Light’s mercy, what the actual fuck is wrong with me?
I’d just finished another miserable random battleground. Twenty-five minutes of chasing idiots who thought mid meant running straight into the enemy like they had a death wish. My robes reeked of arcane residue and failure. My shoulders ached from channeling too much Light, and my patience was long gone.
All I wanted was a strong spiced bloodwine at the Broken Blade and then straight back to Abeke’s couch. No drama. No complications. Just silence and something to take the edge off.
Instead, I ran into him.
Ardan. The Alliance warrior I’d seen tearing through the battlefield earlier like he was personally offended by the concept of dying. Broad shoulders, short brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard that somehow made him look both put-together and dangerous. At one point during the match I’d been exposed in the middle of the chaos, completely open. He had a clear shot at me but didn’t take it. Just looked at me for half a second, then turned and charged someone else instead.
Now here he was in civilian clothes, leaning against the bar like he belonged there. He caught me staring. Of course he did.
“Well, if it isn’t the Discipline priest who spent the whole match trying to melt my face off,” he said, voice low and rough. A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Least I can do is buy you a drink after you worked so hard to put me in the ground.”
I should have said no. I should have walked away. He’s Alliance. I’m Horde. This was already a mistake.
Instead I said, “Make it two.”
Three drinks turned into five. We ended up in a shadowed booth in the back. He was sharper than I expected. Dry, cocky humor that matched my own. We traded stupid battlefield stories and somehow made each other laugh. His thigh pressed against mine under the table. I didn’t move away.
One minute we were still talking. The next his hand was at the back of my neck and we were kissing like we’d both lost our minds. Heat flooded through me so fast it made my head spin.
We barely made it upstairs.
The rest of the night is a blur of strong hands, low laughter against my skin, and the kind of attention I hadn’t let myself want in a long time. He didn’t rush. Didn’t treat it like some quick conquest. And when it was over, he pulled me against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I lay there staring at the ceiling while the wine started wearing off.
What the fuck did I just do?
I’m supposed to be better than this. A grown woman. A priest. The one who’s supposed to have her shit together, not sneaking off with an Alliance warrior like some reckless adventurer with no self-control. No strings. No complications. Just loneliness and bad decisions.
I slipped out while he was still asleep. Left a note on the pillow: Thanks for the healing. Let’s never speak of this.
I couldn’t face going straight back to Abeke’s, so I ended up out here on the ledge with my fishing pole instead. The night air feels good on my skin. My neck has marks I’ll have to hide tomorrow. My thighs are sore in a way that makes it hard to pretend this didn’t happen.
And the worst part?
Part of me already wonders if he’ll be in the next battleground.
I hope I never see him again.
…Fuck.
This is my dirty little secret. It happens once in a blue moon when the grind gets too loud and the loneliness gets louder. Then I go right back to being the sarcastic, overthinking healer who keeps everyone else alive while barely holding herself together.
Abeke can never find out.
~Sahsha
(Professional Overthinker and Part-Time Bad Decision Maker)