Then I hand it over,
ripping the whole fucking thing open.
“I don’t do the one-person thing.”
I say it as if it’s written into my DNA.
Permanent. Pre-decided.
“The second I feel boxed in, expected, owned? I run.” I’m not looking at him. I’m watching my nail tap the rim of my glass. “And because I’m a sex addict,” I drop,
then wince at my own words.
“Which isn’t true, it’s just easier than saying I’m addicted to the climax. ‘Cause I don’t evenlikesex. Or dick. Or kissing.It’s the come I’m wired to. That one high note for ten seconds. Twenty if I’m lucky.”
I shrug. A throwaway gesture to cover the part that stings. “My addiction doesn’t mix well with a one-person commitment. Only brings on guilt. Disappointment. So yeah, don’t wanna be at fault for hurting anyone.”
If I meet his eyes, I’ll lose my edge.
“It's the reason I don’t do feelings either.”
The next part is climbing up.
It’s ugly. It’s unwelcome. But I say it anyway.
“I don't care who loves me or hates me. It all sounds the same after a while. And once someone says they got feelings, I’m suddenly responsible for 'em. I'm stuck holding 'em. And if I drop 'em? Somehow, I’m the asshole. It’s exhausting. Suffocating. When I wanna climax and go, I can't when feelings are involved. I now owe a reason for leaving, a goodbye, a piece of myself I never offered in the first place."
My heart pounds, hard and brutal.
“So I don't bother with that shit,” I continue, quieter. “And it circles back to me not giving pieces of myself I can’t afford to lose.”
I lift my eyes and find his.
“Because people leave.
“Take those pieces with them.
“And I don’t have many left.”
Well. Damn.That’s out there now.
I should be relieved. But I’m only emptied.
And he’s statue-like, chest barely moving,
leaned back, elbow propped,
fingers braced against his jawline.
He lifts two fingers. “You thought I was gonna take a piece of you?”
My gaze buries into him.
“You already did.”
One answer, and it tastes like blood.
He goes still,
