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You do.

Okay, apparently I’ve graduated to arguing with myself. Congratulations, me.

I hiss through my teeth and throw my head back against the cushions. “Oh my God.”

We haven’t spoken outside of work in days. No texts. No knocks. Just tension in meetings and avoidance in hallways, like we’re both pretending we don’t remember exactly how good it feels when we’re together.

But I freaked. Of course I did. Because this—whatever it was—wasn’t supposed to leave the apartment, let alone crawl into our inboxes, tangle itself up in spreadsheets and timelines and desk chairs.

So I distanced myself. Shoved Noah away. Held him at arm's length as best I could all damn week. And now here I am, alone on a Saturday night, shoveling noodles into my mouth like I’m trying to drown the quiet.

Have I spent two nights glancing at the door like it might open if I just stare hard enough? Have I listened—really listened—for the creak of the floorboards outside my door? The soft, hesitant knock that comes after he’s waited for a few seconds, collecting his nerves?

Of course I fucking have.

Not that I miss him. I do.

Not that I want to feel his mouth on me again. I really, really do.

But am I also painfully, excruciatingly aware that it’s entirely my fault that none of those things have happened?

Yes. Yes, I am.

I reach for the half-empty bottle of wine and tip it straight back, draining the last few mouthfuls. Screw the noodles. Screw everything else. Let the soy sauce weld itself to the carton overnight, let the fork rust in there for all I care.

“God, you’re a petulant fucking child,” I mumble, dragging myself upright from the couch with all the grace of a drunk baby deer.

Clothes get peeled off one by one on the way to the bedroom. Hoodie to the hallway floor. Socks somewhere by the door. Bra draped across the lamp. I kick my jeans and underwear off at the foot of the bed, climb in, and pull the duvet up over my head like I’m six years old hiding from the monsters under the bed—and not the one curled somewhere inside my ribcage, gnawing and stubborn and shaped suspiciously like longing.

I toss. Shift. Sigh. Flop to one side. Roll back again.

It’s too warm, then too cold. The sheets are too tight, then too loose. My body won’t fucking settle. It’s too strung up on all my bullshit to just relax.

I drag my phone off the nightstand and squint at the screen, thumb hovering over the messages app like some idiot teen waiting to see if her crush has texted. He hasn’t. Obviously. Why would he?

Should I text him? Just a hey. A nothing.

No. Bad idea. Terrible idea. I shouldn’t.

But I open the thread anyway. Just to look and scroll. There’s no harm in that, right? Right?

Our words line the screen, weeks of them. Snatched quips, clipped work updates that bled too easily into teasing. Multiple ‘Can I come overs.’ I scroll slower, caught in the undertow of it—remembering each ping of my phone, each smirk I tried to bite back, each time his name on the screen made my stomach flip.

And then—there it is.

That picture. His cock in the center of the screen. Gorgeous, thick, heavy in his hand, veins pronounced, tip flushed a little darker, pre-come glistening. Fuck.

“Fuck,” I whisper, breath catching.

A slow pulse coils low in my belly, heat dripping down between my thighs. My legs shift restlessly under the blanket, trying to ease the ache. It doesn’t work.

Because I know that cock. Know the feel of it dragging through my soaked pussy, the weight of it against my tongue, the stretch of it splitting me open until I couldn’t form words. I know the sound he makes when I clench around him. The hiss between his teeth. The breathy little whimpers that slip out when I grind down hard and milk every last drop from him.

I toss the phone face down on the mattress, but it’s too late. The image is burned behind my eyelids. My hips shift again, searching for friction, and a soft, frustrated whine slips from my throat.

Don’t do it.

But I’m already shifting—rolling onto my stomach, dragging the sheets down, heart thudding in my throat. Cool air kisses against my skin as I reach between my thighs, fist the blanket, and tug it up tight against my pussy, soft cotton rubbing right where I need it the most.