I look away and force my focus back to the table.
The woman’s hand slides up my arm, slow, confident. Familiar.
This part still works.
Alex is laughing now, surrounded. Mark’s expression is unreadable, but relaxed. The night folds in on itself, louder, warmer, easier.
I let it.
The guys each leave with their chosen women.
I leave with her because it’s expected. Because not doing it would mean stopping the momentum, and I don’t want to think yet.
Her apartment is clean.
Not sterile—just precise. Framed photos line one wall: family, trips, moments that look chosen instead of staged. A shelf crowded with small figurines catches my eye. Collected, not decorative. Intentional. She doesn’t strike me as the type.
City light filters in through tall windows, moonlight washing everything silver. She doesn’t turn on a single lamp.
She kicks the door shut behind us and kisses me, confident, unhesitating. Slides my jacket off my shoulders like she’s done this before and expects me to follow.
I do.
My hand finds the zipper of her dress. It slides down easily, the fabric pooling at her feet. She steps out of it without breaking eye contact, standing there in her heels and panties, unapologetic.
She’s beautiful. A rockin’ body. All the right lines.
But something hesitates in me anyway.
She takes my hand and leads me toward the bedroom. The door stays open. Moonlight spills across the floor. Clothes come off in pieces, not rushed, not careful either. Her hands are everywhere—confident, practiced, familiar.
I make sure she’s taken care of. I take my time. I know how to do this. I pay attention to her breathing, the way her body responds, the sounds she doesn’t bother to hold back.
She arches into me. Grips my shoulders. Wants.
I give her what she wants.
Still, when we move together, something doesn’t fit right. Our bodies line up, but the connection feels… off. Like forcing the wrong rhythm.
When I finally come, I close my eyes?—
And I see Audra.
Steady. Present. The way she looked at me like I actually mattered.
I roll off her, staring at the ceiling, slowing my breathing.
Silence stretches.
This place. This moment.
I don’t belong here.
“I should go,” I say.
She turns her head, confusion crossing her face. “Did I do something?”
“No.” I sit up, reaching for my clothes. “This is me.”
