the dinner?
The dim lights of the strip club flickered against the mirrored walls, casting fractured reflections of bodies in motion.
That’s where I first met Taylor.
She’d sit in the same velvet-lined booth every Friday night, her eyes locked on me as I worked the pole. I’d catch her gaze mid-spin. Soft, curious, never demanding. She wasn’t like the others.
No crude shouts, no crumpled bills stuffed into my waistband. Instead, she’d wait until I was done, then slip me a crisp hundred with a shy smile.
“For your time,” she’d say, like I was doing her a favor.
Soon, it wasn’t just hundreds. Taylor became my sugar mommy without ever calling it that. She’d show up at my shitty apartment with takeout and gift bags, her cheeks pink as she watched me unwrap whatever she’d brought. “I just like seeing you happy,” she’d mumble, brushing off my thanks. I’d tease her, calling her soft, and she’d laugh, but she never pushed for more. Never asked for what I figured she wanted. She seemed content just sitting there, listening to me ramble about my day over some million dollar wine.
I didn’t get it. All that money, all those gifts, and she wouldn’t even hint at sex. I started wondering if she saw me as some kind of charity case. But one night, sprawled on her couch after we were watching a movie, me curled up in her arms, I caught her staring. Not at the screen, but at me.
Her lips parted slightly, and I thought, Okay, enough waiting. I leaned in, kissed her hard, and she froze for a second before melting into it. We ended up tangled in her sheets, her hands hesitant but eager, like she’d been holding back for months. She had.
After that, it was like a switch flipped. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
Her place, my place, the backseat of her car. Didn’t matter. She’d barely get through the door before I’d have her pinned against it, her breath hitching as I tugged at her clothes. It was constant, frantic, like we were making up for lost time. She’d laugh about it sometimes, call me insatiable, but her eyes sparkled when she said it. I thought we were good. Better than good.
Until one night, she stopped me. We were on her couch, my shirt already off, her fingers tracing my chest, when she pulled back and sighed. “Can we just… hang out tonight? Like, without me ending up going down on you?” Her tone was light, but there was an edge to it.
I froze, my brain short-circuiting. All I heard was her saying she didn’t want me anymore. That she was bored of me. I sat up, yanking my shirt back on, and forced a laugh. “What, you say that like it’s a chore.”
She immediately shook her head and started to clarify but i squinted my eyes at her and interrupted. “So-you’re not into me now? That’s fine. I was just using you for your money anyway.”
Her face crumpled, but I kept going, the lie spilling out before I could stop it. “I’ve been getting head from someone else after this anyway. Don’t worry about it.”
Taylor’s face didn’t flinch when I spat out that lie about using her, about someone else. Her eyes went cold, though, like a shutter slamming shut. She didn’t yell, didn’t cry. Just leaned back on the couch, crossed her arms, and said, “Get the fuck out.” Her voice was steady, sharp. “You’re nothing but a whore who won’t amount to anything ever. Last time i ever do shit out of pity again”
I stood there for a second, the words slicing deeper than I’d expected, but I didn’t argue. I grabbed my shit and left, the door clicking shut behind me like a full stop. That was six months ago.
I thought I’d moved on. By the work of some holy power, a new modeling gig dropped into my lap. I stopped dancing, kept my head down. Taylor faded into a blurry memory of cash and sex and something I couldn’t name. I figured she’d done the same. Written me off as a mistake she could afford to forget.
Until my phone buzzed last night, her name lighting up the screen. I almost didn’t answer, but curiosity won. “Hey,” she said, like nothing had happened. “Jack and Margaret want to have dinner with you too.” I blinked, confused. “Margaret insisted on talking to you. You met her at that Oscars after-party two weeks ago, remember?”
I vaguely recalled a tall woman with a ponytail and soft eyes, shaking my hand while Taylor hovered nearby. It was a crazy night. Had no idea how I got home. It’d been a quick intro, nothing more. “Dinner’s next Friday, 7 p.m.,” Taylor went on. “I’m sending you a dress. I’ll pick you up at 6:30.” Her tone was all business, like she was scheduling a dentist appointment.
I bristled, the old resentment flaring up. “I don’t want any of your money,” I snapped.
She laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Funny, you wanted it before.” I didn’t say anything-couldn’t. The silence stretched, and I guess she took it as me caving. “See you then,” she said, and hung up. No goodbye, just dead air.
I stared at the phone, my thumb hovering over her number. Six months, and she still had a way of getting under my skin. I didn’t know what Margaret wanted, or why Taylor was playing chauffeur, but one thing was clear: neither of us had moved on as much as we thought.
The morning of the dinner, I’m halfway through my coffee when the doorbell buzzes. I shuffle over, expecting a delivery guy, but there’s no one.
Just a sleek black Prada box sitting on the mat, wrapped with a pink bow that’s almost too perfect. I pick it up, the weight of it familiar, and spot a little card tucked into the ribbon. I slide it out, and the note reads: “I was shopping the other day and this reminded me of you. If it doesn’t fit that’s okay I just remembered you look good in black :)” The smiley face at the end makes me smile too, just for a second, until I clock the handwriting. It’s not Taylor’s. It’s her assistant’s. That neat, loopy script she’d use for all the “urgent” emails.
My chest tightens. Back when things were good, Taylor wrote those notes herself messy little scrawls about how she couldn’t wait to see me wear whatever she’d bought. Before all the bullshit. I miss it more than I want to admit.
I shake it off and open the box. The dress spills out, black and delicate: a short babydoll style with puffy sleeves and a tiny metal Prada tag glinting at the chest. I slip it on, and it’s a little tight across the bust, pushing my boobs up more than I’d planned, but it works. I turn in the mirror, smoothing the fabric, and feel that old tug of her taste lingering in the choice. She always knew what I looked good in.
Later, I’m curling my hair when I FaceTime my best friend Ava. She picks up, smirking at how im already mid-rant about how fucked up all this is before I even say hi.
“Taylor’s such a bitch, sending you shit like she still owns you,” she says, popping gum between words. “You should ditch her ass and snag some guy billionaire. Make her squirm.”
I laugh, loud and fake, brushing mascara on like it’s armor. “I don’t give a fuck about her to care,” I say, tossing my head back. It’s a lie, and Ava probably knows it, but she doesn’t call me out. She just smirks and keeps talking trash while I finish getting ready, the dress hugging me like a memory I can’t shake.
The Range Rover’s engine hums outside my place at exactly 6:30, its glossy black finish catching the streetlights. New, I notice, as I climb in.
Taylor’s already there, in the backseat looking up from her phone as she hears the door open. Looking like she stepped out of a magazine.
“Hey,” I mumble, shifting in the leather seat, feeling the dress ride up my thighs. She doesn’t look at me, just says, “Put your seatbelt on,” her voice flat. I roll my eyes, tugging at the fabric. “I’m a grown adult, thanks.” She’s in a red maxi dress, slit high enough to show off her legs, paired with black Louboutins that click when she moves. Her boobs are pushed up, just like mine in this tight Prada number, and I’ve seen them a million times-touched them, too-but tonight they’re distracting as hell.
Her hair’s a cascade of curls, bouncing when she shifts, and my fingers twitch with the old urge to twirl them. I clench my hand into a fist instead.
“You don’t have yours on,” I point out, nodding at her bare shoulder.
She laughs, sharp and a little mean. “It’s my fucking car.”
I mutter under my breath, “Can’t wait for this to be over,” and she snaps back, “Me too.”
The rest of the ride is dead silent, the kind that presses against your ears. I scroll Twitter on my phone, snickering at some dumb tweet, and she glances over, casual as anything. “What’s funny?”
I smirk, not looking up. “None of your business.” The driver, some guy I don’t know, catches my eye in the rearview, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a laugh. He knows I’m poking the bear.
Taylor’s huffs and brushes a golden curl behind her ear. “If you’re gonna be this much of a bitch all night, you better ask Jack and Margaret for a ride or take a fucking Uber home. I’m not wasting gas on you.”
Her tone’s ice-cold, and I feel the sting. I sigh, half-assing an “Sorry,” more to shut her up than anything. She just says, “Okay,” clipped and final, and we don’t speak again. The city lights blur past, and I stare out the window, pretending I don’t care that she’s right there, looking like that, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.
We pull up to the restaurant, and Jack and Margaret are already there, lingering near the hostess stand, waiting to be seated. Jack’s in a crisp suit, Margaret’s in something flowy and expensive-looking, her dark hair flowing around her shoulders. She smiles as she turns to us.
