Better than I remember.
My body is still humming, still buzzing with the aftermath. My skin feels too sensitive.
My pulse too fast.
And my mind is struggling to catch up.
“You’re still on birth control, right?” he asks, voice rough, a little unsteady. “Shouldn’t be a?—”
“Actually,” I murmur and sit up slowly, the sheet sliding with me as I pull it tight across my chest.
Suddenly, I feel exposed in a way I didn’t a few minutes ago.
“Uh, I haven’t had health insurance until recently, and I-I’ve been on the road a lot. Um, I just haven’t been on birth control in a couple of years.”
The words hang there.
Heavy.
Real.
Benji moves, turning toward me, sitting up fully now, his expression shifting fast—confusion, then surprise, then something deeper I can’t quite name.
“What?” he says. “Why?”
I let out a breath, running a hand through my damp hair.
“Benji, I’ve been sorta without roots,” I say, like that explains everything. “Living out of a van. I haven’t exactly been scheduling appointments or planning my life around this kind of thing. I mean this?”
I gesture vaguely between us.
“I haven’t—well—there hasn’t been anyone since?—”
I stop.
Too late.
The words are already out there.
Hanging.
Echoing.
I cringe, my stomach twisting as the full weight of what I just admitted sinks in.
Because I forgot.
Forgot that he still thinks I’m a cheater.
“Oh, shit,” he breathes.
My heart stutters.
I force myself to look at him.
Bracing for it.
The anger.
