#laknight

September 23rd, 2008, Cincinnati, Ohio 1:02 AM

As you walk into the lobby of the hotel you’re staying at, the AC hits your flushed face, a stark contrast to the warmth still lingering on your skin from his kiss. You let out a quiet breath, the kind you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

The place is mostly empty, just a lone night clerk behind the desk and some muted late-night talk show flickering across the mounted TV. Your boots stomp softly against the tile as you cross the floor, thoughts of Punk tumbling through your mind in slow, dizzy loops.

Did that really just happen? You thought.

You ride the elevator up in silence, the hum of fluorescent lights above doing little to quiet the noise in your chest. Your head is spiraling from what just happened earlier. When you reach your room, you swipe the keycard, step inside, and drop your bag by the door, kicking off your shoes with a sigh. You walk towards the bed, collapsing on top of the plush bedding. “What the fuck happened?” You mumble to yourself. Inside, you wish he had kissed your lips instead. But you know it would be too much, too soon. 

Wouldn’t it?

You let out a low quiet groan, dragging a pillow over your face to muffle the sound. What was supposed to be a late-night bite turned into something that felt like a turning point. Something that mattered. Just last week you were in Indianapolis, touching yourself in your hotel bed to the thought of him. You had thought, he will never notice me like that.

But just less than an hour ago, there he was, placing a kiss to your cheek and telling you he liked you.

You lie there, still half-buried under the pillow, staring at the ceiling like it might give you answers. The room is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional muffled voice from the hallway. But your mind is loud. You sigh, lifting up the pillow from your head and getting up out of the bed, before sliding off your jeans. When you make your way into the bathroom to wash your face, you can hear you phone buzzing. After patting your face dry with the soft hotel towel, you practically run back into the room to check your phone.

Punk: Still thinking about that anti-egg slander. And call me Phil. Punk is for people who don’t know me. Also, I meant what I said. Sweet dreams.

You stare at it, heart flipping in your chest. The smile that spreads across your face is immediate, unstoppable. You type back quickly, thumbs fumbling.

You: Still not sorry. But I meant it too. Goodnight, Phil.

You change Phil’s contact name to “Phil <3” before setting an alarm on your phone for 8:30. You place your phone down on the nightstand and roll back into the pillows, your cheeks still warm. You slowly drift off to sleep, thinking about the day and what will come tomorrow.

September 23rd, 2008, Cincinnati, Ohio 8:17 AM

Your alarm hasn’t even gone off yet when your phone buzzes against the nightstand.

You groan softly, eyes still heavy with sleep, and blindly reach over to grab it. The screen lights up in your palm, and when you see the name at the top, Phil <3, your heart instantly wakes up, even if the rest of you hasn’t.

Phil: Morning, sleepyhead. Don’t miss your flight. Hope you woke up smiling. I did.

You blink at the message, then smile in spite of yourself. That warm, giddy feeling from last night returns like it never left. You open your keyboard and type back, still half-buried under the covers:

You: Barely awake but smiling, yeah. Heading to the airport soon. You?

His response comes a moment later:

Phil: Still in bed. Just enjoying the quiet. Text me when you land, okay?

You pause for a moment, thumbs hovering. It’s small, but the way he said it, text me when you land, hits somewhere soft. Like someone caring whether or not you make it home. Like you matter.

You: I will. Try not to miss me too much, alright?

You press send before setting your phone down and letting out a long yawn. Luckily, it’s a short flight.

You slowly sit up and slide out of bed, too tired to bother showering, and slip into the same pair of jeans you wore last night. After splashing cold water on your face, you take one last look around the room, scanning every surface to make sure you didn’t leave anything behind.

Once satisfied, you zip up your suitcase, sling your bag over your shoulder, and head downstairs into the hotel lobby to wait for the next shuttle to the airport.

The lobby is quiet, lit by the soft early morning glow filtering through the tall windows. A handful of other guests linger near the front desk or slump into chairs with travel mugs and sleepy eyes. You find a spot near the entrance, dropping your bag at your feet and hugging your hoodie closer around you.

The shuttle’s not due for another ten minutes, but you don’t mind the silence. It gives you a second to breathe and check recent emails.

You check your phone. Nothing new yet.

You rest your head against the back of the chair, eyelids fluttering shut for just a moment—until the buzz in your hand snaps them back open.

Phil <3: Airport coffee is going to ruin your life. Be strong.

You snort under your breath, already smiling as you type back.

