"Right now?" I managed a breathless laugh. "I'm thinking that you're the first person who ever made my brain shut up. Like, actually quiet. That's—" I gasped as he moved again and started a grinding motion. "That's never happened before. It's weird. I don't know what to do without all the noise."
In the silence, there was just this:I want to be someone he stays for.
He kissed me, softly.
"You don't have to do anything," he said. "Be here."
I did my best to let go of my thinking, the endless interior monologue.
When I came, it was quieter than usual. A slow, rolling wave instead of a crash, pulling me under while Adrian followed, his whole body shaking against mine.
His weight pressed me into the mattress as he buried his face in my neck. His breath came in ragged bursts against my skin.
"Hey," I said softly.
He didn't answer. Just held on.
"I've got you too," I whispered into his hair. "You know that, right? It goes both ways."
"I know," he said, but he didn't loosen his grip.
The sheets were a disaster. We lay in the wreckage, breathing. My head was on his chest, and his arm was around my shoulders.
My brain decided to fill the silence.
"Did you know the inventor of the Pringles can is buried in one?"
Adrian's chest rumbled beneath my ear. "That can't be true."
"Fredric Baur. Designed the iconic tubular container, loved it so much he had his ashes put in one. His kids had to stop at Walgreens on the way to the funeral." I considered this. "I respect that level of commitment to a brand."
"Is this what happens inside your head?"
"This is the edited version."
He moved his hand to my hair, stroking with his fingers.
"You're ridiculous," he said.
"Thank you. I try."
Why is his grip getting tighter?
The thought arrived without invitation.
"Hey." I lifted my head and looked at him. "What's going on in there?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer.
"There are some things," he said slowly. "With the documentary. Complications I'm trying to work out."
"Still complicated?" I kept my voice steady. "What does that mean? For us?"
"It means I need a little more time. To figure it out. Can you give me that?"
I knew that I could push. Part of me wanted to, but—
He was asking. Waiting to find out if I trusted him.
