He looked at me like I was a failing campaign he was personally assigned to turn around with a massive budget and no oversight.
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[TRANSCRIPT: Voice Memo 001_Sloane_Vance]
[TIMESTAMP: Saturday, Oct 19, 01:14 AM]
(Sound of wind, high heels clicking on uneven pavement, a heavy exhale.)
Okay. Sloane. Record this before you convince yourself it was just the open bar at the Alumni Tent.
I’m standing in the middle of the Quad. It’s homecoming. The air smells like woodsmoke, expensive bourbon, and the specific brand of desperation that only hits when you’re thirty and realizing your twenty-year-old self was a much better dresser.
I ran into Leo. Leo Vance. No—wait, Leo Beckett. Why did I say Vance? That’s my name. Christ.
He looks... annoying. He looks like a high-end luxury brand that doesn't need to advertise because everyone already knows the price point is ‘if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.’ His suit fits better than a strategic rebrand. He’s an architect now. He builds skyscrapers in Dubai or Chicago or some other place where the men don’t cry when their pitch deck gets rejected.
We talked. That’s all. We stood by the Founder’s Fountain—you know, the one with the weird bronze statue that everyone says is haunted? People always joke that the water turns to liquid courage during the decennial homecoming.
We stood there for ten minutes. He asked about my firm in New York. I told him we were crushing the Q3 projections. I lied. I’m exhausted. He looked at me, and for a second, I thought he was going to say something about the way I used to leave my hair ties on his nightstand. But he didn’t. He just adjusted his cufflink—gold, obviously—and said it was good to see I’d finally learned how to wear a professional blazer.
Then he walked away.
That’s it. That’s the whole story. I’m going back to my hotel, I’m ordering a grilled cheese from room service, and I am deleting his number again. For the fifth time since 2018.
[TRANSCRIPT: Voice Memo 002_Leo_Beckett]
[TIMESTAMP: Saturday, Oct 19, 01:22 AM]
(Sound of a lighter flicking, followed by a long, slow exhale of breath.)
I saw her.
Sloane looks like she’s trying to hold a crumbling building together with nothing but sheer willpower and a really good shade of red lipstick. She was wearing these Saint Laurent heels—the ones with the little YSL logo for the heel. They look like a torture device designed to make her calves look like she does Pilates three times a week. I know she doesn’t. She hates exercise. She used to say that walking to the bodega for more coffee was her cardio.
We stood by the fountain. The ‘Fever’ is definitely starting. You can feel it in the air—this weird, low-frequency hum that vibrates in your teeth. The old campus legend about the Founders’ Fountain being a literal conduit for repressed desire? I used to think it was just a story the seniors told to get freshmen to hook up in the bushes.
But when I stood next to her, I felt it. The water wasn't just splashing; it was glowing. A faint, bioluminescent blue that reflected in her eyes.
I wanted to reach out and pull that blazer off her. I wanted to see if she still had that tiny freckle right on the curve of her hip that looks like a misplaced period in a sentence.
I didn’t. I said something stupid about her professional development. I’m a coward. I walked away because if I’d stayed another thirty seconds, I would have had my hands under that skirt right there in front of the Dean’s office.
I’m going to go drink until I forget the way she smelled. Like bergamot and that specific New York City grit.
[TRANSCRIPT: Voice Memo 003_Sloane_Vance]
[TIMESTAMP: Saturday, Oct 19, 03:45 AM]
(Sound of heavy breathing, the rustle of fabric, a distant fountain splashing.)
Change of plans.
I didn’t go back to the hotel. I went back to the fountain. And he was there.
He wasn’t wearing the jacket anymore. He’d rolled his sleeves up—those forearms, god, they should be illegal in a public university setting. He was staring into the water.
I told him he was a prick for the blazer comment.
He told me I was a liar for the Q3 comment.
And then the air just... broke. That’s the only way to describe it. The fountain didn’t just glow; it surged. This wave of heat rolled off the water, smelling like ozone and musk. It’s the ‘Founders’ Fever.’ It’s real. It’s this localized magical field that strips away every polite layer of social conditioning you’ve spent a decade building.
He didn’t even ask. He just grabbed the lapels of that blazer—the one he’d mocked—and shoved me back against the cold bronze of the statue.
It wasn’t a romantic kiss. It was a hostile takeover.
He tasted like the expensive Scotch he’d been nursing and something else... something dark and ancient. My hands went straight to his hair, pulling, needing to feel the scalp. I’ve spent five years pretending I didn’t crave the way he takes up space, the way he dominates a room without saying a word.
‘You’re still so loud, Sloane,’ he whispered against my mouth. His hand was already under my skirt, his fingers hooked into the lace of my underwear. ‘Even when you aren’t saying anything, your body is screaming.’
I didn’t care. I don’t care. I let him lift me up.
[TRANSCRIPT: Voice Memo 004_Leo_Beckett]
[TIMESTAMP: Saturday, Oct 19, 04:10 AM]
(Sound of skin slapping against skin, a low, guttural moan, the splash of water.)
