"Because I'm tired of saying no."
The words landed like stones in still water. I watched the ripples spread across her face, across her shoulders, across the way she held herself like she was waiting for something to break.
"Monika—"
"He's the only one who's ever given me anything without asking for something in return." She laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "I know that's not true. I know he's asking for everything. But it felt like... it felt like someone finally saw me. Not the farm girl. Not the waitress. Just me."
"I see you."
"I know. That's what makes this so hard."
She reached out and touched my face. Her fingers were cold, trembling, and I covered them with my own.
"You're the best part of this place," she said. "The only good part. And I'm going to ruin you. I'm going to ruin you the way I'm ruining everything else."
"You can't ruin me. I was already ruined before I met you."
She kissed me.
Not the way she'd kissed me before—not soft, not tender, not full of questions and trembling hands. This kiss was desperate. Frantic. The kind of kiss you give when you're trying to hold onto something that's already slipping away.
I kissed her back the same way. My hands found her hips, her waist, the swell of her breasts beneath the sweater. She moaned into my mouth, and the sound of it—the raw, hungry sound—made me harder than I'd ever been.
I lifted her onto the potting bench. The wood was cold beneath her thighs, and she gasped, but she didn't pull away. Shewrapped her legs around my waist and pulled me closer, and I could feel the heat of her through our clothes, the want of her, the need.
"Now," she said. "I need—now, Gabriel—"
I fumbled with her jeans. My hands were shaking—they were always shaking around her—but she didn't guide me this time. She just watched me with those steady brown eyes, waiting, trusting.
When I finally got them open, when I finally pushed inside her, she cried out.
It wasn't gentle.
Nothing about this was gentle.
I fucked her against the potting bench—harder than I'd ever fucked anyone, harder than I knew I could. The wood creaked beneath us, and the orchids rattled in their pots, and somewhere in the distance, I heard a bird singing a song I didn't recognize.
Her hands were in my hair, pulling, and her legs were around my waist, and her face—her face was open and raw and beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
"Harder," she said. "Please—Gabriel—harder—"
I gave her what she asked for. I gave her everything I had. I put my hand around her throat—not tight enough to hurt, not tight enough to bruise, just tight enough to feel her pulse beneath my fingers, just tight enough to know that she was alive and I was alive and we were both here, in this moment, falling apart together.
She came first. Her body tightened around me, and she said my name—Gabriel—like it was the only word she remembered. I watched her face as she shattered, and I followed a moment later, burying myself inside her, burying my face in her neck, burying everything I couldn't say.
When it was over, we stayed like that for a long time.
The potting bench was cold beneath us. The orchids were still. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed, and footsteps echoed through the hallway, and I held her tighter.
"Monika," I whispered.
She didn't answer.
"Monika, I love you."
The words came out before I could stop them. They hung in the air between us, fragile and terrible, and I watched her face for a reaction.
She didn't say it back.
