As the sun tinted the sky with its presence, Tilda rose. Her naked silhouette strode across the room, and she picked up her panties.

“Leaving?”

“I think I should go before there are too many people on the street,” the woman said.

“Yes, it’s betterーwait,” Weston said as she slipped into her Mom jeans, “here’s my number.”

Tilda smiled and copied the number directly on her device, Weston’s phone vibrated, “that’s mine,” she said before moving on to clipping on her bra.

Weston sat up, crossed-legged on his bed, and hugged his pillow, “may I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“Why me?”

Tilda turned and gave a mischievous smile, “why not?”

Weston needed logical answers; there was something between them; it strong almost unbreakable.

The man still asked himself how was it possible, why did even seeing the woman dress up to leave, give him the feeling of having an open heart operation without anesthetics?

Weston sunk his head in his pillow a second to hide as he felt himself blushing only to raise his head to say, “you know I feel like I won a million euros.”

Weston didn’t know that for Tilda, it was the other way around, he was her million, and it would never change in a month, a year, a decade; she loved Weston Edmonds all her life. Meeting him unleashed the sentiment which waited for his owner, now he was here she was his.

Their strange predicament was their karma.

Weston got out of bed and grabbed his faithful jogging bottoms for which he now held great respect. Bare-chested, he accompanied Tilda to the door.

“Do you mind if I come back tonight?”

Tilda didn’t want to waste the time she had, every second counted.

“Tonight, already?”

The words spilled out on their own; the surprise was tremendous for Weston, who thought it was the last time even though something told him it wasn’t.

Weston was trying to keeping his feet attached on the ground by being reasonable when he was already a goner.

“Sorry, I’m pushy,” Tilda said.

Weston noted how Tilda’s slightly tinted pink cheeks accompanied the apology. He was glad to see he wasn’t the only one to flush a blush; they were like children experiencing their first crush. The feeling was warm, and it tickled Weston inside, forcing him to smile continuously.

“It’s okay; please come back. I’d love to see you again; I want to see you.”

The man felt he needed to give the change by saying what he was thinking.

“Phew, I panicked,” Tilda said, “oh God, why do I keep making a fool of myself?”

Tilda was trying; Weston could see she was making efforts. Now he believed her, Tilda had never done anything like this before, it transpired in all her clumsy expressions, yet she took delicate steps not to break or shatter the hatching emotions.

“Are you okay, Tilda?”

Tilda, who was about to open the door, stopped in her tracks, “yes, I’m just wondering how to qualify us.”

“Wait, you forgot your wig.”

Weston rushed to the couch and brought back Tilda’s disguise.

The woman stroked the wig Weston gave her, before starting to place it on her head.

Weston approached help her put on her glasses, “ready?”

“I’m set.”

Tilda advanced, eye to eye Weston knew what she waited for, and he closed his eyes as Tilda leaned to kiss him. After a few minutes, she pulled away, “I must go.”

Weston sighed, Tilda turned to leave, but the man pulled her back to lock her in a tight embrace where he engulfed his face in the hollow part of her neck where he inhaled as though it was his last breath, and he tried to lock up as much of the woman’s scent in his olfactive memory.

“Weston, I have to leave.”

“Okay, okay,” the man said in resignation.

Tilda opened the door and turned again to deposit a small kiss on his cheek, “this time, I’m gone.”

“Go.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes,” Weston replied with a grin.

Tilda had walked down a few streets when she closed her eyes, “3,2,1”, she whispered, clutching her phone to her chest. The phone vibrated, a message from Meine Liebe. It was the name under which she registered Weston:

I WOULD QUALIFY US AS LOVERS.

Tears flowed down her cheeks, while pain and joy mingled and tangled in her heart.

Weston was taking a risk; the words he sent by message weighed with meaning.

Was he the lover of a celebrity?

Were two nights enough to state that?

Still, the nights they had spent together were not neglectable; on the contrary, they erased and rewrote bedroom history.

Weston could not think of better nights, they hadn’t talked a lot, but there was no need. The lack of communication usually made Weston worry, relationships for him were those where both mind and body connected, and at that moment, he knew nothing about Tilda Brentwood’s thoughts.

As the clock stroke, 6:00 AM, he sat down to research, how could he have let this slip-up.

What is going through your head, Mr. Edmonds? You’re the guy who is capable of asking for a blood test and urine extract to choose a partner, and here you are ready to throw yourself into the den of love with no info.

Weston typed and waited for the web results; the feed was massive; he skipped the gossip and went straight to education. From Dance school to drama class, and finally conservatory, she was an artist for sure.

Hobbies: Knitting, pottery, cooking

Weston smiled; she’s my nanny.

Other articles piled up Weston’s finger hesitated to press on the boyfriend feeds.

No, Weston no, if she were an ordinary citizen, you wouldn’t know, so don’t do it.

Weston turned off his computer proud of resisting. He had an hour left of sleep before getting ready for his day job.

As Weston took the metro, his phone vibrated, his heart skipped thinking it could be Tilda.

“Michael.”

“Weston, how’s it going?”

“Good. I’m off to work.”

“Eh, sorry to pressure a little, but Robert asked me to find out how the writing was going.”

“I told you, I’m stuck on chapter 22.”

“Want me to come over. Tonight we could try figureー.”

“NO, not tonight,” Weston yelled before lowering his voice as people gazed at him.

“What, why not?”

“I’ve got something planned.”

“What? You have no interest in socializing outside of work; I had to drag you to your movie premiere. What could a monk-like you have planned?”

“Something.”

“Something like what? You and I have been Pattex glued for the last eight years I know you, you don’t have things previewed apart from your spring cleaning and your monthly visit to your parents in Yorkshire, and I doubt you’ll be doing both tonight so what is it. Is it a girl?”

“Yes,” Weston replied.

“You know that some women are bad news for creativity. Actually, no get laid; it might open your chakras and make you write up your chap in no time.”

“Thank you for your blessing, Michael.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, who is she?”

“No one, you know.”

“Well, as long as you don’t tell me it’s Tilda Brentwood, everything is cool. You know I can’t believe a guy like you pulled off something like that, you know I have to hold back from telling the world my protegé shagged Ms. Brentwood.”

Weston felt tense upon Michael’s last words.

“I didn’t shag her okay; don’t say that,” Weston said, lowering his head as eyes fixed him again.

“Okay, okay, you are so picky about words. Anyway, enjoy your night and keep me posted on the chapters.”

Shag, fuck, quickie, pound whatever nasty vocabulary existed Weston didn’t want them to be associated with Tilda.

The articles weren’t tender when they bashed Tilda in the past, and Weston knew he wouldn’t take anyone insulting her in any way because Tilda Brentwood was his woman now, he thought as he got off the tube.