I step out of the Range Rover, and we exchange quick, stiff hugs. Margaret’s warm, Jack’s barely there. He shoots Taylor a look, eyebrows raised, like he can’t believe I actually showed up. His vibe’s cold, distant, and it pisses me off more than it should. I can practically hear Taylor’s voice in my head, twisting shit about me to him, stuff that never even happened. My jaw tightens as I glare at her, but she’s busy smoothing her dress, ignoring me.
Margaret’s voice cuts through. “Jack, darling, did you actually make the reservation? Because it doesn’t look like they’ve got a table ready.”
The waiters are scrambling, menus in hand, and Jack rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Uh, no, I didn’t.”
Margaret’s eyes narrow, and she launches into him. “I don’t ask much of you, Jack, but this-really? You couldn’t handle one simple thing?” Her voice climbs, drawing stares, and Jack just stands there, taking it, his face red.
Taylor and I drift to the side, tuning out the drama. She glances down at my feet: black heels I’d thrown on to match the Prada dress and mutters, “At least your heels match.”
It’s a dig, annoyed, like it’s the bare minimum I could’ve managed. I used to suck at matching, always mixing shit up, and she’d tease me about it back when things were good. I nod, trying to lighten it. “Yeah, my Converses were in the wash.” She doesn’t crack a smile, just looks away, her curls bouncing as she shifts. Jack’s still getting his ass handed to him, and I’m stuck standing next to her, the air between us thick and sour.
We’re still standing there, waiting for the table, and I can’t help it.
Every time Taylor turns her head or looks away, my eyes flick to her boobs. That red dress is doing her no favors in the “keeping it subtle” department, and I’m a sucker for it, sneaking glances like some kid stealing candy. She’s talking to a waiter now, her head tilted, and I risk another look-then she snaps her head back toward me.
My heart jumps, and I jerk my gaze away, coughing into my fist like I’ve got something stuck in my throat. She squints at me, her brows knitting. “You okay? Looks like the table’s ready,” she says, totally clueless about where my eyes were. I nod, still coughing, and follow her lead, praying she didn’t catch me.
We sit down, Jack and Margaret across from us, Taylor next to me, too close for comfort. Margaret leans forward, I nearly gasp at how beautiful she is. I mean I’ve always known but her smile and eyes, they’re really distracting.
“So,” she says, fixing me with this intense stare, “tell me more about you. I’ve heard things, and you seem great.”
Her voice is warm, like she actually means it, and I fumble, words tripping over each other. “Uh, well, I-I used to dance, um, not like ballet or anything, just… work, you know?” She’s nodding, engaged, her eyes locked on mine, and it’s a lot. Too much attention after months of keeping my head down. I can feel my face heating up.
Taylor snickers beside me, a low, mocking sound as I stutter through my mess of a sentence. I ignore her, focusing on Margaret, which I know pisses Taylor off.
Back when we were a thing, I’d always bite back at her little jabs, give her something to play off. Now, I just let her laugh hang there, unanswered, and I catch the way her jaw tightens out of the corner of my eye. She knows I’m shutting her out on purpose, and it’s getting to her. Good. Margaret’s still watching me, waiting for more, and I push through the nerves, pretending Taylor’s not even there.
Dinner picks up after that shaky start. The conversation flows…Jack’s cracking dry jokes, Margaret’s asking about my old dancing gigs, and even Taylor chimes in with a couple of half-decent stories. It’s almost nice, like we’re all pretending the tension isn’t simmering under the table.
Then I mess it up.
I turn to Jack, trying to keep the vibe going, and ask, “So, any cool projects you’re working on? You collabing with anyone big?” It’s innocent enough, or so I think.
Jack opens his mouth to answer, but Taylor cuts in, sharp and quick. “That’s none of your business.”
I whip my head toward her, already bristling. “It’s not yours either? I was asking Jack.”
Her eyes narrow, and she fires back, “Yeah, well, he doesn’t need to tell you shit.” It’s on then, a full-on back-and-forth, our voices climbing over each other.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I snap.
“Oh, like you’ve ever cared about boundaries,” she retorts.
