Page 99 of Into Pitch

This is not loss of control, I lie to myself. It’s… just adjusting to new variables. Even if my body disagrees. Even if every time I close my eyes all I see is her arched beneath me, all I hear is the soft sounds she makes when I’m inside of her. I devour it mentally and curse, my release barreling through me hard enough my knees nearly buckle.

All my sanity washing down the drain with my physical self before my hand shoots out. Both palms slapping the wall as I hang my head, letting the water run unchecked as some of that heat dies. Not that it could ever truly fade off, it’s always there simmering under the surface and waiting to clip my knees out from beneath me.

My eyes lift from the wall to the glass of the shower door, as if I can see through the wall beyond to where she is in the next room. Awake possibly, thinking. Possibly painting me again in her mind the way she had on canvas. The same way I had just done.

I shake my head, turning into the water to let it run down my face. Control is not absence of impulse, but containment.

I am still in control, but the margin is thinner than I prefer.

I shut off the water and step out, steam curling around me as I reach for the towel and tug it around my waist.

Later, I can analyze this and decide exactly what it means.

For now, I accept the truth without judgement.

Sadie has altered the equation and I am simply accommodating the change. That’s all this is.

Right?

The problems is not that I want him.

The problem is that wanting him has become inconvenient.

It settles in me slowly over the course of the next morning, a low hum under my skin that refuses to be ignored.

Okay, so maybe I’m lying to myself that this is a sudden bright realization. That its hit me all at once and didn’t already steamroll me the moment I stepped into Pitch.

I’ve set up base camp in the corner this morning, pretending to sketch when in reality I haven’t put a single meaningful line on the page in ten minutes. Not because of something sane like—I don’t know—mental block. No, it’s the absolute absurdity of having Alex sitting across the room as he works.

He’s stripped the dining table bare and turned it into some kind of temporary workstation; papers spread neatly, a notebook open, and pen moving with steady precision. He’s focused of course, his posture relaxed but alert, and his attention is narrowed to the task in front of him like the rest of the world just doesn’t fucking exist.

Like me or the world don’t exist.

And apparently so has my ability to think like a functioning adult.

I shift in my chair and tell myself not to be ridiculous, but it doesn’t help. There’s something obscene about watching him like this. Not preforming or proving, but just existing in his element. Sleeves rolled up and forearms flexing subtly every time he writes or adjusts a page. My gaze sliding to his jaw that is set in concentration, lips pressed together in a way that makes my mouth go dry for reasons I refuse to unpack.

It’s not fair.

He said it very clearly. That the next time we crawled off into our baser instincts, I’d have to come to him.

At the time, I’d bristled and maybe even pushed back a bit. Told myself it was a power play I could ignore.

Now?

Now it feels like a countdown ticking loud and obnoxious inside of my head.

So I’m watching him like the freak I am, because I can’t stop myself. He hasn’t moved much, but the light has shifted just enough that it catches along the sharp line of his cheekbone. His hair has fallen loose from whatever habitually neat arrangement he favors, a dark strand slipping forward toward his eyes.

Ugh, my stomach does that thing where it flips without permission to.

I narrowly bite back my groan and look back to my sketchbook, deciding it’s the bane of all my problems.

Get it together.

This is not some rom-com montage where staring equals destiny. This is a cabin in the woods with a man who could dismantle me psychologically before lunch if he felt like it.

I sneak another look anyways, because—you know, self-deprecation and all.