Almost in San Antonio
A late summer night where the heat is thick enough to make even good intentions sweat and slip away.
Reading time: ~16 minutes
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The hotel bar has mostly cleared out by the time you step into the lobby. Nearing midnight, Logan and Gabe sit locked in conversation, half-empty drinks between them. Even from across the room, you can tell it’s still all business, even at this hour.
Gabe must be exhausted, you think. His animated gestures tease out the latest idea, but the weariness behind his eyes and the roughness of his five o’clock shadow tell a different story.
Logan catches your eye first, nodding in that familiar, easy way. His silvery brown curls look wild from the humid night air, a little rumpled, a little too boyish. You smile and make your way toward them.
"Evening, gentlemen,” you call, voice bright. “A bit late for another meeting, no?"
"And what have you been up to all day?" Logan asks, gesturing for you to join them. You scoot into a chair across from him, waving a drink menu lazily in front of your face to fan away the stickiness clinging to your skin. "Me? Trying not to melt."
Gabe chuckles, offering you his glass. "Want to finish my drink or grab your own?"
You lean over and sniff his glass—the tired remains of an old fashioned—and pluck the cherry from Logan's Manhattan instead, plopping it into Gabe’s glass. Logan's eyes track you, the tilt of your smile, the glint of mischief. He raises an eyebrow—in approval? Impressed? You’re distracted as you feel Gabe slide his hand across the back of your neck as he rises from his seat.
"I've got that meeting at eight tomorrow with Tom and I still need to prep. I’m calling it a night while I still can.” He kisses your forehead. “Don't stay up too late," he teases, giving the back of your neck a squeeze before disappearing toward the elevators. You watch Gabe’s strong silhouette turn the corner to the elevators, a soft ache curling through you.
The bar thins until it feels like only you and Logan remain, suspended in a kind of quiet no one else notices. Your sundress clings lightly to your legs, your shoulders bare and prickling against the humid air. You swing your foot slowly under the high-top stool, feeling every inch of exposed skin like a live wire.
Logan watches you swirl the last of your drink and catch the cherry between your teeth. You almost drop it, laugh—and he smiles, slow and unguarded. The ice clinks lazily in your glasses. He’s rolled his sleeves up, collar open, tie loosened just enough to suggest he’s finished playing the role he wore all day. His cologne—leather-wrapped oud and tobacco; expensive, intoxicating—drifts across the table.
"Sabine," he says, voice low, "you’re full of surprises."
You smile, teasing. “Am I? Even after all this time?"
"Yeah. But not like this."
His gaze holds yours, and something stretches between you—something that has been there for a long time but only now has enough room to breathe. Disarmed, you laugh, soft and low, setting your glass down slowly. "Gabe’s getting ready for bed, Logan. Don’t make it weird."
"I’m not." He shrugs but doesn't look away. "Just noticing. It's different. It's… nice."
A silence falls—not awkward, but heavy. Like a door has cracked open and you’re both standing in its glow.
He sips. You sip.
You catch him watching you wipe a drop of your drink from the corner of your mouth. His gaze lingers, his longing barely hidden before he flits his eyes away.
"Maybe we should call it a night," you say, though your voice betrays you—soft, almost wistful.
"Maybe," Logan echoes, though neither of you move.
You sit there, caught in the pull of something neither of you dares name.
He breaks first—leaning back slightly, running a hand through his hair, exhaling like he’s trying to shake something off. Then he stands, slow and deliberate, offering his hand.
You hesitate—just a second. But you take it.
His hand is warm and rough in all the right ways, and he holds on a little longer than necessary. You’re close now—closer than ever before—and it feels like only the thinnest sliver of self-control stands between you.
He leans in slightly, voice low near your ear. "Goodnight… Sabine," he says, but it sounds like a question.
You nod, your breath catching. "Goodnight, Logan."
He lets go of your hand. Doesn't look back as he heads toward the elevators.
You watch him go, feeling the pulse of something unspoken beating hard against your ribs.
Gabe lies awake in the dark, sheets kicked aside, the hum of the air conditioner barely masking the churn of his thoughts from the day: deadlines, contracts, promises—they loop endlessly in his mind.
He shifts under the sheets, restless. He thinks of you—your easy laugh earlier, the way your eyes crinkled when you teased him. His longing stirs, physical and emotional, aching for the simple comfort of your body curling against his. He imagines you slipping under the sheets, your hand finding his, grounding him without a word.
