work updates. Instead, he watched her sleep if it was even sleep, and let his thoughts spiral.
They hadn't touched the entire ride back, but it wasn't for lack of connection. The weekend had been filled with intimacy--between long walks and shared books, they had made love in the shower, out on the balcony, and again in the bedroom, Naomi's body softening beneath him each time with a sigh that lingered in his memory. It hadn't felt like a fling. It had felt... intentional. But now, Naomi had switched modes from playful and affectionate to composed and distant. Not cruel, not cold, just reabsorbed into her world--one that, increasingly, felt like it had less room for him. No kisses in the car. No fingers brushed as they walked the narrow path back to the car lot. Just silence and the low rumble of the ferry beneath them.
But something had settled in Michael's chest--a heavy, uncomfortable truth he hadn't wanted to admit: he wanted more.
He wanted Naomi. Not just for the sex, not just for the way her breath would catch when he kissed her behind the ear. He wanted mornings. Arguments. Grocery shopping. Shared silence that meant something. He wanted the full complication.
Back in Vancouver, life picked up with the same momentum as always. Naomi texted him the next day: _"Thanks for the weekend. I hope work doesn't drown you this week."_ He replied: _"I miss you already. Let me take you to dinner on Thursday? No strings. Just us."_
She didn't reply until Friday: _"Swamped. Let's touch base next week."_
The following week came and went. More short replies. No actual plans.
And then there was Saniya.
She had started appearing more often near his department at work, even though her desk was officially three floors up in accounting. They worked at the same company, but Saniya always found an excuse to swing by the customer success floor--sometimes under the pretense of cross-team collaboration, other times just to refill her tea. She was always beautiful, with rich, coffee-toned skin and expressive dark eyes. Still, her flirtation with Michael never came off as effortless. It was deliberate--hesitant, even--but sweet in its intention. Her jokes came with a pause, her compliments with a half-glance away. And because Michael wanted her to succeed--because he wanted to be desired--it worked. She wasn't Naomi, not in confidence or edge, but there was a warmth there. An opening. A willingness to try. He started making excuses too--lingering near her desk, offering to drop off printouts that didn't need delivering, pretending he was just passing through. Each small exchange made it easier to pretend the awkward moments hadn't happened, easier to let something new bloom in the gaps Naomi had left.
At first, he resisted. Naomi still lingered like a shadow over his phone. He kept texting Naomi, trying to spark something deeper:
**Michael:** "Hey, I found this little cafe on Main I think you'd love. Art books and insane pastries. Come with me?"
**Naomi:** "Sounds cute. Let me see how the week plays out."
Or:
**Michael:** "I thought we could do a board game night. Just us. No pressure. Just... I miss hanging out with you when we're not fucking."
**Naomi:** "Haha. You planning on letting me win?"
The deflections hurt. They weren't cruel, but they weren't welcoming. Michael felt himself reaching across a gap Naomi had no interest in bridging.
Meanwhile, Saniya leaned in close at the shared kitchen counter, her hand brushing his hip.
**Saniya:** "You always smell good. It's unfair."
**Michael:** "That's just... a miracle of genetics and very clean sweat."
**Saniya:** "Well, it works."
Her messages were unambiguous:
**Saniya:** "Hey, I was going to grab lunch and pretend it's for work. Do you want to join and keep the lie going?"
**Michael:** "I'll come if you promise to wear something that makes concentrating on work impossible. You've got a talent for turning project updates into distractions."
**Ding, an overhead selfie of her in the bathroom, her skin contrasting to a white blouse and the barest hint of a white lace bra. Saniya:** "Fits the bill?"
**Michael:** "Exactly."
What started as playful texts shifted quickly. Michael still checked his phone for Naomi--he still hoped--but every message from Saniya stoked a fire that Naomi no longer offered.
It wasn't a decision. It was a drift.
By the second week, Michael had stopped asking Naomi to go out for dinner. His last message--a casual invite to go for a coffee--sat unread. And he didn't send another. Instead, he began to rehearse what he would say in person. He knew they needed to talk, to clear the air. He knew it was time to ask her plainly: did she want anything more with him, or had he been holding onto a fantasy?
Chapter 2 - The Line
The call came in just after nine. Michael was half-watching something on TV, mind-scrolling through headlines, and half-drafted texts on his Blackberry. Naomi's name blinked on his phone. For a moment, he stared at it. Then he answered.
"Hey," he said, trying to keep it neutral.
"Are you free?" Naomi's voice was soft and a little husky. It hit him right in the stomach. "I was thinking... if you're not doing anything... you could come over."
There was no mistaking the tone. It was a come-over-for-sex invitation, warm and familiar. Comfortable.
He swallowed. "Naomi..."
"Hmm?"
He didn't want to say it. He wanted to go. Wanted to feel Naomi's legs wrap around him again, to sink into her the way he had just days ago. But the hollow ache in his chest was louder tonight.
