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K for B

I got an invitation.
Not for dinner, or beverages.
A scene. A vault. Raw, neat, all systems under spell.

He didn’t approach with sweet candles or well-rehearsed verses.
He offered a blueprint made of chaos and dared me to color it.
Not in pastels. In something your eyes can't decrypt.
Something that bites back.

“I don’t do coffee,” he said.
Like it was the most natural sentence in the world. I didn’t give a damn.
Just smiled and thought, yeah, I don’t do small talk either.

We didn’t shake hands. Nor we did trade names.
Those things slow people down.
He wasn’t here to slow down. Neither was I.

He walked in like the room owed him gravity.
And maybe that’s what caught me off guard.
Because I know how to measure risk, rearrange systems, disappear in detail.
But he doesn’t vanish, he just expands.
Loud, bright, daring, teasing, poking.
The kind of presence that makes silence feel like a choice.

He didn’t hide what he was. Didn’t need to.
And still, I couldn’t read all of him.
Which, let’s be honest, is what kills a curious cat.

There was heat between us. Not a flash in the pan.
The slow, steady kind of fire that settles deep and lingers long after you walk away.

And maybe nothing really happened that night.
But something shifted. Slightly. Quietly. Clicked..
Like a compass needle turning when no one's watching.

I’ve always been good at walking away, a professional.
But that night, I didn’t.
I stayed long enough
to feel the fire wasn’t mine this time
and for once,
I wanted to surrender to the flames.