For The Plot

I'm Talking About In It

We're going to my place," Sergio tells me. Not asks. Tells. Like it was written in the stars and he just happened to be reading the script.
But honestly? I'm a little tipsy and grinning like I just got proposed to at a Beyoncé concert.
Sergio slides through the streets like the Audi came with the city map downloaded in his brain. We're somewhere in Manhattan—I think. I saw a street sign with "Manhattan" at the restaurant, so I'm gonna trust my wine-soaked instincts.
We pull into a sleek black building that looks like Bruce Wayne lives there. The garage alone is fancier than any hotel I've stayed in. Marble floors in the parking lot??! Who's she trying to impress?
Sergio chuckles at something I said (or maybe just at my face) and says something low in Italian. "Sei adorabile quando ridi."
"What'd you just say? That better not mean 'drunk girl giggles.'"
He smirks. "It means you're adorable when you laugh. Come on, mi fiore."
We step into the lobby and my jaw detaches. Marble everything. Gold accents. Wall art that probably costs more than my student debt. Velvet couches that scream, "we don't do cheap guests here."
We hop in the elevator, and Sergio grabs my hand like it's second nature. The panel looks like a spaceship. No buttons, just a hand scanner.
He puts his hand on it, it beeps, and he selects the 99th floor.
"Oh you got money money," I giggle, swaying slightly.
Sergio laughs. "Just enough to make sure you don't get stuck in a basic elevator."
Sir, is that flirting? Tech flexing? Both?
When the elevator opens, there's one double French door at the end of the hallway.
"Where the other doors at?" I ask.
"This floor's mine," he replies like he just said he owns a vending machine.
Instant sobriety.
He scans his hand again and opens the door to reveal a full-on Architectural Digest fantasy. Cream couches. A fireplace. Marble floors. Huge windows showing off the glittering skyline of New York. A literal grand piano. Like, one that requires talent and generational wealth.
"Wow," is all I manage. Because honestly? My brain just short-circuited.
Sergio gently takes my fur coat off and helps me out of my heels.
"Thank you," I mumble.
He smiles. "Wanna watch a movie?"
I narrow my eyes. "That better not be code."
He plops onto the couch. "Just Netflix. Promise."
I sit on the opposite end of the couch.
"Come closer," he says, patting the space next to him.
"I'm good over here," I insist, clutching my dignity.
He shrugs. "If you say so."
He opens up Netflix. "What are you in the mood for?"
"Comedy," I say. Because horror might actually kill me tonight.
We settle on White Ladies, and our convo stays soft and low.
"They always be crying in Starbucks," I whisper.
Sergio chuckles. "And filing Yelp complaints."
I giggle, warm and cozy—and tipsy. My eyelids start acting heavy.
"Tired?" he asks.
"No," I lie like a child who doesn't wanna nap.
But then it hits. A sharp, full-body stomach pain. I sit up like someone pulled my emergency brake.
"What's wrong?" Sergio asks, instantly concerned.
"I think I have to—" I start, but it's too late.
I stand up and promptly projectile vomit all over his sleek glass coffee table—you know, the kind with beveled edges and floating legs like it was designed in a spaceship. Also, the fur rug? Tragic.
"Oh my GOD," I gasp.
Sergio is already by my side, rubbing my back.
"Let me get you cleaned up," he says calmly, like I didn't just ruin the set of a Vogue shoot.
"I'm so sorry," I manage to gargle. There's vomit on my dress. In my hair. My soul has left the chat.
Sergio dials someone. Someone. Apparently the maid. That he has on standby. Like a Netflix villain.
Then he scoops me up bridal style like I'm not an adult woman with regrets and glitter in her curls.
Y'all. The arms. The chest. The strength. I suddenly understand why people catch feelings during piggyback rides.
"We're getting you to the bathroom," he says.
We enter the hallway and BAM. The bathroom. More like a personal spa. There's a deep soaking tub with golden fixtures. A rainfall shower. Heated marble floors. Soft recessed lighting that makes me look hydrated.
He sets me on the massive counter and starts running the bath water.
"Check the temp for me?" he asks, guiding my hand.
The water is perfect. Like a hug from baby angels.
I zone out for a second, then snap back. "Yeah, the water's good."
Sergio opens a cabinet and pulls out Dove soap, body oil, and bubble bath. Then he reaches into the linen closet for towels and a washcloth.
"Oh wow. Dove, huh? You got a sponsorship deal too?"
He smirks. "Only the best for my accidental vomit date."
He gestures to a door. "That leads to the guest bedroom. I'll set some clothes in there."
"Thanks," I whisper, still dazed.
"Also, water stays hot. Heated system," he adds, tapping a sleek panel on the wall.
All I can think is: wow. This man is taking care of me like he invented chivalry.
He unzips my dress like a gentleman, not a creep, and steps out to handle guest bedroom business.
I soak in the bath like royalty. Bubbles everywhere. The oil makes my skin glisten. The stress? Gone. Stomach? Calm. I'd marry this tub.
After drying off and oiling up, I shuffle into the guest bedroom.
Stunning. The bed is California King size with cream bedding, a velvet headboard, and blackout curtains. Art on the walls. A chaise lounge. Plush carpet. The whole room smells like luxury candles and good decisions.
On the bed? A navy t-shirt and gray Calvin Klein boxers. Folded like a five-star hotel setup. The boxers are huge. The shirt is huger.
I grin. No women's clothes here? That's a green flag.
Only issue? No bonnet. My hair will look like a haystack in 8 hours.
I peek my head out into the hallway. "Sergio?"
"Yes, il mio fiore?"
"You got another shirt I can use to wrap my hair?"
"Something wrong with the one I gave you?" he asks, concerned.
"No, it's perfect. Just need a second one. Hair emergency."
"Ah. Got it." He returns with a soft white t-shirt.
"Thanks," I say.
"There's Advil and water on your nightstand if you need it," he adds. "Text me if anything feels off."
"Okay. Goodnight."
"Buona notte."
I wrap my hair up like it's an Olympic sport, flop onto the bed, and immediately pass out.
These sheets? These pillows? This bed? I'm pretty sure heaven feels like this.
And just like that, I'm asleep—wrapped in cotton, Dove-scented peace, and the mystery that is Sergio.