It’s nothing like Alki Beach. It’s not gentle, not careful.
It’s a need, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself believe that being wanted can be its own kind of comfort.
He pulls back, breathless, hair slightly messed. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, and I say yes, because what else am I supposed to do?
We walk to his car, and he opens the passenger door for me. I slide in, legs shaking just enough that I have to steady them with my hands.
He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh.
He doesn’t talk, doesn’t fill the silence, just lets it build. Every so often, he squeezes, and the heat of his palm is the only thing I can feel.
When we hit the first red light, he glances over and says, “You good?” His hand never leaves my leg.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
He grins. “You’re more than good,” he says, and this time I almost believe it.
I close my eyes, lean my head back, and let the motion of the car carry me away.
This isn’t what I wanted.
But for tonight, it’s enough.
———
Vincent’s building is new construction, the kind where every surface is the exact shade of “wet concrete,” and the lobby art looks like a screensaver that never fully loaded.
He parks in a reserved spot, helps me out of the car, and guides me through the security doors with the efficiency of a TSA agent.
He doesn’t ask if I want to go upstairs; he just swipes us in, elevator, twelfth floor, end of the hall. His hand stays on my back the entire time, the pressure calibrated just this side of possessive.
Inside, the apartment is a shrine to minimalism.
Clean lines, gray and white, a couch so severe it could double as a punishment device.
There’s not a single photo, not a single trace that a human lives here, unless you count the three bottles of whiskey lined up like artillery on the kitchen counter, or the row of glassware above the fridge. The air smells faintly of ozone and fresh paint.
He takes my jacket, hangs it, and pours us both another drink, a smaller pour this time, as if he’s testing to see how much I can take before I shatter.
I don’t touch my glass.
I sit on the edge of the couch, knees together, hands clasped. For a second, I think about bolting, but he’s there, kneeling in front of me, and he looks up with this predator’s half-smile that says, “I know what you’re thinking. And I’m not going to let you.”
He puts his hands on my thighs, just above the knee.
His touch is warm, firm, a little too steady.
He holds there for a second, like he’s letting me opt out, but the only thing I feel is the blood roaring in my ears.
He leans in and kisses me again.
It’s even harder than in the alley, all teeth and tongue and the kind of force that would have terrified me last year.
I open my mouth, let him take what he wants, and try to tell myself it’s fine, that this is what I’m supposed to want, that this is what normal looks like.
His hands move up, fingers skimming under my shirt.
He tugs it over my head in a single move, then runs his palms over my chest, down my ribs, up my sides. I shiver, and he grins into my mouth.
