Instead…I’m happy.
I mean, I have the blue balls to end all blue balls, but…
I’mhappy.
This isn’t a quick fuck, isn’t me scratching an itch—something I haven’t done in all the time since Anna died. It was something I couldn’t even stomach the thought of after she was gone. Not with Chloe struggling, not with the grief so heavy in the house, not with me barely keeping my head above water for so long afterwards.
But Finn…
She’s different.
So, when I slip out of bed, it’s not to run away.
Not to allow guilt to sweep forward and suck me under.
It’s to clean up the remnants of that cocktail we never got around to drinking.
Or well, I think, my lips curving, thatFinnnever got around to drinking.
Me lapping it off her skin is a memory I’m tucking safely away…
Because we aresodoing that again.
When she’s completely comfortable. When the edge is off and my balls aren’t going to explode and I’m not feeling rushed. When I can take my time.
Allthe fucking time.
I wash the shaker, mop up the mess on the counter, the floor, and when I climb the stairs a second time, when I crawl back into bed beside Finn, I know it’s me making a deliberate choice.
To move forward.
“Meow.”
I wake with a sore ass and…
A cat on my chest.
“Meow.”
I look down to find Olive sitting squarely on my sternum like she owns the place, blinking at me with shameless entitlement.
“You are five pounds of pure demon,” I mutter.
She meows again.
Pear sits on the floor beside the bed and does that weird butt-wiggle thing cats do before they launch themselves at things.
I point at her. “Don’t.”
She leaps anyway.
Right onto the comforter, her claws catching for half a second before she scrambles up, triumphant and completely unrepentant as she settles on my chest beside Olive.
“Demons,” I mutter.
They just purr in response.
I scratch them, knowing I should get up.
