"Yours or mine?"
"Yours."
I shift gears, feeling her eyes on my hand and thigh. Too soon? Too slow? God, why do I care?
I remember the nights I came home bruised from the pits, blood on my knuckles, and she cleaned me up without asking. Never judged. Just held me. That's when I knew she was home.
"Movie?" she asks.
"Horror?"
"Yes."
Great. Another night pretending to be brave. She watches horror movies like they're commercials on the telly, but she curls up against me for War Horse. Oh, that woman cries about the weirdest things. Once she cried watching a puppy play in the park. What the fuck could I do about that?
There were times I wanted her to hide under my arms in ways that had nothing to do with fear or support, but I'd buried that a long time ago. Yeah, I'd buried that. At least that's what I tell myself.
We pull into the drive-thru. I order for her—the weirdest thing on the menu, as always. Limited-edition burger, extra mustard, large meal. Me? Didn't matter. Just give me the biggest burger and call it a day.
The smell of fries fills the car, mixing with her perfume. She steals a fry from my bag, licks salt off her fingers, and I nearly crash. When I see her lips move like that, her tongue… Shit. Focus. Car. Drive. Look straight ahead. She doesn’t want you like that. She likes you as a friend. Fuck, I am an idiot.
Back home, we step inside. She kicks off her shoes and shrugs. The dress slips down one shoulder, pooling at her feet like it was waiting all night to fall.
I step closer, hook my finger under the edge of her panties at her hip, and tug gently. Black lace.
"Lace?" I ask, meeting her eyes. "You were hoping for sex tonight."
She smiles—that dangerous little curve of her mouth that makes my chest tight.
Pale skin, black lace cutting into it like a promise I'm not allowed to keep. I let go and look away too late—cock already taking notice like the traitor it is.
Truth? All her underwear is black lace, but I needed to say something, anything, so I didn't have to think about the fact that she looks like sin incarnate in my living room.
"How was your sex tonight?" she asks, tugging one of my sweaters over her head.
"Medium."
"Mm... sorry."
I pull my shirt over my head and toss it onto the back of the couch, toeing off my boots as I drop into the cushions. Then I stand back up, unbutton my trousers, and kick them off. Just boxers now.
It's about comfort—we've been together for years. Nothing about it is meant to mean anything. We've seen each other's bodies several times. Even showered together—that was a long story, but we did it out of necessity. Oh, Berlin... I'm not going to lie, showering with her was a total nightmare. At the beginning at least.
We sink into the couch, pick a horror movie. A few fries hit the floor—we ignore them.
The only thing I notice is her thigh brushing mine, and how my chest tightens like I'm seventeen again and don't know how to breathe around her.
Her bare thigh shifts against mine—warm, skin on skin, accidental or on purpose, I can't tell anymore.
She shifts again, getting comfortable, and ends up half-draped against my side. Her shoulder presses into my chest, cool skin against my bare ribs. Every muscle in my body locks down.
"You're warm," she murmurs, not looking away from the screen. Like it's nothing. Like she hasn't just set fire to every nerve ending I have.
I grunt something that might be words and drape my arm along the back of the couch behind her. Safer there. My fingers brush her shoulder—just barely, just enough to feel how soft she is. She doesn't move away.
I count backwards from ten. Then twenty. Then I lose count.
Minutes pass. The movie plays. Some guy's getting murdered on screen and all I can focus on is the weight of her against me.
