Dinner is nothing fancy. Just a grilled cheese and tomato soup, but it tastes better than it should. My apartment smells like sage and old books, and for once, I don’t feel like a ghost in my own life.
I’m curled up on the couch, laptop beside me, a notebook in my lap, when my phone buzzes on the cushion next to me.
I glance at the screen.
Will Flowers
I stare at his name for a long second before unlocking it.
You looked happy today. With Sam.
Glad you're doing better.
I blink, rereading it twice. It’s simple. Soft, even. But it punches me in the gut. Because it means he noticed. Because it means he’s watching. But not showing up. Not apologizing. Not choosing me. Just orbiting close enough to hurt, far enough to never catch.
I type out a reply. Then delete it. Then do it again. Finally, I put the phone face down on the coffee table and walk away.
Around three in the morning, I wake up with a full bladder and a dry throat. I shuffle to the bathroom, still half-asleep, then head to the kitchen, filling a glass with water from the tap.
I take a long sip. Then another. And as I walk past the living room window, something makes me pause.
His light’s on. My feet stop before my thoughts do.
Will’s on the couch. Shirtless, beer in one hand, his head tipped back against the cushions. His eyes are closed, jaw tight, muscles stretched and glinting under the soft lamp light.
But that’s not what stops me cold.
It’s the fact that his jeans are undone. And his other hand is inside them, moving.
My breath catches in my throat. I know I should turn away. I should close the curtains. Pretend I didn’t see what I saw.
But I don’t.
I stand there, glass of water forgotten in my hand, pulse thudding at the base of my throat.
Because he’s not just touching himself. He’s thinking about something. Someone. And something in my chest tightens when I realize it might be me. Like some invisible tether stretches between our apartments, across the alley, through the dark. Like he knows I’m watching, even with his eyes still closed.
My lips part, breath shallow. I can’t look away.
And then like he feels it, his head turns. His eyes open. And lock with mine. His movements don’t stop. His hand stays where it is, moving inside his jeans.
He just watches me.
And I watch him.
The air between us thickens. Heavy with tension. Daring. Desperation.
He sees me. And he doesn't stop. If anything, he leans into it.
His gaze holds mine while his hand moves. The kind of touch that says he’s not in a hurry. That says he wants me to see. That he’s done pretending this thing between us isn’t real.
My breath fogs the glass of the window, hand tightening around the cool water glass like it might ground me. It doesn’t.
Will shifts on the couch, hips lifting slightly, his movements more defined now. Deliberate strokes that make my thighs press together while my pulse pounds in places that make it hard to breathe.
His chest rises and falls in shallow waves. He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, and I swear I see it. The twitch of a smirk. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Like he’s inviting me to do something about it.
And God help me, I want to. But I don't move. I just stand there, transfixed. Barefoot, braless, nipples in hard points, in a faded T-shirt, skin hot and heart beating like a drum.