You: Eh. I’ll try.

Phil <3: just arrived at the airport. Busy this morning.

You smile, cheeks warming.

You: Let me know when you land. Or don’t, I don’t know what goes on in your head.

Phil <3: I will, I promise. Don’t die before I see you next.

That one makes your fingers pause over the screen. You reread it once… twice.

You: I don’t plan on it.

Just then, the shuttle pulls up outside the glass doors. You grab your bag and head out, still smiling as you board.

As the engine rumbles to life, you press your forehead to the window, letting the city blur past. Your body’s still tired, but your mind is wide awake, still spiraling from Phil’s texts.

September 23rd, 2008, Cincinnati, Ohio, CVG -> DTW 9:31 AM

The shuttle ride to the airport is short and uneventful. You move through security half-asleep, clutching a Red Bull and nodding politely at TSA agents. Before long, you’re seated by a window on your flight, row 19, seat A, wedged between the window and an older man who immediately fell asleep with his mouth open.

The hum of the plane’s engine starts up as the crew prepares for takeoff. You buckle in, tug your hoodie tighter around you, and sink back into your seat. The energy drink isn’t helping. Your eyelids feel heavy, but your mind refuses to shut off.

You stare out the window as the plane begins to takeoff, and your fingers fidget with your phone in your lap.

Last night plays back again in your head like a broken record. The way he looked at you across that diner table. How his voice dropped when he leaned in close. That kiss on your cheek, how something so small could feel so intimate.

You open your phone. No new texts yet, but you scroll back through your conversation from earlier anyway, rereading it like it’s something rare.

When the plane lifts into the sky, you let out a slow breath, watching the clouds rise to meet you. You’re still thinking about his last message:

Don’t die before I get to see you again.

Your lips twitch into a small, private smile.

You type out a draft text, then delete it. Then type another.

Finally, you send:

You: Think I forgot to say this earlier… I really liked last night.

You lock your phone and slide it into the seatback pocket, staring back out the window as the clouds roll by.

September 23rd, 2008, Detroit, Michigan 11:04 AM

The wheels touch down with a bump that jolts you fully awake. You’d dozed off somewhere over Ohio, forehead resting against the cool plane window, dreaming hazy fragments of Phil’s performance last night, and the late-night dinner date.

Now, the captain's voice crackles through the overhead speaker: “Welcome to Detroit, where the current time is 11:04 AM…”

You gather your things, stretching as best you can in the cramped aisle before shuffling off the plane with the crowd. Your phone buzzes just as you step into the terminal, and your heart skips.

You fish it out of your pocket as you step into the soft chaos of Detroit Metro—families reuniting, business travelers rushing toward baggage claim, toddlers crying somewhere in the distance.

It’s him.

Phil <3: So? Did you survive? I enjoyed last night too.

You can’t stop smiling as you type back.

You: Barely. But I’m officially back in Michigan and very alive.

His reply is almost instant.

Phil <3: Good.Still on the plane. 15 minutes until landing. Thank God for Delta’s free Wi-Fi.

You laugh, dragging your suitcase toward the parking garage.

You: Free Wi-Fi? Fuck, you get all the benefits. And I’m glad you enjoyed last night too. Kept thinking about it.

There’s a pause—just long enough to make you wonder.

Then:

Phil <3: What can I say? I travel a lot.Honestly, me too. I don’t remember my dreams, but I swear you were in mine.

You bite your bottom lip, blushing hard as you step outside into the crisp Michigan air. The sun’s shining, your heart is doing flips, and suddenly, being home doesn’t feel quite so boring.

You make your way through the parking garage, suitcase wheels clacking over concrete as you follow the familiar spiral of painted arrows and exhaust-stained walls. Detroit Metro is behind you now, the airport noise fading into the background.

Finally, you spot your car, a dark blue ’05 Honda Civic, a little dusty but faithful. You pop the trunk, toss your suitcase in, and slide into the driver’s seat with a heavy sigh. The scent of home clings to the upholstery, your coconut hand lotion and a hint of whatever fast food you last ate on the road.

You plug your phone into the charger and sit for a second, hands on the steering wheel, the cool silence wrapping around you. Then, with a breath, you turn the key and start the engine.

The familiar hum of whatever rock mixtape you made back in college plays as you pull out of the garage, your thoughts drift back to him.

Phil.

It still feels surreal. His kiss. His texts. The way he looked at you like he meant it.

