I suck air in like it’s the only thing between me and drowning, then crash back into his mouth. Somewhere between the couch and the bedroom, our clothes disappear. My brain fuzzes at the edges, focusing only on sensations. His hands on my skin, hisvoice in my ear, the stretch, the burn, the grounding weight of him slamming into me.
I push for more. Harder. Faster. So sharp it scrapes me clean on the inside.
“Hey,” he says at one point, hand braced beside my head, eyes searching mine. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, lust dazed and on another plane of existence. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
He’s so careful with me, even when I’m rough with myself. He checks in, watches my face, and holds me together with his hands and his voice when he feels me start to drift.
I cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world tilting sideways.
When we both come, it’s with a sharpness that borders on pain. That’s what I want.
Pain I chose.
Pain that ends.
After, he gathers me in, big hands smoothing down my back, kissing my hair and my forehead and my cheeks like I’m something sacred.
“You okay?” he asks again, softer now.
I bury my face in his neck. “Yeah,” I say. “Better.”
In some ways, it’s true. The thoughts have gone quiet, stunned into silence by the sensory overload. My body is exhausted. My brain is… numb. Miguel pulls the blankets up, tucks me against his chest, and lets his hand rest over my ribcage like he’s counting breaths.
“Whatever it is,” he murmurs into my hair, “we’ll handle it. You don’t have to do it alone.”
Guilt flickers in my chest. I should tell him now. I’d say, “He died, and I don’t know how to feel, and part of me is scared that knowing he’s gone makes it worse, not better.”
Instead, I press closer. “I know,” I whisper.
He falls asleep before I do, his breathing evening out, his heartbeat steady under my palm.
In the dark, with his arm heavy around me, the thoughts creep back in, softer now but somehow more vicious.
You used him.
You turned your boyfriend into a fire extinguisher.
He deserves better.
My eyes burn because the voice is right. I blink up at the ceiling, where the faint streetlight cuts a thin line across the plaster.
“I’m trying,” I whisper to nobody. “I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying.”
FORTY-TWO
MIGUEL
Caleb sleeps like he’s trying to fuse with me. We’re both half-stuck to the sheets, bodies still humming from what we did last night, but he’s plastered to my side like I’m the last piece of land in a flood. One leg thrown over mine, his face buried in my chest, fingers fisted in my T-shirt like he’s bracing against the impact.
I wake up to the weight of him and the dull ache in my shoulders from a shitty pillow plus too much ladder time. For a minute I just lie there, listening to the fan, the faint whoosh of cars outside, and the soft puff of his breath against my skin.
His eyelashes are clumped together, and dark circles bruise the skin under his eyes. Even asleep, his eyebrows are pinched like his dreams won’t give him any peace.
The guilt hits, low and familiar.
