At Night II
The Accidental Serial (and definitely not a walk of shame).
I’ve decided to keep following J and Claire, thanks to a comment from the illustrious Bradley Ramsey during his podcast. He was so relieved that there was no twist, that Claire was real. So let’s make her real.
This is an accidental serial — I’ll add to it whenever the mood strikes, no schedule, no promises. Just J, Claire, and wherever this goes next.
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At Night II
The morning presses down on him before he opens his eyes. The smell of rain and lavender still lingers in the room, mixed with the faint ghost of smoke and her perfume. His head feels stuffed with wool, mouth dry as paper.
For a second, he thinks last night was a story someone else wrote; a cruel twist in a Substack short. The kind where the girl vanishes at dawn, or was never real to begin with. The one where he’s left with only a hangover for company the next morning.
He turns his head slowly, almost afraid to confirm the truth. But he already feels her. Her skin warm against his, arm draped across his chest like she’s the one afraid he might vanish. Her hair spills across the pillow, smelling faintly of rain and smoke and lavender.
She’s real. She stayed.
He leans into her slightly, careful not to wake her, and just listens. Her breath is slow and steady against his skin. He stays like that until the tension in his chest finally softens. Then, reluctantly, he slides out from under her. Her hand slips from his chest, fingers splayed on the empty sheets.
He pauses at the edge of the bed. Watches the way her hair fans across the pillow, the faint crease on her cheek, her mouth parted just enough to let out a quiet breath. Then he pulls on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and steps into the hallway.
The apartment is still. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting for him to break it.
The first hiss of the coffeemaker sounds too loud, like he’s broken the spell of the room. The pan on the stove warms slow, butter spreading and sizzling until the smell turns the air golden.
Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Claire begins to stir.
The first thing she notices is the space beside her. The sheets cooling where he once lay. Her eyes flutter open, landing on the pillow still holding the shape of his head.
She sits up slowly, pulling on her underwear and reaching for the T-shirt he wore last night. She presses it to her face before slipping it over her head. It smells like him; sweat, soap, a trace of whiskey. It makes her smile despite herself.
By the time the toast pops, he hears her bare feet on the floor. She stops in the doorway, watching him for a beat — the easy way he moves around the kitchen, the smell of coffee filling the air.
“You cook?” she says, voice rough with sleep.
He glances back, spatula in hand. Their eyes lock for just a second. “Sometimes.”
She crosses to the counter, where J has already set a mug for her. He pours coffee into it without asking.
“A lover and a chef?” she says, adding some cream and sugar to her coffee.
He laughs, shaking his head as he hands her a spoon. He can’t help it. “I guess. Eggs?”
Claire nods. “Please.”
J turns around and expertly plates the scrambled eggs, adds a couple pieces of toast and sausages he’s already had cooked. He turns again. He places the plate in front of her.
He continues cooking while she eats.
“So,” J says after a quiet minute, stirring the eggs, “why me?”
Claire smirks at the directness. “Ok, cut to the chase,” she says, smiling as she stabs another forkful of egg. “I like that.”
She chews slowly, sets the fork down.
“I guess…” she tilts her head, thinking. “I wasn’t even supposed to be there. Had a work thing earlier, ended up skipping out, just needed one drink before heading home. But then I saw you.”
J glances over his shoulder, still stirring. “Saw me?”
“Yeah. At your table. The way you laughed with your friends. The way you leaned in to listen when they talked.” She picks up the fork again, but doesn’t eat this time.
“And then you sang,” she adds softly. “That was it. I had to know what kind of man sings like that.”
J doesn’t answer right away. He takes the pan off the burner and lets her words settle in, like heat radiating off the stove.
“So it wasn’t just some random bar hook-up.”
Claire shakes her head. “No. I don’t do those.”
He sits down next to her at the counter and begins forking his eggs around the plate.
“So what does the talented not-musician do for a living?”
J smiles, the first one of the day.