Margaret’s voice breaks through, calm but firm. “Hey, hey, let’s all take a breath, okay?” But it’s too late. This isn’t about Jack’s work anymore, and she knows it. The air’s thick with everything we’ve left unsaid for six months. Margaret sighs, clocking the deeper mess, and says, “Maybe we should call it a night.”
She flags down the waiter for the check, and we all sit there, quiet and deflated, while it’s settled. When it’s time to go, she pulls me into a tight hug, her perfume soft and expensive.
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” she says, her smile genuine. I laugh, nervous and too loud, and start rambling apologies. “God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make it awkward, I just-”
She cuts me off, gentle. “Don’t worry about it. Taylor just misses you, that’s all.”
I freeze, the words landing like a punch I don’t know how to dodge. I fumble for something to say, then blurt, “Um, is there any way we can keep in touch? Like, if you want?” She doesn’t hesitate. scribbles her number on a napkin, hands it to me with a nod, and heads out the door.
I’m left standing there, clutching the napkin, Taylor’s eyes burning into me from across the room, and Margaret’s words rattling around in my head. She misses you. I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
Five minutes later after Margaret and Jack have left and it’s 3 minutes until the restaurant’s closing, I’m stuck at the entrance, shifting on my heels, while Taylor’s in the bathroom.
The restaurant’s emptying out, and I’m debating just bolting when she finally comes back, her red dress catching the light. She stops in front of me, her face unreadable, and says, “I want to have a conversation with you. At my penthouse.”
I know that tone, that look. I can guess where this is headed. “No,” I say, crossing my arms. “You’re with Travis, remember?” I don't have any bite in my voice because he appears to make her happy and that's all i really want.
She doesn’t respond, just steps closer. “I’ll pay you.”
I hesitate, then sigh. “Fine, but just talking. Nothing else.”
The car ride’s dead silent again, the city lights streaking past like they’re mocking us. We get to her penthouse, and I follow her into the living room. All sleek furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows, same as I remember.
She doesn’t sit, just stands there, arms crossed, and says, “You really hurt me, you know.”
I roll my eyes, the words hitting a nerve I don’t want to feel. “Well, yeah, and you hurt me too. You always act like such a fucking victim, Taylor, and you’re too old for it.”
Her jaw drops a little, and she snaps, “Excuse me for wanting to have a non-sexual conversation with you, you horny little bitch.”
“Yeah?” I shoot back, stepping closer, the air between us crackling. “Yeah,” she says, softer now, her eyes locked on mine. Before I can think, I’m moving,climbing into her lap, her hands catching my hips like it’s muscle memory. The dress rides up, her curls brush my cheek, and whatever we were fighting about blurs into the heat of her breath against my skin.
Her hands tighten on my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, and before I can catch my breath, she’s lifting me off her lap like I weigh nothing. My back slams against the living room wall, the cool plaster a shock against my skin through the thin Prada dress. Taylor’s mouth crashes into mine, all teeth and heat, no gentleness in itpjust raw, messy want.
Her lips taste like the wine from dinner and something sharper, something angry. I kiss her back just as hard, my hands fisting in her curls, pulling until she hisses against my mouth. Her body presses into me, pinning me there, her thigh slipping between my legs, and I can feel the slit of her red dress riding up as she grinds against me. It’s a tangle of tongues and bitten lips, her nails scraping down my sides, and I’m already dizzy from it, from her.
She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead against mine, eyes dark and wild. “Bedroom,” she mutters, voice low and rough, and doesn’t wait for me to answer. Her arms hook under my thighs, hoisting me up, and I wrap my legs around her waist on instinct, the dress bunching up around my hips. She carries me like that, strides long and sure, her Louboutins clicking against the hardwood as we move through the penthouse. My head’s spinning, caught between the ache of wanting her and the sting of everything we’ve said, but I don’t stop her. I can’t.
The bedroom door’s already ajar, and she kicks it open wider, dropping me onto the bed with a bounce that knocks the air out of me. The sheets are soft, too soft for what’s coming, and she’s on me before I can sit up…hands yanking at my dress, pulling it over my head in one rough tug.
I’m left in just my underwear, chest heaving, and she’s shedding her own dress, the red fabric pooling on the floor like spilled wine. Her strapless bra is black lace, her boobs spilling over the edges, and I hate how much I still want her, how my hands itch to touch her even now.
