Fuck. That was different.
I press a slow, soft kiss to her belly, right below her ribs, my breath still uneven.
“Shit,” I murmur under my breath.
Then reality creeps back in.
Carefully. I ease out of her, my head still spinning from how hard that hit. The loss of her warmth makes me hiss under my breath.
I roll off her gently. The mattress creaks beneath us, the thin frame complaining as I shift onto my back.
For a second, I just lie there staring at the ceiling. My chest rises and falls hard, adrenaline bleeding out of me in waves.
Bells lies beside me, quietly breathing.
I push myself up, sit on the edge of the bed, and tie off the condom with practiced efficiency. That part is automatic—muscle memory. I toss it in the trash and sit there, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
This is the moment.
This is where I usually disengage. Zip up. Mutter something casual. Disappear. That is the rule.
I’m waiting for it now. The itch. The urge to detach. The familiar switch that flips and tells me it’s time to go.
But it does not come.
The trailer is quiet except for the faint whistle of wind outside and the sound of Lola breathing behind me. I rub my hand over the back of my neck and stare at the peeling paint on the cabinet across the room.
Move, I tell myself. Stand up. Create some space between you.
Instead, I just sit here with my back turned to her. I can still sense the warmth of her body remaining in the sheets. I expect her to put distance between us because she knows exactly what I am.
The mattress dips slightly.
Then I feel it.
Her fingers. Light. Careful. They brush over the center of my back, slow enough that I know she is not trying to start something again. Just… touching. As if she is making sure I didn’t disappear the second it was over.
Every muscle in my body locks.
I close my eyes.
Fuck.
Girls don’t touch me like that. They grab at me, cling because they want more or because they want me to stay for the wrong reasons.
They don’t lay a hand on my back as if they are checking whether I am okay.
Her fingers trace once, then rest there, warm and steady.
“Are you okay?” she asks softly.
I swallow.
“Yeah,” I answer, but it comes out rougher than intended.
I’m not okay. Far from it. Because I’m still sitting here and I don’t want to leave.
Because the autopilot that has kept me safe for years is now silent, and I don’t know how to operate without it.