“Computers. Network administration.”
Claire smiles back, their eyes lock for just a moment before J looks away, stabbing a chunk of egg with his fork.
“So what about you? You said the only reason you walked into the bar was because you needed a drink after work? What does the amazing Claire do for work?”
Claire nods. “Public relations. Insurance.”
J nods. “Ah. Communications major, eh?”
Claire smiles around her coffee. “Yeah. Minored in marketing. Spent the last five years writing press releases no one reads.”
J chuckles. “Hey, somebody has to write those.”
“Sure,” she says. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
He takes another bite of eggs, glances at her. “So you were blowing off steam.”
“Pretty much.” She shrugs, then grins. “Guess it worked out.”
But her eyes say something else. J sees something in them. Desire.
J stares into those eyes for a few seconds, then speaks:
“Claire, what are we doing here?” he asks, his voice soft and low.
He sets his fork down. The room feels smaller now, the air warmer.
Claire watches him watching her. Then she reaches out, fingers brushing the back of his hand. Soft, deliberate, then their fingers intertwine.
“I don’t know,” she says, quiet but certain, like saying it out loud costs her something.
He nods slowly, leans in a little closer. “I want to keep doing it.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, his eyes still locked on hers.
“I need to keep doing it.”
And then, she closes the distance. A soft, gentle kiss.
She breaks the kiss. “J, I’m… not going anywhere.”
J smiles. “I should probably clean up this mess. Make yourself at home.”
J clears the plates, the sound of running water breaking the silence but not shattering it. Claire doesn’t leave right away. She sits there, watching him, the ghost of a smile still on her lips. Then she slides off the stool, her bare feet soundless against the hardwood.
The apartment opens around her, wide and quiet. She drifts toward the living room, fingertips brushing the edge of the couch, the stack of mail on the table. A shelf of books stops her. She tilts her head, scanning the titles, pulling one halfway free before sliding it back.
Then her gaze lands on the corner. The guitar stands there, silent and waiting, strings catching the faint morning light.
She doesn’t touch it — just stands there a moment longer, as if sensing something heavier in the air.
From the kitchen, J watches her.
The posters catch the light, colors faded, edges curling behind the glass. Flyers from another life. A younger J stares back at them from the photos — all sharp angles and raw energy — as if daring this version of him to remember what it felt like to matter. There are some pictures of a younger J playing on a stage, clearly amateur, some too dark, others over exposed. The backdrop in many of the photos display the name “Velvet Ruin”.
She remembers hearing about the almost legendary local band that disappeared from the local scene almost twenty years ago. She looks over to the flyers and realize that all of them list the band on them.
She steps closer to the framed posters, eyes tracing the names and dates.
“You were in Velvet Ruin?” Her voice is half question, half accusation, like she can’t believe she didn’t know this already.
J smiles, but there’s something tired in it. “I was Velvet Ruin,” he says, quiet enough it almost gets lost in the room. “I wrote the songs. Booked the gigs. Paid the band. Every last show.”
He stops next to her, looking at the flyers like they belong to someone else now.
“So what happened?” she asks, almost gently.
J doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, sliding his arms around her waist, his chin brushing her shoulder.
“I guess I grew up,” he says finally. “Got tired of waiting for people to notice. Tired of screaming into a room that never cared.”
He exhales against her neck, a breath that sounds heavier than the words. “So I walked away.”
“So the karaoke thing is a way to relive all that?” Claire leans back into him, letting him feel her body against her.
J shrugs. “I guess it’s… a pressure release,” he says, then gently kisses her neck. “Sometimes I just want to be back on stage.”
Claire sighs, interlacing her fingers with one hand, pulling his head closer with the other.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. The framed posters watch in silence, relics of a life J left behind. J continues to hold her, the warmth of their bodies radiating into each other.
Then she turns her head, just enough to catch his eye. “How do you want me?”
J smiles, takes her hand, and together they leave the posters watching in silence.
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