She’s currently wrapped around my waist like her life depends on the friction.
The fountain is doing something to us. Every time we touch, there’s this spark—literal static electricity that jumps between our skin. It makes every nerve ending feel like it’s being over-clocked.
I have her pinned against the statue of the Founder. The cold metal is a sharp contrast to how hot she is. I reached down and ripped the lace out of the way. I didn’t have the patience for anything else. My thumb found her clit, and she just... she came apart. Right there.
She was so wet, it was dripping down my hand, mixing with the magical spray from the fountain. I pushed two fingers into her, and she squeezed around them like a vice. She’s tight, tighter than I remember, or maybe the Fever is making me more sensitive.
‘Do it, Leo,’ she hissed into my ear. She bit my neck, her teeth sharp and demanding. ‘Don’t you dare talk about my career right now. Just fucking do it.’
I pulled my dick out of my trousers. It was aching, throbbing with a heartbeat of its own. I didn’t use a condom—the Fever makes you forget things like logic. I just lined myself up with her heat and drove into her in one long, sliding thrust.
God.
It felt like coming home and being set on fire at the same time.
[TRANSCRIPT: Voice Memo 005_Sloane_Vance]
[TIMESTAMP: Saturday, Oct 19, 04:30 AM]
(The sound is muffled, as if the phone is on the ground. The audio is dominated by the sound of heavy, rhythmic thuds and Sloane’s voice, broken and breathless.)
Oh god... Leo...
He’s... he’s hitting the back of my throat with every shove. He’s got my legs hooked over his shoulders now, and he’s just... he’s burying himself in me. It’s not just sex. It feels like he’s trying to rewrite my DNA.
I can feel his balls slapping against my ass, the heavy, wet sound of it echoing off the library walls. The magic from the fountain is pulsing in sync with his thrusts. Every time he bottoms out, I see flashes of blue light behind my eyelids.
He’s holding my wrists above my head against the bronze. He’s so strong. He’s always been so much stronger than he looks.
‘Look at me,’ he growls.
I open my eyes. His face is inches from mine, his expression almost pained. He’s sweating, his hair matted to his forehead. He looks like a man who’s finally stopped pretending he’s civilized.
‘Tell me you don’t want this in New York,’ he says, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my chest. ‘Tell me you don’t think about this every time you’re sitting in those board meetings.’
I can’t answer. I’m too busy trying to keep my soul from leaving my body. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer, my legs tightening around his waist, drawing him deeper. I want him to touch my cervix. I want him to bruise me.
I arch my back, my breasts rubbing against his shirt, my nipples hard and aching. He lets go of my wrists and grabs my hair, tilting my head back so he can mark my throat. He’s sucking so hard I know I’ll have to wear a scarf for the rest of the weekend.
‘I hate you,’ I moan, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said all year.
‘I know,’ he says, and then he slams into me again, even harder, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to scream loud enough to wake up the entire Class of 2014.
[TRANSCRIPT: Voice Memo 006_Leo_Beckett]
[TIMESTAMP: Saturday, Oct 19, 04:55 AM]
(Sound of heavy, sated breathing. A slight splash of water.)
I’m finished. Or I’m dead. I’m not sure which.
We’re sitting on the edge of the fountain. The water has gone back to being just water—dark and cold. The glow is gone. The Fever has broken.
She’s leaning against me, her head on my shoulder. Her blazer is ruined. There’s a smear of my semen on her thigh, drying in the cool air. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
I came so hard inside her I thought I was going to black out. The magic amplified the climax until it felt like a physical explosion. I felt her walls pulsing around me, milking me, until I was completely empty. We stayed like that for a long time, just locked together, our hearts beating against each other through our clothes.
She’s already looking for her shoes. The marketing executive is coming back. The professional armor is being strapped back on.
‘So,’ she says, her voice still raspy. ‘Same time in ten years?’
I don’t laugh. I grab her hand. It’s small and cold.
‘I have a project in Queens next month,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a thirty-minute Uber from your office.’
She looks at me. Really looks at me. The Saint Laurent heels are back on. She looks like a woman who could sell ice to an Inuit, but her eyes... her eyes are still glowing, just a little bit.
‘Send me a calendar invite,’ she says. ‘And make sure it’s marked as a confidential meeting.’
She walks away.
I’m still sitting here by the fountain. My legs are shaking. I’m an architect, and I’ve spent my life trying to build things that last. I think I just found the foundation for something that’s going to ruin my life in the best possible way.
[TRANSCRIPT: Voice Memo 007_Sloane_Vance]
[TIMESTAMP: Saturday, Oct 19, 05:20 AM]
(Sound of a hotel room door clicking shut. The hum of an air conditioner.)
Memo to self.
Do not—repeat, do NOT—delete Leo’s number.
Also, buy more lace underwear. The good kind. The kind that’s meant to be ripped.
And Sloane?
The Q4 projections are looking... optimistic. Very optimistic.
(A soft, tired laugh. End of recording.)
