1

“Ahh fuck yeah…”

The sound slips out before I can cage it back. A moan, soft and perfectly timed. Measured, rehearsed. Reflex, not real.

Not because Evan is making me feel something. Not because pleasure is unfurling inside me. No, it’s because I’ve learned the script. Because that’s what girlfriends do.

His weight smothers me, pinning me into the mattress. His chest damp and sticky against mine, his rhythm steady and predictable. Thrust, pull back. Thrust, pull back. A machine could do it better.

Evan always starts slow, like he’s seen in some late-night movie where “romance” is supposed to simmer into passion. He thinks it’s foreplay. He thinks it builds suspense. It never does.

The room is dark except for the glow of the alarm clock, but my eyes stay open, pinned on the ceiling fan. The old thing creaks with every slow spin, a hypnotic circle I count to distract myself.

One. Two. Three.

Anything to stop me from noticing the way my body is numb.

I don’t think about Evan . I don’t even try. Instead, I think about my vibrator. The rose-shaped one tucked in the back of my sock drawer like a dirty secret. I think about the way it hums against me, the way it makes me arch, the way I lose myself when I’m the one in control.

With Evan , there’s no control. No surrender either. Just routine.

He groans, low and tired, like a man forcing himself through another set at the gym. His thrusts are steady, too steady, quarterback rhythm drilled into him from years of football. Predictable. Reliable. The kind of rhythm you clap for at pep rallies but never ache for in bed.

Missionary. Always missionary. He never even bothers to try something else. Like he’s afraid if he changes angles, he might lose his balance.

I used to think it was enough. Back in high school, when he was the golden boy in the letterman jacket, hair perfectly tousled, parents cheering in the stands. And me? I was the smart girl, the one who looked good enough on his arm.

That used to be flattering. Being chosen. Being wanted.

Now?

Now I just lie still, cataloguing my grocery list in my head, already knowing the ending of this scene before he even hits his stride. Spoiler: I won’t come. I never do.

Three years of this. Three years of faking. Three years of swallowing sighs and pasting on smiles.

And the sickest part? I don’t even leave. Because Evan is familiar. Because his voice, his hands, even his too-strong Axe cologne are part of my routine. I hate change more than I hate his mediocrity.

But tonight, I try.

I force myself to break character, to step out of the moaning puppet role. My hand cups his jaw, sweat slick under my palm. “Babe, can you… go a little harder?” My whisper feels like a rebellion.

He doesn’t even blink. Just keeps pumping into me like a metronome.

I shift beneath him, angle my hips, try to guide his motion into something—anything—different. “What if we… tried it from behind?”

He pauses. Just for one heartbeat. Then snorts. “No. Why mess with what works?”

My stomach twists. Works for who?

I bite my lip, force the sigh back down. “Right. Yeah.”

The voice in my head starts shouting again. The voice I try to drown every night. The one that compares him to the men in the dark romance books I hide under my pillow. Men who pin women to walls, who make them beg, who turn surrender into salvation.

Where the heroine comes undone, over and over, until she can’t even remember her own name.

Control as a weapon. Pleasure as a battlefield.

And here I am, flat on my back, being humped like a mattress Evan bought on sale.

I tell myself to stop reading that trash. That those books are dangerous fantasies. But at least they make me feel something.

I press my palm against his chest, steadying him. He grunts like I’ve interrupted his flow. “What now?”

I hesitate. My pulse thrums like it’s trying to escape me. Then I finally let the thought out. “What if you… choked me?”

He stills instantly. Cold. Like I’ve suggested murder.

“Not hard,” I add quickly, my voice small. “Just a little. It’s a thing people do, you know—”

His face twists, disgust contorting him into someone I don’t even recognize.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His voice is sharp, slicing the air. He pulls out with a slick sound and rolls away like I’ve burned him.

I blink, stunned, scrambling for the sheet to cover my chest even though he’s seen me naked a hundred times. “Evan —”

“You seriously just killed the vibe.” He snatches his phone from the nightstand. “You want to be abused during sex now? Jesus, Sel.”

“I didn’t say abused,” I mumble. My cheeks flame. “It’s just… it’s a kink, not—”

“Oh, so now you’re into freak shit?” He cuts me off, standing, looming. “What, you want me slapping you around? Spitting in your mouth? Calling you a whore?”

The image hits me like lightning. Him doing that. Not the Evan I know, but a fantasy version of him. The thought makes me slick between my thighs. Pathetic.

“That’s not what I meant,” I whisper, curling into myself, clutching the sheet tighter.

“God, this is why I don’t watch p**n with you,” he spits. “You get these fucked-up ideas from TikTok or some trashy smut novel and suddenly I’m supposed to—what? Dominate you?”

I swallow hard. “I just… I haven’t been coming lately, Evan . I thought maybe—”

His laugh is bitter. “Wow. So this is my fault now?”

“No, I—”

“You’ve got issues,” he snaps. “Serious issues. Maybe figure out why you’re even into that shit.”

His words drench me in ice water. I shrink smaller under the covers. My body is bare but I’ve never felt more exposed.

“I’m not into anything,” I whisper, voice breaking. “I’m just trying to understand why I feel nothing.”

He freezes mid-step. His voice drops low, dangerous. “Nothing?”

I should retreat. Should smooth it over like always. But something snaps inside me, sharp and jagged.

“Nothing,” I repeat, louder. “Three fucking years of nothing. Three years of faking every orgasm because you never once asked if I was enjoying it.”

His head whips toward me, eyes wild. “So you’ve been lying to me this whole time?”

“Have you been lying to yourself?” The words spill like fire before I can stop them. “Did you really believe those moans were real? That I was coming on cue every single time in exactly two minutes like clockwork?”

His jaw clenches, his nostrils flare. “You’re being a bitch.”

“No, I’m being honest. For the first time.”

I throw the sheet aside and stand, my body trembling but my voice strong. “Do you know what I think about when we have sex?”

He doesn’t answer.

“My grocery list. My sociology paper. Whether I turned off my straightener.” My voice gains speed, sharper now. “Literally anything except you.”

His face hardens. “Fuck you, Selena .”

“You already did,” I snap. “Badly as usual.”

Silence. Heavy, crackling. The kind that makes the air impossible to breathe.

He looks at me like I’ve grown horns. Like the sweet, accommodating girlfriend he’s molded for years has just shed her skin and revealed fangs.

“You know what?” he says, voice flat. “You’re right. This is fucked up. We’re fucked up.”

Finally. Truth. “Something we actually agree on.”

He yanks his jeans up, jerky movements fueled by rage. He grabs his keys off my dresser with a clatter.

“Don’t call me.”

I laugh, bitter and small. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

The door slams behind him so hard my picture frames rattle against the walls.

And just like that, Evan is gone.