“Red.” I reach between us and guide him to where I’m already slick and ready. “Please. I need?—”
He pushes into me, and I cry out, my head falling back against the door. It’s fast and rough and exactly what we both need—there’s no time for slow sex; there’s no patience left between us. His hips snap forward and I meet every thrust, our bodies finding the rhythm we learned over the last two days.
“God.” His voice breaks on the word. One hand braces against the door beside my head, and the other slides between us, thumb finding my clit with expert accuracy. “You feel?—”
I can’t form words. I can only hold on, my legs locked around him, my fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. The angle hits something perfect inside me, and I’m already close, wound too tight, flying too fast, despite the countless orgasms.
“Come for me.” His thumb circles harder. “I want to feel you.”
I shatter. My orgasm rips through me so hard my vision blurs, and I bite down on his shoulder to muffle the scream, even though no one would hear me, anyway. He groans and follows me with my name tearing from his throat.
We sag against each other, both shaking, our hearts hammering in sync. He’s still inside me, his forehead pressed to the door beside my head, his breath hot against my neck.
“Christ,” he mutters.
I let my legs slide down. He pulls out carefully, then tucks himself away. His hands are gentle now, polite almost, smoothing the shirt back down over my hips.
When I finally look up at him, his eyes are wrecked.
My heart sinks.
“Wow,” I say, nervous laughter escaping my swollen lips.
“Yeah.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “Wow.”
We gaze at one another, both still trying to catch our breath and just… take in what just happened. How intense everything is between us, and now I’m leaving.
He helps me gather my things—the Santa dress I arrived in, now folded and tucked into my bag, and the cookies we never gave Beth. His movements are careful and already distant, like I'm already a guest who's overstayed her welcome.
It hurts.
I want to say something. Ask him what we're doing, and if this meant anything to him.
But his eyes are focused on the task, and I can't find the words.
Outside, the air is fresh yet ice-cold. Red digs my car out with quick movements. Like he's clearing a driveway, not watching someone he cares for leave.
I stand on the porch with Bear, one hand buried in his thick fur, and watch Red as he works. He doesn't look at me or slow down. He just keeps digging with the same mechanical precision he uses for everything—his walls firmly back in place.
I swallow.
Don’t do this, Red.
"You'll let me come back to visit, right?" I ask the dog, my throat tight. "Tell your stubborn owner he can call me. That I want him to."
Bear licks my hand.
Red pauses, his back to me, shoulders tense. For a moment I think he heard me—that he might turn around and say something—anything—that makes this less like an ending.
But he doesn't.
He just keeps digging.
When the car’s clear, Red opens the passenger door but doesn’t step back. We stand there in the space between the car and the cabin, between leaving and staying.
“You need a new car.”
I laugh. “Right.”