Waiting, he touches himself lightly, trying to chase the tension away, picturing your lips, the brush of your fingers, the whisper of your name against his skin.
He has no idea that downstairs, something else entirely is unfolding.
You stand there a beat longer in the lobby, heart hammering in your chest as Logan disappears into the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind him like a sealed secret.
Your body feels electric, almost vibrating as you stand there, chasing the heat Logan left in his wake. You startle a moment later when your phone buzzes softly in your hand. A text from Gabe.
Come to bed. Miss you.
The words squeeze at your heart, thick with the kind of love you built a life around. Still, you find yourself typing a different message.
Still wide awake. You too, clearly. Wanna change the scenery? Find something fun to do?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Name the place.
Your pulse thrums painfully.
Downtown San Antonio is still alive even at this hour—riverwalk lights twinkling outside, music faint from a nearby club, the humid air heavy with possibilities. You tap out your reply, fingers almost trembling with the adrenaline of it.
Meet me by the riverwalk steps? Ten minutes.
You don’t wait for a reply. You know he’ll come.
You toss some cash on the table and slip out into the thick Texas night. You walk slowly toward the steps leading down, your sandals whispering against the stone. Soft incandescent globe lights string above you like low-hanging stars, reflections trembling on the water. It’s quieter down here—most of the tourists have retreated to their rooms or the late-night bars. It feels almost secret, like this part of the city belongs only to those who know how to look for it, tucked below street level, lit by strings of lights and the occasional soft splash of a passing boat. It’s nearly empty at this hour, quiet but not deserted, alive but hushed.
You lean against the cool stone railing and wait, heart thudding hard now from the sheer anticipation of what you haven’t said yet, and what might happen if you stop holding everything so tightly.
You feel him before you hear his footsteps; you don’t turn right away. Logan’s energy always hits first, that invisible charge like the shift in the air before a thunderclap. You watch him moving toward you with an easy, unhurried stride, his hands in his pockets, a slight smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. His jacket is slung casually over his shoulder, tie gone, shirt rumpled just enough to make him look heartbreakingly undone. Then he’s there, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to. You hear the faint hitch of his breath as he stops beside you, taking in the view—or maybe just you.
“Good call,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “It’s lovely down here.”
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. The way the warm string lights kiss the hard angles of his face. The way his hands are jammed into his pockets like he’s barely restraining himself.
A silence stretches between you, taut with possibility.
A flush of laughter and the faint sounds of music call up from somewhere down the river. Softly, Logan says, “Did you really just want to walk? Or… was there something else you wanted?” His voice is gentle like an offering. Like he knows how fragile this moment is.
“I… don’t want to screw anything up,” he says, voice low and ragged.
You swallow hard. “Me neither.”
The river rushes quietly behind you. The city hums at your back. You slowly lift your gaze to meet his. You smile and raise an eyebrow playfully: “Follow me.” You step ahead, heart racing. As you move, Logan’s gaze traces your every detail with a quiet intensity: the sway of your sundress, the looseness of your hair, the scent of jasmine and warm skin. He follows just a step behind, close enough that his fingers almost brush yours. Almost. He’s acutely aware of every movement, every glance, every breath. He notices the confidence in your stride, the quiet strength in your posture, and feels a magnetic pull.
As you both continue down the more secluded path, the city noise fades, leaving only the music, the indistinct distant chatter, the river’s gentle flow, and the shared rhythm of your footsteps. The path leads you to a secluded alcove, where a stone bench offers a place to sit and take in the surroundings. The music is louder here, the melodies weaving through the night air. You sit, and Logan joins you, the proximity heightening to a pulsing tension between you.
A moment passes, the music filling the silence. Then, Logan reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours, a silent question in his touch. Your breath catches as Logan’s fingers brush yours—lightly at first, like he’s asking for permission without saying a word. You don’t move. You don’t need to. Your stillness says everything.
He takes your silence as an invitation and slowly laces his fingers with yours.
The contact sends a pulse of electricity through you, igniting something that’s been coiled tight inside you all night. Your palms meet, warm and slightly damp with nerves, but steady. You look at him—really look—and for the first time, he doesn’t look away.
There’s something raw in his warm brown eyes. Not cocky. Not playful. Just…real. Open. Wanting.
“I wasn’t sure,” he says hesitantly. “If this was only in my head.”
“It’s not,” you whisper back.
Logan shifts just a little closer on the bench. His knee brushes yours. His free hand rests lightly on the stone behind you, drawing the space between you tighter without actually closing it.