She doesn’t give me the chance. She’s rummaging in the nightstand, pulling out a strap-on I’ve seen before but never like this. Never with this edge in her eyes.
She steps into it, tightening the straps with quick, practiced moves, and I’m already wet, already trembling, but there’s no softness here. No words, no check-ins. Just her climbing onto the bed, flipping me over onto my stomach like I’m nothing.
“Arch” she snaps, and I scramble to obey, face pressed into the pillows, knees digging into the mattress. The air’s cool against my skin, but her hands are hot when they grab my hips, jerking me back into position.
She doesn’t ease into it. The tip of the strap presses against me, and then she’s thrusting in, hard and deep, no warning. I gasp, the stretch burning, my fingers clawing at the sheets as she sets a brutal pace. The bed creaks under us, the headboard thumping against the wall, and she’s fucking me into the mattress like she’s trying to break me. My face buries deeper into the pillows, muffling the sounds I can’t hold back: half moans, half sobs, my breath ragged and uneven. She’s never fucked me like this before, never this rough, this relentless, and it’s overwhelming, splitting me open in ways I didn’t expect.
“Please,” I choke out, not even sure what I’m begging for-more, less, something. My voice cracks, and she doesn’t slow down, just grips my hips tighter, nails biting into my skin. “Please, Taylor-” S
he cuts me off with a sharp thrust that makes me cry out, my whole body jolting forward. “What?” she growls, leaning over me now, her chest pressed to my back, her breath hot against my ear. “Is this what you wanted?” Another thrust, deeper, and I whimper, my arms shaking as they try to hold me up. “To be treated like you’re nothing to me?”
Her voice is venom and heat, and it hits me harder than the strap does. I’m crying now, tears soaking the pillow, my mascara probably streaking black down my face, but I can’t stop it. “I’m sorry,” I sob, the words spilling out between gasps, my body rocking with every punishing thrust. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”
She doesn’t let up, just keeps going, her rhythm steady and cruel, fucking me like she’s proving a point. “Yeah?” she says, quieter now, but no less biting. “You’re sorry now?” Her hand slides up my spine, pressing my face harder into the pillows, and I can barely breathe, barely think, just feel her everywhere. Inside me, around me, breaking me down.
I’m a mess, thighs trembling, ass red from where her hips slap against me, and she’s still going, relentless, her own breath hitching like she’s getting off on this just as much. The strap’s hitting every spot that makes me see stars, and I hate how good it feels, how my body’s betraying me even as I cry out her name again my voice muffled, pleading, but she just shushes me, a harsh “Shh” that’s more command than comfort.
Her hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back, and the angle shifts, the strap driving deeper, and I scream, a raw, broken sound that echoes off the walls.
She’s panting now, sweat slicking her skin against mine, and I can feel her shaking too, like she’s unraveling just as much as I am. But there’s no talking this out, no fixing the mess we’ve made-we’re too far gone for that. She fucks me harder, faster, like she’s chasing something she’ll never catch, and I’m right there with her, lost in the heat and the hurt.
“This is what you get,” she mutters, almost to herself, and I don’t know if she means me or her or both of us. My hands fist the sheets, my whole body tensing as the pressure builds, and I’m crying harder, saying “sorry” over and over like it’ll change anything.
It doesn’t. She keeps going until I’m shaking apart, until the orgasm rips through me like a storm, leaving me wrecked and gasping, face wet with tears and snot and shame. She slows then, finally, her thrusts easing, but she doesn’t pull out—just stays there, leaning over me, her breath ragged against my neck. We’re both trembling, both silent, and the room feels too big, too empty around us. I don’t move, don’t look at her, just flip onto my back and stare up at her skylight, my face still buried, knowing we’ve said nothing that matters and fucked out everything that does.
I can feel her breath, hot and uneven against my neck, and the weight of her silence presses down harder than her hands ever did. I twist beside her, slow and shaky, trying to turn over, to face her. My chest’s tight, raw from crying, but I need something.
Some kind of connection after all that. I lift my head, lips seeking hers, and for a split second, I think she’ll let me. But then her hands are on my shoulders, pushing me back, firm and unyielding. “No,” she says, voice clipped, and it’s like a slap. No matter what, we always kissed after.
