For a long time we just stay like that. Tangled together. Breathing hard.
Then he carefully pulls out and disappears again to dispose of the condom. When he comes back he collapses beside me and pulls me against his chest.
I should probably establish some boundaries here. Maintain emotional distance. Remind him this is just physical.
Instead I let myself curl into him because it feels too good to resist.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder.
In the dim lamp light I can see his face clearly. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his dark hair falls slightly across his forehead. And that scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the one from some schoolyard fight when he was twelve. He told me the story once, years ago, about defending a smaller kid from a bully.
I remember tracing it with my finger back then. Remember thinking it made him look dangerous and kind at the same time.
Without thinking, I lean up and press a kiss to it.
He goes very still beneath me. “Amara—”
“Sorry. I just... I don’t know.” I feel myself blushing. “Sorry.”
His hand comes up to cup the back of my head. “Don’t apologize.”
We lie there in comfortable silence. His breathing gradually evens out. Within minutes, he’s asleep.
I watch him in the darkness. Memorize the way his chest rises and falls. The way his face looks peaceful, almost vulnerable, without that careful control he always maintains.
This was supposed to be simple.
One night.
No complications.
But lying here with him, feeling his heartbeat under my palm, I know it was never going to be simple.
You’re going to hurt tomorrow.
You’re going to wake up alone and it’s going to hurt and you’re going to tell yourself it was worth it.
Wasit worth it?
I don’t have an answer yet.
As quietly as possible, I slip out of bed. Find my clothes and underwear in the darkness. Get dressed without turning on any more lights.
I grab my purse from the nightstand and turn to go. But then hesitate.
I reach into the purse, grab my black gel pen. I set it down on the nightstand.
I’m not really sure why I do it.
To mark my presence?
Prove to him that he didn’t dream this? That it really happened?
Because it feels like I have to leavesomethingbehind, if only to assuage the sudden guilt I’m feeling.
I glance back once at his sleeping form.
Don’t feel guilty.
