When climax hit, I cried out his name. As always, he said nothing, just buried his face in my neck, his body taut as a drawn bow.
Afterward, we cuddled close. His arm encircled my waist, protective yet possessive. My head rested on his chest, ear pressed to his steady, powerful heartbeat. In these moments, his invisible walls seemed to soften a little, letting me pretend we were just a normal couple, that I could step deeper into his world.
"Tell me something about yourself," I whispered, just forus. "Anything."
His body went rigid. The hand stroking my hair paused for a few seconds. That familiar defense snapped into place. I'd seen it countless times—whenever I edged toward his past, he shut down.
"You know everything you need to," he finally said, his voice hard as polished stone.
"I know your favorite brand of booze, that you hate jazz, and you insist on sleeping on the left side of the bed." I lifted my head, meeting his eyes. "But nothing real, Igor. Not a single thing."
Frustration left a bitter taste on my tongue.
"All you need to know is that I'm here." His tone turned icy, that distancing chill pulling us apart. "You belong to me. That's enough."
I didn't respond right away. The night outside seemed to press down heavier, moonlight filtering through the window in an icy blue haze.
"Christmas is coming," I tried a new angle to break through. "Don't you want to introduce me to your family? Or friends?"
This silence stretched on forever, long enough that I thought he wouldn't answer. The air felt thick, broken only by the soft rustle of curtains in the night breeze.
"My world isn't ready for you yet," he finally said, like handing down a verdict.
"What? Then why do you even—"
His phone rang, its shrill tone tearing through the quiet night and ending our fruitless conversation. His eyes sharpened as he glanced at the screen. Without hesitation, he released me and sat up.
"I have to take this."
His tone left no room for argument. I watched him pad barefoot to the bathroom. The door shut behind him, but the thin wood couldn't muffle the sound. I heard his lowered voice clearly.
"...I'll be on time..."
"...Tell him not to worry..."
My stomach twisted into a painful knot. This was his routine: secret calls answered immediately, away from my sight, followed by sudden departures. We'd been together nearly six months, but in thisrelationship, I was always just a visitor—allowed into his bed, but never his world.
My hand reached instinctively for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up. My e-pal, M, was online.
We'd met a year ago on a philosophy forum, becoming unlikely pen pals. She was cynical almost to the point of cruelty, brutally honest in a way that sometimes stung, but that's why she was one of the few people I could confide in about this relationship.
Me: [Hypothetically, if you've been with someone six months, he's perfect in every way, but he won't talk about his past or family... what does that mean?]
Her reply popped up almost instantly, as if she lived on the other side of the world where my night was her day.
M: [Not hypothetical—it's your reality, right? Possibilities: 1. Spy/assassin/working for some shady government agency, identity classified. 2. Ashamed of his family—maybe they live in a trailer park, all addicts. 3. He's got a wife and kids stashed somewhere, and you're the side piece. 4. Alien. If you ask me, it's number three.]
My breath caught.
Me: [Don't joke.]
M: [Darling, a mysterious man who won't introduce you to anyone. Isn't it obvious?]
The bathroom door swung open. I reacted on instinct—my fingers swiped the screen off, and I pretended to fuss with the sheets as if nothing had happened.
"What's wrong? You look pale." Igor's gaze swept over me, brows furrowing. He'd pulled on black pants and was buttoning his shirt with those long fingers. His tall frame was imposing, muscles honed by years making him look like a living sculpture.
"Nothing," I lied, forcing a light tone. "Just tired."
