To Be Wanted

The Hideaway Tavern

"To Be Wanted"

Stand Alone Entry - 162
November 27th 509 A.E.W.

The train jolted as it pulled into the station, steam hissing out from under its iron belly like a sigh. Saffi Paildra clutched her handbag tightly, her gloved fingers trembling slightly. In her other hand, she held a folded letter—creased at the corners, worn thin from being read over and over again. The ink had smudged just slightly from the oils on her fingertips, but his words were still legible.

Ms. Paildra,
The thought of seeing you again thrills me more than I care to admit.
Your last letter was a delight, as always.
Until we meet—
Yours respectfully,
Thomas Harada.

Her cheeks flushed faintly as she read it again, lips forming a small, nervous smile. The formality of their letters always made her heart flutter in a peculiar way. So proper, so elegant—yet flirtatious beneath the surface. They had been exchanging letters for several weeks now, ever since that speed dating event she had attended on a whim. Thomas had been seated directly across from her. He had asked about her work, her favorite poets, even her thoughts on steamships. He was attentive. And he listened.

Their letters had grown more personal over time. And then… a little daring. Hints of desire folded between metaphors and metaphysics. She had never dared to write things like that to anyone before, but with Thomas, it had felt—safe. Exciting.

And now, here she was, standing in an unfamiliar station, the sounds of shouting conductors and the hiss of pistons filling the air. She adjusted her hat, wrapped her scarf tighter, and took a breath.

She could do this. She wanted to do this.

Even if she had gotten lost twice just trying to get to the right line.

Thomas greeted her outside the restaurant, wearing a fine grey overcoat and a dark vest beneath. His brown hair was neatly combed, and he wore a matching bowler hat. He smiled warmly when he saw her.

“Ms. Paildra,” he said, bowing slightly as he took her hand.

“Mr. Harada,” she replied, her voice softer than she intended.

The restaurant was small and intimate—mahogany paneling, low gaslight chandeliers, and the faint scent of rosemary and wine in the air. Their table was by the window, where snow dusted the cobbled street beyond.

Dinner was easy. He made her laugh—truly laugh—with a story about a fire-breathing cat his neighbor kept insisting was real. She told him about a recent expedition to the Aquariousian ruins in the far east, and he actually seemed interested.

No awkward pauses. No impatient glances.

Just... warmth.

And then he asked if she’d like to come up for a drink.

His apartment was tidy and charming—filled with books, small brass sculptures, and an elegant fireplace already lit. She admired the place while he poured them both glasses of red wine.

The fire crackled quietly, casting soft orange light across Thomas’s apartment. The shadows danced along the shelves, flickering over framed photos and brass instruments. The wine in her glass was only half-finished. Saffi could feel the heat of Thomas’s gaze resting gently on her face.

When he kissed her again—slower now, more deliberate—there was no hiding the hunger behind it. Weeks of carefully penned innuendos and polite desire had simmered between the lines of their letters. And now it was here, in the room with them, no longer theoretical.

He pulled back only slightly, his breath brushing her lips. “I’ve thought about this,” he whispered, “more times than I care to admit.”

Saffi looked down, her lashes fluttering. “So have I,” she lied.

He traced his hand up her thigh, then paused, respectful. She appreciated that. But still, when he finally asked if she wanted to go to bed, her heart thudded with panic.

“I’m not ready for that,” she said softly.

Thomas blinked, then nodded. There was a flicker of something—disappointment, maybe—but it passed quickly.

“I understand.”

Saffi hesitated, then leaned in close. “But I could… still please you. If you like.”

He studied her, eyes dark and curious. “Only if you want to.”

“I do,” she replied, her smile calm—practiced.

She didn’t want to—not in the way one wants things for themselves. But she wanted him to stay. She wanted him to keep writing. She wanted not to be alone.

He nodded and leaned back against the settee, his legs spread slightly as he undid the buttons of his trousers. She moved to the floor, kneeling before him, her hands gentle and sure.

Thomas was already hard. She took him in her hand and gave him a single, slow stroke, watching the way his chest rose. His eyes fluttered closed as he exhaled through his nose, like he’d been holding back this moment for far too long.

She leaned forward, her lips parting around him.

