The Storm - Part 1

1: The Request
“I want to make a purchase,” the message read. A link to the desired piece was attached.

“What’s the price?” he asked.

She named it. He agreed without hesitation.

“Could I also meet you? Is there a chance you could deliver the piece in person? I'd like to talk about the process—I’m very interested. I’ll cover all costs and compensate you for your time. I’m a collector and have been thinking about this for months.”

He introduced himself: “My name is Eric, from Sweden. I live with my family and travel often for work. I collect objects from all over the world. I came across your work some time ago—it stuck with me. Here’s my LinkedIn and a photo.”

He asked for an official quote and offered to pay upfront. It was clear he had thought it through.

It was a good offer. She agreed to meet. In the art world, building long-term client relationships was common. Some became more than just collectors.

2: The Arrival
It was supposed to be simple—a client meeting, a transaction, maybe dinner. Nothing more.

They met at the airport, as he had suggested. He looked like his photos—older, yes, but his eyes carried something else. A hunger. Not sexual. Just… wanting. A thirst for connection, for escape, for meaning.

They greeted each other, went to a café, sat down.

She handed him the drawing like it was fragile glass. That was the official reason: artist meets collector.

After coffee, they went to the hotel. She stayed on the first floor, he on the eighth.

That evening, they had sushi at the hotel restaurant. The sky had darkened before 5 PM. They talked for hours—art, ideas, life. He asked thoughtful questions, listened intently. He spoke about work, and his family.

Later that night, lying in bed, she still didn’t know what to make of him. What did he really want? Why did this meeting feel like it held something unspoken?

3: The Storm
The next morning, her flight was canceled. A storm had overtaken the city.

They met for breakfast—both still at the hotel. Staff advised guests to stay inside. He couldn’t extend his own room, but hers—an accessible suite—could be held for another night.

“It’s warmer in your room,” he said. So they stayed there.

He opened his laptop and worked at the desk. She watched muted TV, pretending not to feel the growing strangeness between them.

“There’s a sauna on the top floor,” he said. “I’ve stayed here before.”

She was always cold. She rolled over to her bag and pulled out fresh socks. He watched her closely, every move.

“You should warm up in the sauna,” he added, too casually.

She hesitated, then nodded.

When she came out of the bathroom, she wore a hotel robe, slippers, hair tied in a bun. No makeup. Just softness.

“You’ll stay here, right? While I’m gone?”

He nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

An hour passed. He tried to work, but failed. His mind wandered. Imagining her in steam, skin glowing, made his body react.

When she returned—cheeks flushed, hair damp—she smiled faintly.

“Definitely warmer now.”

“I’m going to shower,” she said, disappearing again.

Then: a thud. A cry.

“Eric! Help!”

He rushed in. She’d fallen—halfway between her shower bench and the wheelchair.

“My chair slipped.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. Can you… carry me to the bed?”

He tried. Her body was heavier than he expected, or maybe he just wasn’t as strong as he used to be. His back still sore from tennis two weeks ago.

He lifted her carefully. Wet. Exposed. Her para legs limp.

He placed her on the bed like she was made of silk.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Get me a towel.”

When he returned, she caught the bulge in his pants.

“Why are you hard?”