How can one forget someone plastered everywhere, TV or a newspaper?

The celebrity who ruffled Weston’s bedsheets smiled sweetly on TV, Weston turned it off.

She has forgotten you, Weston thought while he began to write another chapter.

Community manager by day, it was at night that Weston became Gabriel Saint Clair, and he wrote Top ten ranking thrillers.

Weston didn’t freeload the movie premiere; he watched the movie inspired by his book Lone Horizon for which Tilda wrote and sung three songs on the soundtrack. Never did Weston imagine he would meet and wake up next to her, even thinking of it made him shudder.

Since that day, his house seemed immense for him alone, and his bedroom became the place of the forbidden memories. Sleeping was a moment of torment where Weston still heard Tilda’s moans and his heavy breaths as they made love until dawn.

Weston never brought women home, what had gotten into him?

What made him let down his guard?

Even in bed, the man was unleashed as if it was natural, how could sex be spontaneous with a stranger?

Snap out of it, Weston, she’s gone. You’ll never see her again apart on these stupid shows where she is not even to her advantage.

For the man, TV didn’t capture who Tilda was; Weston saw her real beauty. At the same time, he understood that, like him, Tilda concealed her personality to protect herself. It would sound pretentious if someone heard him, but Weston knew Tilda, or he felt he did.

“Get to work, Weston, get to work,” Weston said, gazing at his screen.

Blocked for two weeks in the same paragraph, it seemed he wouldn’t write the piece then too. Weston swung back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

Did Tilda think of him or of the night they spent together?

Tilda said she’d bring back his clothes, but how? The singer didn’t even have his number.

Weston’s thoughts were interrupted by the ringing doorbell.

He walked to his interphone with a nonchalant step, a hooded woman with a bob haircut and dark screened glasses stared at him.

“Who is it?” Weston said, heart bashing against his rib cage.

“ㅡEm, Weston, it’sー.”

Weston opened the door, afraid a passerby would hear and watched her silhouette climb the stairs, and he pushed himself aside to let her inside. Weston looked around in case someone spied on them and closed the door.

“I’m sorry Weston, I thought I’d manage to come back here a little sooner, but my schedule was so tight that I couldn’t; I had studio sessions,” Tilda sighed, “I’m sorry.”

The singer was unable to hide how desperate she was. It wasn’t like she had promised anything, but Weston could see Tilda was genuinely sorry.

A part of Weston, the juvenile fanboy, jumped for joy while the man blushed, “it’s okay, Ms. Brentー.”

“Please, Weston, call me Tilda.”

The request was unexpected, but Weston applied it immediately.

“Okay, Tilda.”

Weston loved saying her name, and Tilda loved listening to it pronounced by Weston.

Tilda smiled; it was so contagious that the man grinned too. Weston’s grin stretched as he noticed her attire.

The woman frowned, “what’s funny?”

“Your outfit.”

“Oh, sorry I just didn’t want to be spotted,” Tilda said as she took off her coat and glasses.

Mesmerized by her presence Weston who felt like an idiot, looked to have a more natural posture than standing mouth agape staring, he crossed his arms and focused on random spots in the room, “Isn’t it risky? I meanー.”

“Don’t worry, I have a lookalike roaming about in a lounge in Oxford Circus, besides it’s 11 PM,” Tilda replied as she rummaged through a Selfridges shopping bag that Weston just noticed.

“I see.”

“Here are your clothes, Weston.”

“Oh, no, don’t tell me you went through all this to bring back these rags?”

“They’re not rags, they’re yours,” Tilda said, touching the hem of the T-shirt’s collar.

Was it the way Tilda said it or the childlike expression on her face, Weston felt he should upgrade his views on jogging bottoms, making them national treasures. Tilda accomplished her mission by giving back to their rightful owner; the custom was to take leave, yet neither one desired to do so.

Please, Weston, Tilda thought with all her might.

