“Say my name,” he says, desperate now.
“Cassian,” I gasp, so loud it feels dangerous.
“Say you love me,” I beg, voice ragged.
He does, over and over, like a litany, like a promise.
Ro, Ro, Ro, I love you.
He shudders, his hips jerking, eyes squeezing shut as he falls apart for me, my name on his lips, raw and ruined.
I follow, heat burning through me, every part of me wanting him, even through a screen.
We fall apart together—me clutching the sheets, him biting his lip, both of us shaking with it, desperate for a touch we can’t have yet.
After, there’s only breathing, and the low light, and his eyes still on mine. We’re both wrecked and smiling, breathing hard.
“I want to feel you,” he says, quiet and raw. “I want—” He swallows, voice breaking. “I’ve wanted you so fucking long, Ro.”
“You don’t have to say it,” I tell him. “I know.”
He looks at me, soft, undone. “You kill me, Ro.”
“Good,” I say, voice hoarse. “You deserve it.”
• • •
November.
The calls get shorter.
Not dramatically. Not enough to point at in an argument.
Just — shorter. Like something in him is taking up space that used to be for this.
I don’t say anything. I’ve said something before. I know how that goes.
But I notice.
I notice the way the nights that used to end at 2am now end at 11. The way he used to call first and now it’s always me. The way his voice sounds the same but something underneath it has changed, like music played in a different key.
Same song. Different feeling.
I know the shape of him when he's pulling back. The specific quality of the quiet. I have a degree in this. I know this.
• • •
I do the math at night. I can’t help it. How many texts I sent versus how many he sent.
How many days since he called first.
How many times I said I love you into a phone that went quiet for just a beat too long before he answered.
He still answers. That’s what I hold onto. He still answers.
He’s still there.
So I just keep reaching.
