“You’re... so fucking big,” I gasp.
He thrusts, shallow and slow, letting me adjust. My nails dig into his back as he rocks deeper.
“Tell me it’s good,” he growls.
“It’s more than good. It’s—fuck—Roja, don’t stop.”
He moves faster now, hips slamming into mine. The bed creaks beneath us, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air. My pussy clenches with every thrust, milking him, driving him wild.
“Say my name,” he pants.
“Roja. Roja. Roja!”
We fall together, crashing over the edge. His roar echoes in the room as he comes inside me, body shaking. I cling to him, breathing hard, sweat slicking our skin.
He collapses beside me, pulling me close, wrapping me in his arms. I lie with my cheek against his chest, the steady beat of his heart anchoring me.
“I don’t want it to be once,” he says again.
“It won’t be,” I whisper.
And I mean it.
In this bed, in this moment, I’m not running. I’m not hiding. I’m his. And he’s mine.
His voice is low. Barely above a whisper. But it hits like a flare in the dark, sharp and blinding.
I don’t say anything at first.
I don’t knowhowto respond to that—not when it’s said so plainly, with no strings attached. No demands. Just truth.
And somehow that makes it worse.
Because truth like that? It asks things of you.
It expects you to feel it.
By the time I lift my head to look at him, he’s already pulling his arm back, untangling himself from me. Not rushing, just... moving. Like he knows he has to go but hasn’t decided how to.
His body leaves a Roja-shaped hollow in the bed, still warm. My skin protests the loss, but I don’t say it out loud. I just watch him get dressed in the dim light. The stretch of muscle across his back. The way his scars catch the golden glow and vanish again in shadow.
He doesn't speak again.
Doesn't glance back.
The door hisses open, soft and low. A sound that feels cruel in its finality. Then he steps through, vanishing into the corridor like a ghost that never meant to linger.
And I’m left alone.
The stillness returns like a tide, slow and creeping and inevitable.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time.
Then I pull the sheet around me, tighter than necessary. Not because I’m cold—but because it still smells like him. Feels like him. A poor substitute, but it’s all I have left.
I don’t cry.
But I wish I could.
