It started on one of those quiet mornings. No alarms. No plans. Just me, earbuds in, doing my usual lazy jog through the park. Not pushing it. Just enough to sweat a little and clear my head.

That’s when I saw her.

She was sitting on a bench, cross-legged, sipping from a bottle of water like it was wine. She carried this small leather-bound notebook. Just that book and a pen tucked into the spiral.

Tight tank top. Black yoga shorts. Hair in a messy bun that made me want to ruin it.

She glanced at me as I passed, but not in a "hello" kind of way. It was more like, "I know you're looking."

And fuck, I was.

Next day? She was there again.

Same bench. Same bottle. Same notebook. A new pair of shorts, this time grey. Just as tight.

Sometimes she scribbled something between sips of water. Other times she’d stare off into the trees like she was watching something only she could see.

She had that quiet, magnetic kind of confidence that doesn’t beg for attention. It commands it.

She never smiled. Never waved. Just watched.

And every time I passed, I looked.
I tried not to.
But the way her legs parted, how her eyes tracked me through her lashes…

It wasn’t innocent.

She became a part of my route.
A highlight.
A habit.

I slowed my jog every time I neared her bench.
Like clockwork.

Then one morning, she wasn’t there.

I did the loop again. Nothing. No girl. No bench goddess.

Next day, still nothing.

Day after that, I caught myself circling the park twice. Three times. Looking like a fucking creep, scanning every bench, every path.

I was just about to give up, about to accept maybe she was just one of those passing fantasies you only get once.

Then I saw her.

Not on the bench. Not even sitting.

By the pond’s edge, sunglasses perched on her head, no notebook in sight.

She wasn’t in shorts this time. She wore a skirt. Short. Black. Barely covering the curve of her thighs. The kind of skirt that makes you forget how to breathe.

She locked eyes with me the second I noticed her.

Then she smiled. First time ever.

She turned without a word and walked toward a more hidden bench, tucked behind trees, a little too private.

And just like that, I followed.

When I got close, she sat, slid her legs open slightly, and said:

“If you’re going to stare, do something.”

My heart punched my ribs. My cock responded like it heard its name.

I stepped closer. Didn’t ask if she was serious. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think.

I dropped to my knees between her legs, heart hammering, adrenaline burning through my chest. My fingers slid up the inside of her thighs, warm, soft, inviting.

She wasn’t wearing panties.

My breath caught.

She tilted her hips forward, just slightly. An invitation. A challenge.

I leaned in.

My mouth met her lips, wet and already throbbing. She gasped, hand gripping my hair as I tasted her like I’d been starving for weeks.

She spread wider. Moaned louder.

I slipped two fingers inside her while sucking on her clit. She bit her bottom lip so hard I thought she’d draw blood.

Anyone could’ve passed by. Joggers. Dog walkers. A kid with a juice box.

Maybe that’s what made it so fucking hot.

Her thighs clenched around my face as she came, silent, trembling, soaked.

When I stood up, still breathless, she looked at me like she already knew what was next.

“Your place?” she asked.

I nodded.

We didn’t even make it to the bed.

I had her against the door the second we stepped inside.

Skirt up. Hands on the wall. She was dripping.

I slid into her raw, deep, slow at first, then harder as her moans filled the room.

She came again while I was still inside her. She told me not to stop.

I didn’t.

I fucked her like I’d wanted to for weeks. Fast. Deep. Brutal. But with just enough tenderness to let her know I wasn’t just using her, I felt her.

Afterward, I held her. Let my hand rest on her stomach. Felt her chest rise and fall. Watched her fall asleep for five quiet minutes.

I offered to cook her dinner. We sat on the couch with wine.

She wore one of my t-shirts, nothing underneath. Bare legs curled beneath her. Still glowing.

She looked fucking perfect.

So I asked.

“Be my girlfriend.”

She blinked. Then smiled... soft, sad.

“No,” she said quietly. “Tonight’s my last night here.”

I stared at her.

She continued, “My work... I travel constantly. I’m not really into relationships. They never work for me.”

It stung more than I wanted to admit.

But I nodded. “I get it.”

We finished dinner. She kissed me again, slow, deep. The kind of kiss that leaves its fingerprints on your soul.

She didn’t stay the night.