“You might not believe this, but… I’ve thought about this,” he says, voice rough. “Too many times.”
You nod slowly. “Me too.”
He watches your mouth when you speak, like he’s memorizing the shape of your words. He leans in, slow enough that you can stop him—if you want to.
But you don’t.
You’re not sure who moves the final inch. Maybe you both do. But suddenly his lips are brushing against yours: soft, searching, not quite a kiss yet. Just the idea of one. The space between you crackles, teetering on the precipice of something inevitable.
And for now, that’s enough. The moment stretches, perfect and unbearable.
The world narrows to the breath between your mouths, warm and shallow. His nose grazes yours, his thumb gently brushing the side of your hand where your fingers are still entwined. You’re so close you can taste the heat of him without tasting him, and somehow, that’s more intoxicating than any kiss.
Neither of you speaks.
You just sit there, hovering in that exquisite purgatory, where everything you’re not doing says more than anything you could. His forehead dips gently against yours. His breathing is uneven and shallow now, a mirror of yours.
“I don’t want to mess up anything real,” he whispers, his lips not even a breath from yours.
“You’re not,” you whisper back, though you’re not sure if that’s true—for either of you.
His free hand comes to rest beside your knee, knuckles brushing the hem of your dress. Not daring to move higher. Not daring to pull away. Just there, a silent plea for closeness that never crosses the line.
A boat glides quietly down the river below, its lanterns casting slow-moving shadows on the path around you. You both freeze for a moment, instinctively still, like the night itself holds its breath for you.
When it passes, Logan sighs against your cheek, the warm exhale stirring something low in your core.
“This is the part,” he murmurs, “where I should let go.”
But he doesn’t.
And neither do you.
You’re suspended here—in that impossible space between innocence and intention, where nothing has happened yet everything has. The silence between you thickens, almost holy in its stillness. Every sound around you feels amplified—the slow ripple of water, the distant echo of heels on stone, the soft pull of Logan’s breath against your cheek.
You don’t move. Neither of you does. But everything is moving inside you.
His forehead rests against yours a beat longer, and you realize how rare it is—this kind of closeness that asks for nothing and yet says everything.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something like this,” he whispers, his voice cracking just slightly, like he’s surprised by the truth of it.
Your fingers squeeze his in a wordless reply, gently.
He pulls back an inch; not to leave, just to see you. Really see you. His eyes flicker across your face like he’s mapping something precious: the curve of your mouth, the tilt of your chin, the desire gathering behind your eyes.
One of his hands lifts—hesitating at your jawline. Not quite touching.
“May I…” he starts, then stops himself.
You nod once, barely.
His fingers trail lightly along your cheek as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering for half a breath before falling away, curling into a fist in his lap, like he’s anchoring himself against the moment.
Your voice hardly a whisper, you reach for his hand. “Should we keep walking?”
He gives a low, almost soundless laugh, his fingers lacing through yours. “If we stay here much longer,” he murmurs, “I might not remember how to let you go.” His gaze drops, and when he lifts it again, a shaky breath slips out before he dares to meet your eyes again.
“No,” he murmurs, like it costs him. “I’ll keep this.”
A long, soft silence stretches between you.
The music drifts again from somewhere unseen—more mournful now, slow and sweet. The perfect sound for something unspoken and sacred. The stillness breaks: not with a rush, but like water slipping past stone.
Logan shifts beside you, slow and deliberate, his knee pressing lightly against yours. He lifts your joined hands and presses them to his lips, eyes closed like he’s confessing a secret. He kisses your fingertips: soft, reverent, and longing. He doesn’t let go.
“I know we’re walking a line…” Logan trails off.
“It’s okay,” you finish. The weight in your chest melts just a little: not out of relief, but surrender—a soft, surrender that’s come undone in the moment you’ve both spent not having. You turn toward him. Your free hand rises of its own will, brushing along his jaw, rough with late-night stubble. His eyes flutter shut at your touch, and that simple vulnerability floors you.
Then he leans in again. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… certain.
This time, when your lips meet, it’s real. Soft. Measured.
Undeniable.
It’s not a kiss that asks for more. It’s a kiss that says, I’ve been waiting. He kisses you like you’re a secret he has to keep safe.
His hand finds your waist, anchoring you as the world falls away. Your fingers press into the fabric of his shirt, the linen warm from his skin. The tension doesn’t snap—it just shifts, softens, deepens. When you finally break apart, your foreheads touch again. Both of you breathe heavily, not from passion, but from the quiet weight of what just happened.
