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109. Took You Long Enough

Penulis: C Pinky
last update Terakhir Diperbarui: 2026-02-27 05:04:09

"There's nothing else," I said. "That's all of it. Everything."

She studied me across the table. I recognized the look — I'd taught it to her. Reading an opponent. Looking for the micro-tells. The slight muscle movement, the breath pattern, the thing the eyes did when the mouth wasn't being completely honest.

I let her look.

"Okay," she said finally.

Then again, softer: "Okay."

She reached across the table and put her hand over mine.

Her fingers were warm. I turned my hand over and held them.

O
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  • LORENZO, MY FATHER'S BEST FRIEND    126. Making Love🌶️🌶️🌶️

    We undressed each other in the amber light from the window, unhurried, her sweatshirt going first and then my shirt, her hands flat on my chest for a moment after like she was taking inventory.Her bed was narrow. We worked with it rather than against it — the proximity it required becoming its own thing, the closeness enforced by twin mattress dimensions turning into something that felt intentional.I took my time.That was what her space gave me — the complete and absolute permission to take my time. No professional proximity, no thin walls, no carefully managed sounds. Just her dorm room with Maya gone for the weekend and the two of us with nowhere to be and all night to be nowhere.I pressed my mouth to her throat, felt her pulse jump under my lips. Moved down to her collarbone, the top of her sternum, the soft curve just below it. Her breathing changed — that specific shift I knew now, the one where she stopped managing her responses and just had them."Damon—""I know," I said a

  • LORENZO, MY FATHER'S BEST FRIEND    125. A Guest?

    I sat down on the edge of her desk chair — her gear on the back of it, her scent on everything in this room in the specific way a space absorbed the person who lived in it — and drank my tea and let her watch me be out of my element for once.She seemed to find it enormously satisfying.We ended up on her bed because it was the only real option.The desk chair was occupied by me and then her gear, the floor had an open textbook situation that neither of us wanted to disturb, and the bed was there — narrow, practical, with the sweatshirt she'd been wearing earlier folded at the foot of it and a book face-down on the pillow marking where she'd been before I arrived.I sat with my back against the wall. She sat cross-legged at the foot of it facing me, mug in both hands, and we talked the way we always talked — picking up threads and following them wherever they went, no agenda, no performance.The setting loosened something in me that I hadn't known was still being held.His apartment w

  • LORENZO, MY FATHER'S BEST FRIEND    124. Invited To Her Dorm

    DAMONThe text came at seven-fifteen on a Friday evening.Maya's gone for the weekend. Come over.I read it twice. Not because it was complicated but because it took a moment to register what was different about it. Every other version of this — every other evening, every other plan made between us — ended with her walking across campus to my apartment. Her knocking on my door. Her in my space, my kitchen, my routines.Come over.Her space.I'd been in her dorm room once before. Briefly — in the middle of everything with Vanessa, some errand I couldn't fully remember now, both of us moving fast through a situation that required moving fast. I'd stood in the doorway for approximately ninety seconds and registered almost nothing except that she was there and we needed to leave.This was different.I put on my jacket and walked across campus.-It was strange, being the one walking toward something instead of waiting for it to arrive.The campus had that Friday evening looseness — studen

  • LORENZO, MY FATHER'S BEST FRIEND    123. Keep You

    Not performatively — not making a show of it. Just slowly, like he had no interest in rushing past any of it. His hands were warm and certain and when my shirt came off he looked at me the way he'd been looking at me all evening — with that particular quality of attention that made me feel like the only thing in his field of vision. Like I was something worth the full weight of his focus."Damon." Just his name. Just needing to say it."I know," he said. "I've got you."He laid me down in the warm light and followed me there and we found each other with the ease of people who'd learned the language of each other's bodies over months of close study. He pressed his mouth to my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder, the soft skin of my inner wrist, and I felt each one like something being written."What do you want," he said against my skin.His hands had gone still. Waiting.I told him.He listened with his whole attention, the way he listened to everything, and then he gave me exactly t

  • LORENZO, MY FATHER'S BEST FRIEND    122. Undressing Me

    I turned the tap off.The kitchen went quiet without the water running. Just the music, just the building's ambient sounds, just him looking at me."That sounds serious," I said."It's not bad serious." He set the pan on the counter. Set the towel down next to it. "Just something I want to say out loud."I leaned back against the counter beside the sink. Crossed my arms loosely, not defensively, just settling in."Okay," I said. "Tell me."---He looked at me the way he looked at things he was going to say exactly right or not at all."I've spent most of my adult life traveling light." His voice was measured, finding the shape of what he wanted as he went. "Not accumulating things. Not — staying anywhere long enough to have things worth keeping." He stopped briefly. "I moved through everything like it was temporary. Because it always was. And I got very good at not wanting things I knew I couldn't hold onto."I didn't say anything."Then you walked into my office at six in the morning

  • LORENZO, MY FATHER'S BEST FRIEND    121. Can I Tell You Something?

    LEXII smelled the food before I opened the door.Not the usual weeknight smell — something quick thrown together, functional, the cooking of a man who treated meals the way he treated most practical things, efficiently and without ceremony. This was different. Richer. The kind of smell that meant someone had been in the kitchen for a while, that things had been layered and tended and actually thought about.I stood in the doorway for a second before he heard me come in.He was at the stove with his back to me, sleeves rolled up, and there was music playing. Something low and unhurried coming from his phone on the counter — instrumental, the kind of thing that didn't demand attention, just filled the air and made the room feel warmer than the temperature accounted for.He didn't cook to music.In all the months I'd spent in this apartment I had never once heard him put music on while he cooked. He cooked in silence or he cooked while we talked. Never music.He turned when he heard me

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