I've been lying on Gretchen's couch for two hours, watching shadows move across the cream-colored ceiling. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and occasional traffic outside.
My body aches everywhere—feet from standing all day, back from the lumpy couch, heart from being shattered into pieces I can't put back together.
But there's another ache. One I've been ignoring for two weeks because acknowledging it feels like betrayal.
I shift positions again, and my hand drifts to my stomach. The slight curve that's starting to show. Our baby. His baby.
I close my eyes, trying to force myself to sleep. Instead, memories start coming.
London. The hotel room with morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Daniel's body, warm against mine, his hands tracing patterns on my skin like he was memorizing me.
"You make it quiet,"he'd murmured."Maybe you finally stopped fighting it,"I'd replied.
My breath hitches at the memory. Heat pools low in my belly despite everything—despite the betrayal, despite the hurt.
This is wrong. I should hate him completely. But my body doesn't understand hate. It only remembers how he touched me. How he made me feel safe and wanted and real.
Pregnancy has made everything more intense. Every sensation amplified. Every nerve ending awake in ways I don't want them to be.
My hand slides lower, hesitant.
I shouldn't. This is pathetic—lying on my best friend's couch, pregnant and abandoned, wanting the man who called me a liability.
But the ache won't stop. And I'm so tired of hurting in every possible way. Maybe this one kind of hurt I can address.
Just to sleep. Just to quiet this relentless need.
My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my shorts. I keep my eyes closed, sinking deeper into memory.
Daniel's hands on my thighs, spreading them gently. His mouth on my throat, my collarbone, lower. The way he'd looked at me like I was the only thing in his world that mattered.
"Tell me what you need."
"You. Just you."
I bite my lip to stay quiet. Gretchen's bedroom is too close, the walls too thin. But my fingers find their rhythm—the one Daniel learned, the one that made me gasp his name.
In my fantasy, it's his touch. His voice, rough against my ear. His body pressed against mine in that enormous London bed where everything felt possible.
The pressure builds slowly. My breathing quickens. I chase the sensation, letting myself sink into the memory of being wanted, being held, being told I was perfect exactly as I was.
My free hand grips the blanket. Heat coils tighter and tighter as I remember—
The weight of his body. The way he'd whispered my name like it was everything. That moment when he'd looked into my eyes and I'd seen everything he usually kept hidden.
"I don't plan on letting you go,"he'd said.
But he did let me go.
The thought nearly pulls me out of the fantasy, but my body is too close now. Too desperate for release.
My back arches slightly. The orgasm builds and crests, washing over me in waves that feel as much like grief as pleasure. I press my face into the couch cushion, swallowing the sound that wants to escape.
For a few perfect seconds, everything else disappears.
Then it’s over.
I'm alone. Daniel isn't here whispering promises he couldn't keep. He's probably sleeping soundly, not thinking about me at all.
