“I can’t,” he says softly.
The word hits harder than I expect.
“I want to,” he adds immediately, like he needs me to understand that part. “But I won’t.”
I frown slightly. “Why?”
His thumb stills against my skin.
“Because if I sleep next to you,” he says quietly, honestly, “I’ll want you. All of you. And I can’t lie there pretending I don’t.”
My breath stutters.
“I won’t touch you without your choice,” he continues. “And I won’t take half of something I want completely.”
He drops his hand, but his gaze stays locked on mine.
“I’ll move my things into the room across the hall,” he says. “If you need me—if you’re scared, sick, can’t sleep—you call for me. I’ll be there.”
My throat tightens.
“But I won’t share your bed,” he finishes, voice rough now, “and spend the night wanting what you’re not ready to give.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy and honest.
And somehow… it hurts worse than if he’d said yes.
Seven Times
Langston
Istare at the ceiling, hands folded behind my head, replaying the moment from earlier like I can rewind it and choose differently. The way she stood there. The way her voice barely shook when she asked. The way I said no.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I’m pissed at myself.
Because saying no didn’t make the wanting go away. It sharpened it. Turned it into something heavy and constant, something that sits in my chest and won’t let me breathe all the way in.
I don’t want half of her.
I don’t want permission granted out of loneliness or confusion or comfort. I want something real. Something chosen. And dragging her into more when she’s still figuring out what she wants—when I already know what I do—isn’t fair to either of us.
Still.
The guilt crawls in anyway.
I took something from her that should’ve been hers to give freely. Her virginity should’ve belonged to the man she chosewithout pressure, without contracts, without timelines hanging over her head like a countdown clock.
And no matter how careful I was… no matter how much she wanted me in that moment…
I was still part of a system that cornered her.
That truth is a demon I can’t outrun.
I give up on sleep before dawn and slide out of bed quietly. The house is still, shadows stretching across the hallway as I head for the kitchen. Muscle memory takes over—coffee beans measured, water heated, mug warmed.
Her mug.