His breath caught immediately.

“Oh… Ms. Paildra,” he murmured, voice taut with restrained pleasure.

She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. Her motions were fluid, confident—experienced. Her tongue knew how to tease, how to press just right beneath the tip. Her fingers curled around his base, rhythm syncing with the slow, steady bob of her head.

Thomas’s hips twitched involuntarily.

She could feel him twitching, growing harder, his thighs tensing beneath her palms. His moans were soft at first—gentle groans that escaped like steam from under pressure—but they grew more audible as she continued, coating him with spit and care, adjusting angle and depth as naturally as breathing.

She knew this part. This was where she was good.

Men were often cruel about many things, but none had ever complained about her skill in this. She could read the signs—the way their hands clenched, the way their breathing changed. She’d learned to recognize when to speed up, when to hold still, when to circle her tongue just so.

And Thomas was no different.

He was unraveling under her.

She looked up briefly, and saw his head tipped back, his jaw slack, his fingers gripping the edge of the cushion. She liked seeing that. She needed to see that.

It meant he was enjoying himself.

It meant he might stay.

When he finally came, it was sudden. A sharp gasp, a twitch of his hips—and then warmth across her lips, her tongue, her chin. Some of it caught her glasses, dotting the rim. A few drops spilled from the corner of her mouth, trailing down her neck and onto her bare chest where her blouse had loosened. The rest, she swallowed quietly.

Thomas exhaled, a long, satisfied sound.

She wiped her mouth with her handkerchief, then removed her glasses and dabbed at them carefully. The room was quiet again except for the soft crackle of the fire and his heartbeat slowing.

He reached for her hand.

“You’re… incredible,” he murmured, voice still ragged.

Saffi looked up at him, smiling gently.

“Thank you, Mr. Harada.”

She curled up beside him afterward, tucking her head against his shoulder. He didn’t push her away. In fact, he stroked her hair a few times before closing his eyes and drifting off.

And Saffi—Saffi stayed awake a little longer.

Just listening to his breathing.

Feeling the warmth of his skin.

Smiling softly to herself.

Because for the first time in a long time…

Someone had let her stay.

Saffi awoke to the soft creaking of floorboards and the rustle of fabric. The room was dim, lit only by the pale gray light of early morning leaking through the curtains. The fire had long since gone out, and the air now carried a bite of winter chill.

She blinked sleep from her eyes and pushed herself up slowly, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. Thomas was standing near the dresser, fastening the buttons of his shirt with mechanical precision. He looked like a figure in a photograph—composed, deliberate, formal.

Her voice was soft, still wrapped in drowsiness. “Good morning… Mr. Harada.”

He glanced over, giving her a small nod. “Good morning, Ms. Paildra.”

The warmth in his voice from the night before was gone. Not absent, exactly—just diluted, like tea that had steeped too long and lost its color. He didn’t smile. His eyes didn’t linger.

She pulled the blanket closer, covering her bare chest. “Are you heading out?”

“Yes,” he said, straightening his collar in the mirror. “I have an early meeting. Quite a busy day, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice catching faintly. “Did you… want to get breakfast before you go?”

He didn’t turn around.

“I don’t think I’ll have time, I’m sorry.”

Polite. Efficient. Distant.

Saffi nodded quickly, even though he couldn’t see it. “That’s alright. I understand.”

She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, feeling the cool fabric against her chest where his release had dried. The spot on her glasses was still faintly visible, even after she'd tried wiping it away the night before.

Thomas grabbed his waistcoat and shrugged it on, adjusting it with brisk movements. He moved like someone who had already left, even though he was still in the room.

Saffi watched him from the bed, a lump growing in her throat. She hated this part. This familiar, aching silence that came after intimacy. The unspoken distance.

She cleared her throat gently.

“Will you write to me?” she asked, trying to make it sound like a casual afterthought.

He paused at the door, his hand resting on the knob.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

But there was no promise in his voice. No warmth. No smile. Just a polite echo of obligation.

Saffi nodded again, even more quickly this time. “Good. I look forward to it.”

He offered her one last glance—a small, civil smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Take care, Ms. Paildra. Please lock the door on your way out.”

And then he was gone.

