#110: Sex... Or Not.

***Violet***

Living with someone is kind of bizarre. Especially when that someone is Julian Kauer—the most stubborn, chaotic, and dangerously sexy man I know.

We wake up in the same bed, drink coffee from the same mug because we haven’t unpacked the others, argue over the car playlist, and grocery shop like we’ve been married for twenty years.

And still... we haven’t had sex.

Seriously. Not even once. Not a quickie. Not even a half-assed almost-sex with an awkward ending. Nothing.

Not that I need it to know what I feel, but it’s weird. Because there’s tension. A lot of it. The kind that could light the stove just from how he looks at me. But for some reason, we... don’t go there.

And then paranoia starts creeping in. Like, does he not want me anymore? Now that I’m more real, more present, with my morning dead face and my monster-

Level PMS, did he lose interest?

I thought about asking. Swear I did. But then I decided not to. Because, I mean, what if the answer is yes? What if he’s just not into me like before?

So I decided to fix this my way. Like a functional, sexy adult.

I bought new lingerie. Black, full of useless crisscrossed straps and lace, I’d never be able to fold properly after wearing. I felt ridiculous buying it, but I felt hot trying it on. And that’s what mattered.

Then, I bought good wine. Not the grocery store kind with a fake-looking label. A full-bodied Syrah, with strong tannins, one of those that needs to breathe before serving. I picked it because it reminded me of our first dinner together, and also the first night we slept in the same bed without sex, because it was the

The

The same wine he stole from my fridge. In his defense, I stole it from Julian’s first.

On the way back, I stopped at a gourmet store and made a proper charcuterie board. Fresh figs, brie with honey, artisanal salami, dried apricots stuffed with gorgonzola. The whole damn thing. A full sensory experience. Textures, flavors, pairings. The way it should be.

Just so he’d remember I’m still a damn good chef and know exactly how all those overpriced ingredients should come together—unlike the times I burned eggs on the shitty pans he decided to salvage from the old restaurant.

I set everything up in the living room. Lit some scented candles I found in a moving box. Vanilla and sandalwood—I didn’t even remember buying them, but at least I saved money after seeing the total for the charcuterie board. I dimmed the lights, played some soft background music. Nothing cheesy. Just a vibe.

Nina Simone playing in the background, so he’d know that if he didn’t fuck me tonight, he’d officially be the dumbest man on Earth.

I showered. Put on lotion. Shaved down to my toes. Blow-dried my bangs (which I hate doing). Put on my black robe over the lingerie. Looked at myself in the mirror and whispered, “You look like a snack, Violet.” And this time, it made me laugh, but it also gave me a bit of confidence. I felt alive. Not like my usual dead-looking self.

Julian had gone to meet with that investor. The same one we fought about, obviously. Because apparently, I can’t do anything without being called impulsive, reckless, or crazy. But he didn’t get it. I just wanted to help. I wanted us to work. For him to see I was in this with him—for the restaurant, for the whole damn ride.

And no, I’m not dumb enough to blindly trust someone shady. But he has that older-guy complex, thinking he needs to protect everything and handle it all. I’m letting him—until he remembers I’m smarter than him. By far.

I sat on the floor, wine glass in hand, waiting. The playlist was halfway through a Norah Jones song when I heard the key turn in the lock.

My heart did that stupid teenage flutter. I felt like a kid about to lose her virginity to the hottest guy in school.

The light in the living room flicked on instantly—first wrong move of the night. Who turns on the lights when the candles are already setting the mood? Total disrespect for my aesthetic choices. I almost yelled at him, but held back because, well, I wanted sex.

But that wasn’t what froze me. Not until my eyes adjusted to the light.

It was the fact that Julian wasn’t alone.

The fuck? Why wasn’t he alone? Idiot.

He walked in first. Jacket slung over his shoulder, face more relaxed than I expected after a long day. But right behind him… someone else stepped in.

A woman. Tall. In heels. Hair in an elegant bun, light makeup, tailored outfit. Leather portfolio under her arm. The kind of presence that doesn’t flinch at candles or lingerie.

She stepped in and stopped.

Her mouth slightly parted—just for a second—before she recovered, offering a polite smile and a nod.

Julian froze. Literally stopped with his hand still on the doorknob and eyes locked on me. Like he forgot I existed until this exact second.

And me? I just sat there.

Frozen.

Still holding the fucking wine, expensive panties riding up my ass, chest pounding.

No idea who that woman was. No idea why she was there.

But fully aware this night was about to go to hell.

Because the only thing worse than having your plans ruined—especially plans involving food, candles, and sex—is having them ruined by a blonde. I hate blondes.

And if it’s up to me, the next thing to burn won’t be a damn candle.