He Called Me Mama… Then Took Me to Bed

I opened the door to our apartment, and the familiar scent hit me like a brick wall—the faint mix of vanilla shampoo and citrus air freshener. It smelled like me… and her.

The good memories of me and my best friend Mia still lingered in this space. Our laughter, late-night binge sessions, stupid TikTok dances… and that one betrayal that destroyed it all.

I went straight to her room to check if she had come home last night, but no traces of her. Her door was locked. She didn’t even come home. Seems this girl left for good. She really meant it.

God. My head pounded like someone was practicing drums inside it.

I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and muttered to myself, “Alcohol doesn’t erase your problems. It just puts them on mute for a few hours… then screams them back when the buzz wears off. Sometimes it may even make you subscribe to another problem.”

I staggered to the kitchen, praying I had enough ingredients left to make my mother’s legendary hangover soup. Onion. Pepper. Egg. Magic. I threw it together, sipped slowly, then collapsed onto the sofa like a soaked rag.

And then… the memories came flooding like a recorded video that couldn’t even pause in my head.

Whispers & Whiskey.

A bar I had never visited before and probably shouldn’t have. The place had this strange moody glow—dark wooden walls, jazz playing from hidden speakers, and a mix of people either celebrating or drinking their lives away.

I was definitely the latter.

I remembered how I entered there yesterday and said,

“I need something strong,” I told the bartender like I was giving a life-or-death order.

He looked at me once and slid a glass over. “Say no more.”

I didn’t ask what it was. I just drank. Sip by sip, it warmed my throat and cooled the ache in my chest. I didn’t want to think about Ethan. Or Mia. Or how the hell five years of my life ended in a blink and a moan I wasn’t part of.

That’s when I saw him.

A man—tall, brooding, and stupidly handsome—sat in the far corner. Dark suit, messy hair, and a face sculpted by angels and corporate stress. He looked expensive. And broken. Like me.

I murmured to myself yesterday as I saw him…

I looked at him with “bad eyes,” like I was ready to blame him for all the heartbreak in the world.

“There goes another heartbreaker,” I murmured to myself, hissing as I returned to my drink.

I didn’t plan on speaking to him. I didn’t even want to.

But my eyes kept straying to his table like they had a mind of their own.

Perfect. No interaction. Just pain-sharing strangers from across the bar.

I was long gone in my drinking. I was fully and totally drunk. I looked at his table—too full—like he was also drunk.

But then—chaos.

Two drunk guys stumbled past, bumping into his table so hard his drink spilled. One of them shoved him. The other laughed. And the handsome stranger?

He fell. Actually fell. He held his body firmly like he was in pain. He staggered, holding the wall like they stabbed him.

“Hey!” I stood up—no, staggered. I’m already wasted that I can’t walk well anymore, wobbling totally drunk trying to be a heroine. “Why are you both bullying my handsome male lead?!”

Yes. I said that. Out loud. In public.

The drunk idiots blinked at me. I blinked back, more confident than sober me would ever be. I stomped over and helped the man up, brushing off his suit like I was his drunken bodyguard.

“You’re just empty biceps and bone!” I scolded him, squinting. “Big and fine like this, and you couldn’t even fight back? Don’t worry. Stay behind me. Mama’s got you.”

“Mama?” he echoed, glassy-eyed. He is also totally drunk like me. He staggered up, giving a mix of a cold-blooded businessman that alcohol has turned into a mama’s boy.

“Exactly. Come to Mama,” I patted his chest proudly. “I’ll protect you from all the stupid, violent idiots who don’t appreciate your cheekbones.”

The man, clearly more wasted than I realized, suddenly grabbed my hand and muttered, “No one’s ever protected me… not once. They don’t care what I want. Just what I give them.”

My chest did this weird, squeezy thing. Maybe it was the tequila. Maybe it was the pain in his voice.

Or maybe it was because I related to that more than I should.

“Ohhh, baby,” I cooed drunkenly, holding his face with both hands. “Poor misunderstood handsome man. It’s okay. Come to Mama. Say it. Say ‘Mama will protect me.’” I said, standing bravely like a heroine.

