“I’m proud of you,” I murmured.
I left them there, together in the quiet. Seconds later, I heard the shower turn on.
I stood in the kitchen, leaned against the sink, and let the cold water run over my hands.
I hated that part. The silence after sex. The fucking stillness.
It always came for me, harder than any orgasm ever could. The moment the sweat cooled and the air settled, it was just me and the ghosts again.
The faucet was still running. I hadn’t turned it off because it gave me something to listen to. Something other than the voice in my head that said,You need her. Not in the way she thinks.
Because I did. I needed her signature. Her name on the fucking deed before closing, or the house our foster dad left behind would slip away. The ag company didn’t give a shit about grief, or legacy, or the wreckage I’d been drowning in. They cared about cleared checks.
The world hadn’t stopped while I got clean. It just kept moving, and when I came back, I was flat broke and behind on everything that mattered.
So yeah. I needed her. And that made me fucking sick.
I shouldn’t have had to beg. Shouldn’t have to carry that twisted knot of guilt and gratitude every time I looked at her—but she never held it over me.
She came back like nothing had broken. Like I hadn’t lit the match and left them in the smoke.
I wrecked everything, the relationship, the three of us, and drowned in liquor while they cleaned up the mess.
Somehow, years later, here we were.
Back under the same roof. Back in the same bed. Back to pretending I was still the one in charge, when the truth was, I hadn’t had control over a single fucking thing in my life since the day she walked out.
I needed her.
Not just for the house. Not just for the money.
I needed her because when she looked at me, I remembered who I used to be. Before the drinking. Before the debt. Before I became someone I couldn't even recognize in the mirror.
That scared the shit out of me because if she left again—and fuck, I wouldn’t blame her—I didn’t know who I’d be when the door closed behind her.
I didn’t know if there’d be anything left. I couldn’t fuck it up. That was the thing I kept telling myself over and over, even when she was moaning under me. Even when she came all over Dirks’s mouth with my cock buried in her ass. Even when she looked at me like I was still something more than just a man trying to hold his life together with borrowed time and other people’s signatures.
We’d always been good at sex. Fucking great at it. The three of us. It was everything else we never figured out.
This couldn’t be more than that. We were friends. That’s what we’d agreed to. What it had to be.
Because I couldn’t stay. Not when everything in me still wanted to. Not when staying meant risking the same wreckage all over again.
I couldn’t play house in the ruins of what we used to be. Couldn’t pretend like it wouldn’t burn us all down again if we tried.
The shower cut off in the other room. I clenched my jaw and shut off the kitchen sink. After pushing away from the counter,I shoved my legs back into my jeans one at a time, trying not to think about what it would mean when she walked away again?—
Because I’d told myself I could handle it. Even if I wasn’t sure that was true.
Shirt. Wallet. Phone. Keys.
I grabbed them off the table and didn’t look back.
The front door clicked shut behind me, and the air hit sharp against my skin, still warm from her. I had a stop to make, something that couldn’t wait, and then I was headed back to the city. Back to the mess I’d chosen. The version of life I could at least pretend to control.
Luna Girl: Did you buy us breakfast and set the coffee maker to go off at nine?
I didn’t answer right away.