The door closed with a soft click. The room was silent.

Saffi sat on the edge of the bed for a while, the blanket clutched around her like armor. Her eyes stayed fixed on the door, as if he might come back and say he forgot something. Or say he changed his mind. Or kiss her goodbye.

But the minutes passed. The hallway stayed quiet.

She stood slowly, collecting her underthings from the floor and dressing in the same methodical silence Thomas had shown. Her heart felt hollow, like a bell after it rings.

“He said he’d write,” she whispered to herself, picking up her glasses and sliding them on. “He said he would.”

And even though her gut twisted, even though she could still feel the distance in his goodbye, she clung to the hope like it was the last ember in a dying fire.

Because if he wrote to her again… then maybe she hadn’t been just another night. Maybe she had pleased him enough. Maybe she’d finally done something right.

The morning air outside was crisp, filled with the scent of chimney smoke and fresh snow. Saffi’s boots clicked gently along the cobblestone walk as she moved through the unfamiliar district, hands tucked tightly in her coat pockets. She had never been to this part of Vapotentia before. The buildings here were older, taller, their facades ornate with curling ironwork balconies and soot-stained bricks. The air felt heavier, but not unpleasant—just full of history.

She hadn’t planned on lingering, but the glow of a nearby coffee house drew her in. It was small and quiet, the sign above the door reading “Spit and Polish” in flaking gold paint. A bell jingled as she stepped inside, met by the gentle warmth of wood stoves and the soft murmur of morning patrons. No one looked up from their papers or novels.

It smelled like cinnamon and roasted beans. She ordered a spiced latte with steamed milk and found a small seat by the front window. The armchair she slid into was worn but plush, with fabric patterned in faded roses. She sank into it and exhaled slowly, setting her gloves and scarf aside as she waited.

Outside, the snow had begun to fall again—soft, lazy flakes drifting past frosted glass. The streets were quiet this early. A carriage passed, steam curling from its underside, the driver huddled in a wool coat.

Saffi curled her fingers around the warm ceramic cup when it arrived. She didn’t drink right away. Just held it. Watched the way the snow danced.

This is peaceful, she thought. This is nice.

She reached for her bag instinctively, hoping for a book—but she'd left it at Thomas’s place. Of course.

Her smile faded.

Thomas.

Her chest tightened slightly at the name, her throat catching just enough to sting. She took a sip of the latte, more to distract herself than to enjoy the taste.

He hadn’t kissed her goodbye.

He hadn’t touched her that morning. Not even her hand.

She traced her finger along the rim of the mug.

Maybe he was just busy. Maybe he was nervous too. Or maybe…

Her mind wandered, unwillingly, toward the inevitable thought. Maybe he’s not going to write back.

It was a cruel whisper, but not unfamiliar. She had heard it before. After Lucian. After Eliot. After that strange, awkward professor from Black Raven University who had sworn he “wasn’t ready for a relationship” after three dates and a night in her flat.

Saffi swallowed hard and looked down at her cup. Her reflection swirled on the surface. She looked tired.

What’s wrong with me?

The thought struck her like a whisper too loud. Her lips pressed into a tight line as she stared out the window, vision beginning to blur.

She had tried so hard. Had been so polite. So eager to listen. To learn what Thomas liked. To make him happy. She’d spent hours crafting those letters, picking her words carefully—always thoughtful, always sweet, always… hoping.

And last night, she’d wanted him to be pleased. Even if it wasn’t what she truly wanted. Even if she didn’t like it. She had done it because maybe—maybe—if he felt good, he would stay. He would like her.

He would want her.

Tears welled in her eyes, soft and quiet.

It wasn’t about the sex.

It was never just about the sex.

It was about being seen. About being chosen. About not being discarded again.

She blinked rapidly, looking up, trying to swallow it back—but it was already there. Her shoulders tensed.

Her fingers trembled around the warm cup.

She didn’t sob. She didn’t break down.

She just… cried silently.

A tear slid down her cheek. Another fell, landing with a quiet ripple in her coffee.

The snow kept falling outside.

The world went on.

And Saffi, still and small in the corner of the café, sat in silence—trying to convince herself that it was fine. That she would be okay.

That maybe… he really would write back.