I’m flat on my back in bed, sheets twisted up around my knees, heart punching in my chest like I just finished a sprint.
Next to me, Nia is a soft rise and fall under the blanket, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm thrown over her head in a way that makes her look childlike and angry at the same time.
She’s out cold, mouth open just enough to catch a snore if the angle is right. I watch her, wait for the rhythm to change, but it never does. She’s a pro at this, the sleeping, the surrender.
I, on the other hand, have not slept in three days.
It’s not the nightmares, not really. I can handle those.
It’s the new thing, the hunger. It’s the way my skin lights up at the stupidest, smallest things, a glimpse of collarbone at thegym, a flexed tendon in Ash’s forearm, the way his voice drops half an octave when he’s tired.
Today, at the end of our workout, he dropped into a bent-over row, back tight and shirt riding up, and for one split second his shoulder blades grazed my chest.
It was nothing, an accident, but the shock of it was so strong I thought I’d been punched.
I spent the rest of the session with my hoodie zipped to my chin, waiting for the blood to go back where it belonged.
Now, alone in the dark, I replay it on a loop, over and over, until the edges start to blur and the memory gets sticky and hot.
I tell myself I’m just wound up, that it’s normal to get a little keyed when you’re stuck in a feedback loop of violence and endorphins, but it’s a lie. I know it’s a lie.
I slide a hand under the waistband of my boxers and hate myself for it.
The sheets are damp from sweat, my own and Nia’s, and every time I move, her leg shifts, her ankle brushes mine, and the guilt spikes so hard I almost choke.
But I keep going, slow, careful, like I’m afraid to get caught even though I know she won’t wake.
The digital clock on the nightstand says 2:17. The colon blinks on and off, a little metronome of shame.
I press my fist to my mouth and try to breathe through my nose, slow and quiet.
I think about Ash’s hands, the way they tremble after a hard set, the crescent moons of grime under his nails, the little constellation of scars that climb up his wrist.
I think about the last time he smiled, really smiled, and how it made me want to grab him by the face and just…
I bite down on the knuckles, hard. The taste of skin and salt fills my mouth.
Next to me, Nia shifts, rolls over, tucks her knees up.
Her hair spills across my chest, and for a second I want to reach out, run my fingers through it, pretend I can be the man she needs.
But her perfume, lavender and ambition, makes my head swim, and all I can think about is the way Ash always smells like chlorine and dollar-store body wash, a chemical purity that’s almost obscene.
I finish with a sharp, silent gasp, biting back a noise I didn’t know I was capable of.
The release leaves me hollow, embarrassed, but also lighter, like I just shed a layer of skin I didn’t need.
I stare at the ceiling, trace the crack that runs from the light fixture to the wall, the way it splits near the end like the blade of a hockey stick. I wonder how long it’s been there.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at anything without finding Ash in the negative space.
I wipe my hand on the sheet, shift onto my side, and close my eyes.
I try to slow my heart, to count backwards from a hundred, but the numbers just dissolve into a soup of static. I hear Nia’s breathing, steady and even, and it makes me want to scream.
At exactly 3:04, my phone buzzes. It’s on silent, but I feel the vibration in my teeth. I check the screen. It’s Ash.
He’s sent a single emoji, the thumbs up.
