Blind Date with My One-Night Stand

Madison's POV

I heard them before I even got to the door. Moaning. The breathy, sex kind that you can't mistake for anything else. I stopped dead in the hallway outside Dylan's apartment, spare key in my hand.

No. Please no.

But the sounds got louder. I just stood there like a complete idiot in my work heels, my bag digging into my shoulder. Twelve hours at the firm, finalizing the Peterson Tower designs, and this was what I came home to. I was so tired I could barely think straight, and now I had to deal with this shit.

I should've walked away. Gone home, called him tomorrow, broken up over text like a normal person. But I was so fucking angry. My fingers unlocked the door before my brain caught up.

The door swung open.

Dylan, my boyfriend. Some random girl I'd never seen before. His couch, the one where we'd spent half our relationship watching Netflix and arguing about dumb stuff. Her legs wrapped around him, his bare back to me, both of them so into it they didn't even notice me standing there.

"Dylan."

My voice came out flat. Dead. They jumped apart so fast it would've been funny if I wasn't about to lose it. The girl grabbed for her clothes, face red as hell. Dylan yanked on his jeans, looking young and stupid and guilty.

"Madison! Baby, I—this isn't—"

"Don't." I threw the spare key on the coffee table. "We're done."

"No, wait, you have to understand!" He stumbled toward me, zipping up his pants. "I was lonely, okay? You're always at work, you never have time for me, and I just needed—"

"Needed to fuck someone else?" I actually laughed. It sounded mean even to me. "Great solution, Dylan. Really mature. We're finished."

"Madison, please—"

"This is the last time I'm using that key. Actually, I'm never using it again. Have a nice life."

I walked out. Left him standing there with his mouth open, probably still trying to come up with some excuse that would magically make this okay.

The first text came two hours after I walked out. Madison please. I'm so sorry. Can we talk?

I deleted it.

By the end of the week, I had thirty-seven messages. Some were apologies. Some were accusations. You're the one who pushed me away. You never had time for me. I'm not the only one to blame here. A few were just sad. I love you. Don't do this.

I blocked his number on day eight.

He got a new one on day nine.

My friends told me to ignore him, that he'd get bored eventually. Lily said guys like Dylan always did, young, immature, used to getting what they wanted. "He'll find some other girl to obsess over," she promised over drinks. "Just give it time."

But time wasn't helping. Every ping on my phone made my stomach drop. Every time I left work, I checked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't waiting by my car. I couldn't relax in my own apartment because what if he showed up at my door?

I was exhausted. Not just tired, actually drained. I'd throw myself into work, stay late at the office, take on extra revisions for the Peterson Tower project that nobody asked me to do. Anything to not think about the fact that my ex-boyfriend was slowly losing his mind and taking mine with him.

It took a month before I finally admitted to myself that I needed to get away. Not just from Dylan, but from all of it. From LA, from work, from the constant anxiety sitting in my chest like a stone.

The Peterson project wrapped on a Thursday. My boss complimented my designs, said I'd done excellent work under pressure. I thanked her, went back to my desk, and immediately pulled up flight prices to Vegas.

I'd been there once before, for a friend's bachelorette party two years ago. I remembered thinking the whole city felt like permission to be someone else for a weekend. To make bad decisions and not apologize for them.

That sounded perfect right now.

I booked the flight before I could talk myself out of it. Took Friday off, then the whole next week. I had the vacation days saved up, I never took time off, always too focused on climbing the ladder, proving myself. My boss approved it without question.

Friday afternoon, I was on a plane.

The hotel was nicer than I could really afford, but I didn't care. I checked in, unpacked, took a long shower, and then just stood in front of the mirror for a while, looking at myself.

When did I start looking so tired?

I'd lost weight. Not in a good way, in the "too stressed to eat properly" way. My eyes had circles under them that concealer couldn't quite hide. I looked like someone who'd been running on empty for weeks.

Well. That ends tonight.

I put on a black slip dress, did my makeup darker than usual, and headed down to the hotel bar.

The place was everything I needed. Dim and atmospheric, with soft jazz playing from speakers I couldn't see. I found a spot at the bar, ordered a vodka tonic, and just... breathed.

No Dylan. No work. No one who knew me or expected anything from me.

I was halfway through my drink when I noticed him.

He was sitting a few seats down, alone, staring into a glass of whiskey like it might have answers. Tall, I could tell even with him sitting down. Dark hair, white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Good arms. Really good arms, actually. Sharp jawline, the kind that made me think of old movie stars.

He looked expensive. Put-together. Like someone who had their shit figured out.

The exact opposite of Dylan.

No, stop comparing this one to Dylan.

But I couldn't help it. This guy looked like he'd never even been to a college party, let alone dated someone still in school. He probably had a real job, a real apartment, maybe even a retirement plan. Adult shit.

I watched him take a slow sip of his whiskey. He wasn't looking at his phone, wasn't trying to get the bartender's attention. Just sitting there, lost in his own head.

He looks like he's running from something too.

Maybe that's what made me do it. Some kind of recognition. Or maybe it was just the vodka warming my blood, making me brave. Either way, I picked up my glass and moved down the bar before I could overthink it.

"Drinking alone?"

He looked up, and I almost lost my nerve. His eyes were dark and intense, but there was something tired behind them. He studied me for a second, then his mouth curved into a small smile.

"Yeah. You too?"

"Was." I sat down on the stool next to him. "I'm celebrating my freedom from a cheating asshole ex. What about you?"

His smile shifted, got a little bitter. "Trying to forget some stuff I'd rather not think about."

I raised my glass. "Cheers to that."

He clinked his whiskey against my vodka tonic. "Cheers."

We started talking. Small talk at first, where we were from, what brought us to Vegas, safe territory. But then it got deeper. I told him about Dylan, about the texts, about feeling like I couldn't breathe in my own city anymore.

"So you ran away to Vegas," he said.

"I prefer 'strategic retreat.'"

He laughed. And it changed his whole face. "Fair enough."

His voice was low and smooth, the kind that made you want to keep listening even when he was talking about boring stuff like quarterly projections. And he actually paid attention when I spoke. Asked follow-up questions. Didn't interrupt or check his phone.

We kept talking. I don't know how long, long enough for me to finish my drink and order another. Long enough for him to finally tell me his name was Chase, and for me to tell him mine. Long enough for our knees to touch under the bar, and for neither of us to move away.

Oh, I want him.

The thought was so clear and sudden it almost scared me.

"You know what?" The words came out before I could stop them. "Want to get a room?"