“Ah,ーem, do you want a drink? Coffee?” Weston said, breaking the silence. The expression on his face showed the despair of pure improvisation.

“I can’t drink coffee; otherwise, I won’t sleep.”

“Tea?”

“I’m anemic; I try avoiding it.”

“Wine?”

Why was he insisting?

It was apparent Weston wanted her to stay longer even if it meant going through the list of every beverage in his house and making a fool of himself in front of a celebrity.

“Wine will be fine; I’m not an alcoholic. Oh God, I sound like one, don’t I?”

Tilda was different, different from the confident young lady whose voice reached out to many. No one would believe that the woman rumored to be the next James Bond girl attempted to justify everything she said.

Weston was the type of guy who ran after the model, Kim Kardashian lookalikes, or other stereotypical women. He appreciated the no-issue girl next door type.

Here he liked the natural Tilda he saw.

“Have a seat,” Weston said.

“What?”

“A seat,” Weston repeated, gesturing towards the couch.

Tilda walked and sat down on the couch, where she straightened up her appearance.

Weston smiled and went to prepare two glasses; he opened his cupboards, hoping to find something to nibble, but he invited no one. Thus there was nothing. Great, Weston thought as he walked into the living room.

“ーEh, sorry I’m out of snacks.”

“It’s okay,” Tilda replied.

Weston sat down and poured for both of them, “I have to admit I’m quiet in shock having you here. I mean, don’t get me wrongー.”

The man never got to finish a sentence, Tilda automatically rebounded.

“I wanted to, IㅡI wanted to see you again.”

Never did Weston imagine he could blush at such a remark at his age, but the woman’s words brought the heat to his face where little freckles gleefully surfaced and played. How could such simple words inflame the core of his being without consuming his soul?

“Eh, eh ㅡI,” Weston turned to face her, “I’m very flattered Iー.”

Blank spaces filled the sentences, speech voids in which they both tried to choose their words carefully, wanting to express nothing but precise feelings.

Neither one desired to give the other the wrong impression; it was vital for every word to come outright.

Weston’s breath shortened as he tried to block the thoughts which invaded his head.

Tilda picked up her glass and took three huge gulps of the wine, which left the man blinking.

“Sorry, I just realized what I said. I’m so embarrassed,” Tilda said, covering her face with both hands before getting up and walking to his desk.

Weston’s eyes followed her to his screen still turned on, “Gabriel Saint Clair.”

Tilda’s words made the man leap from the couch in panic, striding to press the standby button where Tilda turned to face him. Weston’s face was only a few inches away.

“You write.”

“ーEm, whatever you saw, it isn’t what youー,” Weston said, frowning.

“I saw you, Weston,” Tilda said, gazing into his eyes.

Weston became pale by panic, “what do you want from me?”

“I think you know,” Tilda replied.

Weston didn’t need more; the tension was there from the moment she entered the house, lie. The pressure had never left.

Weston craved for Tilda during all these days as he picked the petals of his mental roses, wondering whether she would come back or not.

Weston pulled her close and approached his face. Tilda slid hers against him, taking in all the extracts of his scent. She brushed her nose against his three-day beard before looking straight into his eyes.

A sensation of déjà vu welled in all of Weston’s being as he kissed her, again and again before stopping to pull down her wig. Her hair spilled out straight and silky, surprising the man.

“It was for a photoshoot the photographer wanted my hair straight,” Tilda explained, feeling obliged to do so as she saw his deception.

Weston caressed her hair with regret, longing for the curls he was already fond of; the sadness on her face pushed him to pull her into a hug to console her.

It’s only hair thought the man, it wasn’t as though he had the right on her body.

Fragility surrounded Tilda, how didn’t people notice it? Weston thought as he gazed into her brown eyes before cupping her face in his hands to kiss her again.

The first time it was a fortunate mishap, this time, it was a malicious miracle.

Weston wasn’t looking for romance, but now it had knocked on his door. There was no saying no.