The drive north to Royal Oak is uneventful, just the usual stretch of freeway and familiar exits. But everything feels different, but in a good way. ‘Stars’ by the band Hum begins to play off the CD, causing your mind to drift back to last night and this morning. You swear, you replayed last night’s events over 30 times in your head, and you aren’t tired of it. Not one bit.

By the time you pull into your apartment complex, it’s nearly noon. The building is quiet, just the sound of lawnmowers in the distance and a few neighbors coming and going.

You park in your usual spot, grab your bag and suitcase, and head upstairs.

Inside, everything is just as you left it. Clean, quiet, a little dim with the curtains drawn. You loved your little space. Your dad’s old record player from the 70’s sits on a cabinet next to your tv, records and CD’s lining the bottom shelf. Old posters lined your living room walls from bands such as Ministry and Deftones.

But your favorite part? The numerous succulents that lined your windowsill.

It feels warmer now. Like something good is following you in.

You drop your stuff by the couch, kick off your shoes, and flop onto the cushions with a groan, your phone still in hand.

Your thumbs hover over the screen.

You: Home safe.

You hit send and let the phone fall to your chest.

Phil <3: Me too. Just walked in the door. Glad you got home safe.

Hearing your phone buzz against your chest startled you a bit, causing you to quickly pick it up and read the text. You smile, turning it off before setting it on the coffee table.

You’re exhausted, yet your heart and mind is racing and full of energy.

Outside, the wind picks up. You close your eyes, trying to sink everything in.

September 23rd, 2008, Royal Oak, Michigan 8:32 PM

The lights are low, your bathroom filled with soft, flickering candlelight and the gentle scent of lavender bath salts. You sink a little deeper into the warm water, letting it ease the stiffness in your shoulders, the exhaustion from travel, and, if you’re being honest, the butterflies that haven’t stopped since last night.

It’s quiet except for the faint hum of your apartment’s old pipes and the lo-fi instrumental music playing from your phone, resting safely on the counter a few feet away.

You close your eyes, letting the heat lull you into that hazy space between awareness and daydreaming. You’re still thinking about Phil’s texts, his voice, the smirk in his eyes, the way he said—

Bzzz... Bzzz... Bzzz.

You blink, startled, sitting up a little as your phone lights up with an incoming call.

Phil.

Your heart jumps.

You weren’t expecting that.

You wipe your wet fingers on the towel nearby, practically knocking over your razor trying to grab your phone. You hit accept and bring it to your ear, trying to steady your voice.

“Hello?” you say, sounding a little breathless.

“Hey,” comes Phil’s voice on the other end, warm and casual. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

You glance at the bubbles still clinging to your knees and the candle burning quietly beside the tub.

“…Kind of. I’m in the bath.”

There’s a pause. Then—

“Oh,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “So, this isn’t a bad time.”

You groan, hiding your fluster behind a smirk. “Don’t make it weird, Phil.”

He chuckles. “No promises.”

You sink back slightly against the edge of the tub, the phone resting against your cheek now, voice softer. “What’s up?”

“I dunno,” he says. “Just wanted to hear your voice. Everything’s so quiet tonight, figured I’d bug you for a few minutes.”

Your heart flips, the warmth of the bath suddenly matching the warmth in your chest.

“Well,” you murmur, “I guess I can make a little time for the guy who bought me amazing waffles last night. No eggs, of course.”

He laughs again, low and rough. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

There’s a moment of silence on the line—not awkward, just comfortable. Like the space between words when you don’t need to fill them.

“You sound relaxed,” he says after a beat.

You smile to yourself. “I am. But don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he teases. “Now I’m imagining it. You. Candlelight. Covered in bubbles.”

Your face flushes instantly. “Phil—”

“Kidding,” he adds, though his voice drops just enough to make you think he’s not totally kidding. “Mostly.”

You roll your eyes, biting your bottom lip to hide the stupid grin spreading across your face.

You shift slightly in the tub, cradling the phone between your shoulder and ear as your fingers trail absentmindedly through the water. The candlelight flickers gently against the tile, casting soft shadows that move with your breath.

“So,” you murmur, voice low, “is this what you do on your nights off? Call women in bathtubs?”

Phil laughs again, softer this time. “Only the ones who order waffles after midnight and roast me about eggs.”

You smile. “Lucky me.”

There’s another comfortable pause before his voice returns, quieter now. “Can I ask you something?”

You hesitate for a second, then nod, forgetting he can’t see you. “Yeah. Of course.”