He blinked again. “Mama.”

“Again.”

“Mama.”

“AGAIN!”

“Mama… Mama…”

I giggled like an idiot and tapped his forehead. “That’s my good boy.”

I was totally into coercing my little handsome boy that looks even older than me that I didn’t know when the other drunk men left.

He nodded and slumped onto my shoulder. “Mama, I wanna sleep.”

“Oh my little baby wanna sleep? I got you,” I said, guiding him toward the exit. “Let’s go tuck you in, my handsome boy.”

My brain was fuzzy. My limbs were noodles. My morals… left at the bar.

Somehow—God knows how—we ended up at a hotel nearby. He pulled out a sleek black card, said nothing, and paid. I didn’t question it. I just stood behind him drunkenly, holding his jacket like a toddler clinging to a parent.

“Are you done, my baby?” I whispered.

We stepped into the room. Dim lights. Clean sheets. A king-size bed that suddenly felt like a destination. I don’t remember who kissed who first. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was both of us.

But I do remember the way he looked at me. Like he was searching for something to hold onto.

And I let him.

Clothes peeled off slowly, like we were both unwrapping pain.

He sat on the edge of the bed. I straddled him without thinking, letting my fingers trail over his shoulders. I leaned in, kissed his neck, and whispered, “Didn’t I say I’d tuck you into bed?”

He chuckled—soft, broken—and gripped my waist like he needed it to breathe.

“No,” I murmured, brushing my lips against his, “Looks like you’re the one tucking me in tonight.”

His hands roamed. Gentle but hungry. Like a man starved of affection, not just sex.

Our bodies moved in sync, fumbling, desperate, drenched in alcohol and ache. It wasn’t smooth—it was messy. Hands shaking. Breaths heavy. His lips against my shoulder. My fingers in his hair.

We didn’t say names.

Just soft moans. Whispers.

“More,” I breathed.

“Don’t stop,” he groaned.

We weren’t just having sex. We were releasing something—grief, rage, regret. All of it, tangled in sheets and skin and sweat.

And for one night… I wasn’t Emery. I was someone free. Reckless. Wanted.

It wasn’t just sex. It felt like… escaping pain with someone who understood it.

And he… he wasn’t a stranger. He was the escape.

And then—

“OH MY GOD!” I jolted upright on the sofa, nearly spilling my soup.

My entire body tensed as last night replayed in sharp, painful high-definition. My face flushed. My heart skipped.

“No, no, no, no, nooooo…” I groaned, dragging both hands over my head like I could erase the memory. “Emery, you idiot. You drunken, handsome-man-weak idiot.”

I stood and began pacing, smacking my forehead.

“You basically seduced a grieving stranger and climbed him like a tree. You’re insane. You need therapy. Or Jesus. Or both. Emery, you are just a brainless idiot when you’re drunk. No, Emery, you need to stop drinking. Nooooooo.”

I slumped back on the sofa.

“This is assault. Is this assault?! He said mama, for Christ’s sake!”

Then I paused.

“No. No, no. He was drunk. I was drunk. We were two idiots lost in alcohol and loneliness. Yes, I never forced him. Yes, truly I was the one that started pulling his clothes off and getting down into business, but he accepted. Yes, he paid for the room. One night stand with a star guest. That’s all it was. A one-time mistake. A blackout night. Nothing more.”

I breathed in. Breathed out.

“He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him. There were no names. No numbers. Nothing. Just sex. It’s fine. It’s buried. It’s GONE.”

I stood tall, like I was giving a TED Talk to my regrets.

“What happens in that hotel… stays in that hotel. And inside my overly romantic heart that needs to be put in time-out.”

I walked back into my room, carrying my hangover soup in my hand, my face buried in my hand, stomping my legs on the floor as I walked in and murmured to myself,

“F*ck alcohol. I’m never taking alcohol in my life again. It just made me subscribe for another bundle of problems.”

“One night stand, Emery. That’s what it is. You guys are never meeting again.”