And I do what any emotionally repressed man in denial would do?—
I grab Ethan’s cereal box and walk out of the room.
Back in my room,I toss the cereal on the desk and flop face-first into my mattress, phone clutched like it’s got answers.
It doesn’t. Obviously.
The room’s quiet now. That annoying kind of quiet where you’re suddenly way too aware of your own breathing and how pathetically long it’s been since you checked your texts.
Again. Still nothing.
I roll onto my back and lift my phone to my face like I haven’t done this three times already.
I open our thread anyway, like maybe I missed something. But no—still just project notes and dry logistics, like last night didn’t happen. Like she didn’t let me make her orgasm. Like I didn’t get to see her unravel in my arms.
Jesus. Blood rushes to my dick just thinking about it.
I shouldn’t care this much. We didn’t agree to anything. No labels, no expectations. It was just?—
I don’t know what it was. It was amazing, the best sex or like…nearly the best sex of my life and fucking hell, I didn’t even come.
And now I’m stuck here trying to figure out how to text someone I’ve literally already had my mouth on. I scroll up, rereading something she sent last week about wind load variables and architectural symmetry.Real flirty stuff. Super romantic.
I could text her now.
Ask about the competition.
Or class.
Or… something casual.
Option 1: Hey, just checking the project files—did you want to go over section 3 again?
Too business-y. Sounds like I’m pretending last night didn’t happen.
Option 2: Hey. How are you?
God, what am I, 87?
Option 3: You working today? Want me to bring lunch?
That one stalls me. Makes me picture her in the shop, behind the counter, probably pretending she doesn’t care if she’s eaten or not. I could make those egg mayo sandwiches she liked at the camp cafeteria, even though she said they were “edible at best.” She still ate them quickly every time.
Would she think it’s weird? Too much? No. Too much. Sandwiches are a commitment. That’s like… second base in Delilahland. Plus I already got her donuts, maybe her stalker claims are right.
I swipe away from the message draft and toss the phone onto my chest. It doesn’t make me feel better. Just heavier.
Since when doIoverthink texts?
I scrub my hands over my face, frustrated. I do not like this feeling. I don’t like waiting. Or wanting.
I grab the nearest pillow, press it over my face, and groan like a boy half my age. My voice echoes back at me through cotton and frustration.
“Get your shit together.”
The pillow doesn’t respond. Probably for the best.
I grab another handful of cereal when I feel the itch again. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my phone. Screen dark. No new messages.