You don’t speak. You don’t need to.
The kiss happened: it’s yours now. And something between you and Logan has changed—forever. You can still taste the rye in his mouth from drinks at the bar earlier.
His finger slides to the thin strap of your sundress. You shiver, but not from the humid evening air.
“May I kiss you… again?” He whispers against your just opening lips, tasting his desire. His touch lingers on your bare shoulder.
You breathe heavily against his lower lip: “...Please.”
Logan’s hand, still trembling slightly from holding back so long, slides up from your shoulder to cradle the side of your neck. His thumb brushes your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.
This time, when he kisses you, it’s different. There’s no hesitation, no trembling edge. It’s deeper, more claiming. The soft pressure of his mouth molds perfectly to yours, tasting of alcohol and a hint of the night’s sweat and salt. His other hand slips to your waist, guiding you closer across the cool stone bench. You let him.
The world around you—the music, the flittering chatter that rises and falls in the air, the shimmer of the river, the scattered footfalls of strangers far away—all of it blurs into nothing. There’s only this: his mouth opening against yours, the slow, deliberate slide of his tongue coaxing yours to meet it.
You respond before you even think. A soft moan escapes you, swallowed instantly by his kiss. Your hand clutches the fabric of his shirt, drawn to the wild pulse beneath. He pulls you closer still, and your knees brush his thigh. You’re practically in his lap now, the heat of him bleeding into every inch of you. His touch is careful but insistent—every brush of his fingertips against your skin asking if you’ll let him go just a little further. Every breath he takes says he’ll stop if you ask.
But you don’t want him to stop. Not yet.
His hand finds your bare shoulder again, following the strap of your dress, tracing it down your arm with agonizing slowness. You shiver at the feather-light touch, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.
Your lips parted, eyes wide, your body vibrating with breathless, unbearable want.
“You know you’re beautiful, right?” he utters against your earlobe, so quietly you almost miss it. The feel of his hot heady breath against your skin stirs something deep within you. You lean into him, resting your forehead against his, your breathing shallow and shaky. Every nerve ending in your body feels raw and alive, unable to tell where your quivering begins and his ends.
Neither of you says the obvious thing: We should stop. In this moment, stopping feels more dangerous than anything else. Your breath is still tangled with Logan’s, your bodies so close you can feel the frantic rise and fall of his chest against yours. His thumb sweeps lightly along your collarbone, a gesture so slight it threatens to undo you entirely.
And then—
Buzz.
Your phone vibrates sharply against your hip, tucked into the small purse at your side.
The sound slices through the thick, heady air between you. You both freeze. Logan pulls back a fraction, forehead still resting lightly against yours, eyes shuttered with a mix of longing and sudden guilt.
You hesitate for just a second before reaching down and pulling your phone from your purse, heart in your throat. It’s Gabe.
Still awake. Miss you. Wish you were here.
The message is simple. Loving. Completely unguarded.
It hits you harder than you expect like a sharp inhale after forgetting to breathe. A swell of love and guilt, longing for the one who has your heart in his, your beloved upstairs waiting for you without a single sliver of suspicion.
Your fingers shake slightly as you hold the phone.
Logan sees it—sees everything written across your face—and slowly, gently, lets go of your hand. He leans back, giving you space.
“I’m sorry—” he starts, his voice rough but steady, full of everything he isn’t saying out loud. You shush him by brushing your thumb against his wrist. “You have nothing to apologize for. We both wanted this…” you murmur as you lean into him, grazing his lips with your whisper as you feel the heat rise between you again. His eyes meet yours and you stare at him for a heartbeat longer, memorizing this version of him—vulnerable, hurting, trying to do the right thing even though every part of him aches to pull you back in.
You swipe your phone open, typing back before you lose your nerve.
Just on my way up. Love you.
You look at Logan one last time.
Neither of you speaks.
There are no promises. No regrets. Just an aching kind of understanding that some lines once crossed—no matter how gently, how beautifully—can’t be uncrossed.
You stand. Smooth your dress. He reaches over gently to adjust the thin strap he’d slid down from your shoulder. Before he pulls away from you completely, Logan leans in again, his boyish charm belied by his graveled voice as he sighs next to your cheek:
“Goodnight Sabine.”
Logan’s words are less a question, but a necessary release.
And without a word, you walk away from him—each step a little heavier, a little lighter, all at once.
The river murmurs at your back. The riverwalk lights flicker overhead.
And somewhere ahead, Gabe is waiting.
The PostScript…
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