Before we leave, I turn back to Tom.
“One condition,” I say.
“Name it.”
“This is just a one time thing,” I say, “we don’t turn this into more than it is.”
He meets my eyes, serious and steady. “Agreed.”
I take a breath, open the door, and step into the evening.
My cramps are still there.
My nerves are shot.
But for the first time all day, I feel oddly, dangerously hopeful.
Tom’s house is… nice.
That’s the first problem.
Not flashy. Not curated. Just calm and solid and faintly smelling of clean laundry and whatever men use that isn’t trying too hard. It makes me suddenly, painfully aware that I have walked in here with a backpack like I’m about to stay overnight because.. well… I am.
We stop just inside the door.
Nothing happens.
He stands there, keys still in his hand. I stand there, backpack strap digging into my shoulder. We look at each other like two people who have agreed on something theoretically but not yet worked out how gravity functions.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I reply.
Another beat passes. Possibly two.
“This is the part,” he says carefully, “where we might… sit down.”
I tilt my head. “Why.”
He hesitates. “To ease into things.”
I stare at him.
“You’re suggesting cuddling,” I say flatly.
His mouth opens, then closes. “I was thinking it might help.”
“No,” I shake my head wildly. “Absolutely fuck off.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“I mean that in the nicest possible way,” I add. “But I do not need easing. I need pain relief. Directly. Immediately. With your dick.”
The silence that follows is spectacular.
Then he chuckles. “Right. Okay. Thank you for the clarity.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “I’m being very brave.”