“What made you wanna do this? Like... production. Wrestling. All of it.”

You blink, surprised. Not by the question, but by the way he asked it. Like he really wants to know.

You sink a little deeper into the water, letting your head rest back against the edge of the tub.

“I guess...” you start, watching the candle’s reflection ripple on the surface, “I always loved the idea of storytelling, I guess. TV, film, live shows. And wrestling?” You smile faintly. “It’s this weird, beautiful blend of real emotion and scripted drama. It’s raw, and loud, and human. I liked the idea of helping make those moments happen.”

Phil hums, like he’s chewing on your words. “That’s a better answer than mine.”

You laugh quietly. “What was your answer?”

He exhales into the phone. “I was a punk kid with a lot of anger and nowhere to put it. Wrestling gave me something to prove. I guess I stayed because… I liked the noise. And now? I stay because I still feel like I’ve got something left to say.”

You don’t respond right away. It hits deeper than you expected. The honesty in his voice. The way he’s not just talking to you, but letting you in.

“I’m glad you stayed,” you say finally.

There’s a pause.

“Yeah?” he asks, quiet.

“Yeah.” You smile, voice soft and real. “Otherwise, I’d just be some girl in a headset you never noticed.”

Phil lets out a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I noticed you way before the waffles, Jenny.”

That… makes your chest tighten. You feel warmth crawl up your neck, and it wasn’t from the bath. But in the best way.

“You’re kinda dangerous, you know that?” you whisper.

He chuckles. “I’ve been called worse.”

Another beat of silence.

“I wish I could see you right now,” he adds. “You sound… soft.”

You bite your lip, thankful he can’t see the way you’re glowing.

“I wish you were here,” you admit. “Though I’m not sure we’d be talking this much if you were.”

“Probably not,” he says, no hint of apology.

Your breath catches.

Then, before the silence can turn into something too heavy, he adds, “I should let you relax. I’ve already disrupted your bath fantasy.”

“You didn’t disrupt it,” you say, smiling. “You made it better.”

Another pause. Gentle.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” Phil says. “Sleep good, alright?”

“You too, Phil.”

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the End Call button.

“Goodnight,” you add, a little breathlessly.

“Night, Jenny.”

You finally hang up, heart thudding softly in your chest, your face flushed. You set your phone down on the edge of the bathtub, taking a deep breath and sighing. 

God, you liked this man. Really liked him. And he did too.

September 24th, 2008, Royal Oak, Michigan 9:24 AM

You’re barely awake when your phone buzzes on your nightstand. You groan softly, rolling over and dragging the blanket with you. One eye squint at the screen, the morning light leaking through your blinds.

1 new message Phil <3

Your heart jumps a little—already. You open it, still bleary and puffy-eyed.

Phil <3: Woke up thinking about you in that bathtub last night. Didn’t help that I had a dream about sliding that towel off your shoulders and watching it hit the floor. I’ll be good. For now. But damn, Jenny. You make it really hard.

You blink at the screen, lips parting. Wide awake now.

Your entire body buzzes with heat, your hand tightening on your phone. Your heart thumps in your chest, slow and heavy like a drumbeat.

Holy shit.

You reread it. Once. Twice.

Then bury your face in your pillow with a muffled squeal of disbelief.

He. Went. There.

And he didn’t even ask permission, he just walked right into your imagination and lit it on fire.

You finally sit up, flushed and flustered in the best way. Fingers trembling slightly, you type back:

You: So you’re a menace before 10AM now, huh? Not complaining… just trying not to replay that towel detail on a loop.

Three dots appear.

Phil <3: Good. Because next time, it won’t just be a dream.

Fuck.

Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, feeling a heat in your nether region. You drop your phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, breath caught somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. 

“What is he doing to me?” you ask out loud, rolling over to grab your phone and respond.

Your heart’s thudding in your chest, your skin hot under the covers, and your brain is doing absolutely nothing to help cool you down.

You unlock the screen. His message is still there, taunting you in that casual, cocky way he has. Next time, it won’t just be a dream.

You bite your lip and start typing, thumbs moving before you can talk yourself out of it.

You: You’re lucky I’m not the kind of girl who sends dirty pictures first thing in the morning. But if I was… you’d already be late to whatever the hell you were supposed to be doing today.

The typing dots appear almost instantly.

Phil <3: Who says I’m not already late? And for the record… you send me anything like that, I’m getting in the car and driving straight to Michigan.