Always.
My eyes sting, fresh tears welling up, and I blink hard, trying to keep them from spilling over. I almost lose it right there, the rejection cutting deeper than I’d expected.
She pulls away entirely then, letting out a string pf curses as she rubs her eyes. I’m left empty, exposed, face still damp against the pillows.
She sits back on her heels, unstrapping the harness with quick, jerky movements, and tosses it aside. Her curls are a sweaty mess, sticking to her forehead, and her chest heaves as she catches her breath. She doesn’t look at me for a long moment, just stares at the wall like she’s figuring something out.
Then, quiet and awkward, she says, “I need you to make me feel good too.”
It comes out stilted, almost embarrassed, like she’s ashamed to admit she wants something from me after all this. Her eyes flick to mine, hesitant, and I see it. the crack in her armor, the part of her that’s still human under all the anger.
I swallow hard, my throat sore from crying, and whisper, “Okay.” My voice is small, barely there, but it’s enough.
She shifts, lying back against the headboard, legs spreading slightly, and I crawl toward her, my body aching but moving anyway. I settle between her thighs, her skin warm and smooth under my hands, and I can’t help but linger there. I’ve always loved her legs-long, strong, the kind of legs that make tall women so goddamn irresistible to me. I press my lips to her inner thigh, soft little kisses, one after another, tracing the faint freckles I used to memorize back when things were different. Her breath hitches, just a little, and it’s enough to keep me going.
I move higher, kissing along the crease where her thigh meets her hip, tasting the salt of her sweat. She’s already wet. I can smell it, feel the heat radiating off her and when I finally drag my tongue along her slit, she gasps, sharp and sudden.
Her hands find my hair, fingers threading through it, guiding me with a gentle tug. “There,” she breathes, voice shaky, and I listen, flattening my tongue against her, lapping slow and deliberate. She’s slick, swollen, and I can feel her trembling under me, her thighs tensing as I work her over. I’ve done this before, countless times, but never like this.
Never with so much unsaid hanging between us. I focus on her clit, circling it with the tip of my tongue, and she moans, low and broken, her grip tightening in my hair.
“Like that,” she murmurs, guiding me harder against her, and I obey, sucking lightly, then harder when she arches into it. Her hips buck, chasing the pressure, and I watch her through my tear-drenched lashes. Her head tipped back, mouth open, curls spilling wild across the pillow. She’s beautiful, even now, even after everything, and I hate how much I still want to please her.
I slide a hand up her thigh, fingers teasing at her entrance, and when I push two inside, curling them just right, she gasps again, louder this time. “Fuck. yes,” she pants, and I keep going, pumping slow and steady, my tongue flicking over her clit in time with my hand.
She’s unraveling now, her breaths coming fast and ragged, her thighs clamping around my head. I can feel her tightening around my fingers, hear the hitch in her voice as she gets closer. “Don’t stop,” she says, desperate, and I don’t. I suck hard on her clit, one final pull, and she comes undone. Her whole body jerks, a choked cry ripping out of her, and I pull back just enough to watch her face. Her eyes squeeze shut, brows knitting, lips parted as she rides it out, wave after wave. She’s sweaty, flushed, gorgeous, and I can’t look away, even as my own chest aches with something I can’t name.
When it’s over, she slumps back, panting, her hands falling limp at her sides.
I climb up beside her, my body pressed against hers, and reach out to smooth her hair back. It’s damp, clinging to her neck, and I brush it away gently, tucking it behind her ear.
Her eyes are still closed, her chest rising and falling fast, and she looks so vulnerable it almost hurts to see. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. They hang there, heavy and useless, and she doesn’t respond. Just keeps breathing, her face turned slightly away from me. I don’t know if she heard me, or if she even cares, but I say it again, softer, “I’m sorry,” my hand resting on her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
She doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t move, and the silence stretches out, thick and suffocating. I lie there next to her, watching her come down, my own body still buzzing from everything we’ve done.
The room smells like sex and sweat, the sheets tangled beneath us, and I wonder if this is all we’ll ever be now. Two people who hurt each other and fuck it out instead of fixing it. My apology lingers unanswered, and I don’t push it.
I just stay there, close but not touching anymore, waiting for her to say something, anything, even though I know she won’t.