Chapter 3

He comes to me at night.

No knocking. No warning. Just the quiet shift of the door, the familiar weight of him entering a space that has slowly become mine and never quite stops being his.

I’m already awake. I always am when he comes. My body knows before my mind catches up. The mattress dips. My breath stutters. I hate how immediate the reaction is. How little control I have over it.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs.

I nod, even though the room is dark and he probably can’t see it. There’s enough light to trace him. The outline of his shoulders. The confidence in the way he moves, like the world has always made space for him.

He sits close. Not touching yet. He never rushes that part. Like he understands what the waiting does to me.

I tell myself not to lean in.

I do anyway.

His hand settles on my waist. Slow. Certain. His thumb presses lightly, like he’s testing something. Like he’s reminding himself I’m here. My breath slips out before I can stop it.

And the thought comes, uninvited and sharp.

If you don’t love me, why do you touch me like this?

I don’t say it.

He kisses me. Deep. Intent. Like this is the only place he lets himself be honest. His mouth is warm. Familiar. My body responds without asking my permission. I feel stupid for that. Relieved, too.

For a moment, I let myself believe a lie.

That this means something.

That this isn’t just habit.

That I’m not just… available.

His hands move with confidence, like he knows every place I soften. And maybe he does. My thoughts scatter. Promises I made to myself earlier fade into the background. The ones about restraint. About dignity. About not giving him this version of me if he won’t give me more.

I whisper his name.

He doesn’t say mine back.

It’s small. Almost nothing. But something shifts in my chest. He kisses my jaw instead. My neck. Everywhere except my mouth. Like if he avoids my lips, he won’t have to face what this actually is.

I tell myself not to overthink it.

I overthink it anyway.

After, he lies beside me. Not holding me. Just close enough that our arms brush. His breathing steadies quickly. Too quickly. Like whatever he came here carrying has been emptied out of him.

And somehow, it’s landed on me.

I stare at the ceiling. My body still warm. Still sensitive. My chest tight in a way pleasure doesn’t explain.

I think about asking him to stay.

I think about asking him why he came.

I think about asking him if this is all I am to him now.

I say nothing.

Because what if he answers?

He shifts, turning away without thinking. His back to me. A quiet, unconscious withdrawal.

I curl inward, smaller.

And as I listen to him sleep, a thought settles in me. Heavy. Unavoidable.

Maybe this is the only way he knows how to be close to me now.

I don’t know which part hurts more.

That it still feels like something…

or that I already know it isn’t enough.