And the worst part is
he thinks he has to say sorry for it.
I’m standing useless, frozen,
watching him break,
and it’s breaking me too.
He holds a trembling hand to his mouth.
“Just… give me a sec, alright?
“I’m tryin’ not to fuckin’ fall apart.”
He’s staring at the floor
with eyes begging for it
to keep him steady.
My legs are still open,
my dress still bunched around my waist.
I'm still exposed, thighs shaking.
My foot slips off the speaker.
I pull my dress down.
His head lifts.
“Shit,” he chokes out.
“I left you hangin’…
“I didn’t mean to—fuck,
“that’s not what I wanted.
“Not even close.”
His hand fumbles for the floor,
not trusting his own legs yet.
He rakes a hand down his face,
breath ripped apart.
“Jesus Christ. Sono incasinato. I’m all over the place right now. I’m sorry. I don’t know what the fuck that was.” Then he’s forcing himself to his feet, jaw tightening as he steps closer. “This whole night. I don’t usually—this ain’t normal. None of this is normal.”
His eyes meet mine, raw and shaking.
The walls around his gaze crumble.
He opens his mouth. Then closes it.
