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Who gives a shit? I climb on top of him, straddling him, but he grabs my wrists before I can attack.

“I turned it off when you arrived!” he yells. “Stop!”

I twist my arm free and flick him in the forehead twice.

He flinches, trying to turn away. “I said I turned it off!”

“When I arrived?” I challenge him.

He hesitates, and I flick him again.

“After you went in the room!” he finally answers.

Likely story. I flick him on the nose.

“Ow!”

I wrap my hand around his throat, pinning him to the bed. “How long after I went in the room?”

“You weren’t undressed, if that’s what you’re asking!”

Yes, that’s what I’m asking. But I squeeze his throat for good measure.

“I promise I haven’t seen anything,” he rasps, trying to inhale. “I’m not spying on you.”

I stay there, glowering, because I believe him, but I don’t want to. Sometimes it just feels good to be mad.

When I don’t get off him, he shifts underneath me, grunting. “Can you…”

He takes my waist in both hands and tries to move me, and that’s when I feel him. Hard through his pajama pants. All the way through my jeans.

“Aro, please.” He throws me off. “I…”

I fall onto the bed at his side, and he sits up, grabbing the sheets and bunching them up to cover his erection.

Heat rises to my cheeks, and to his too. I bite back a smile, loving how embarrassed he looks.

My anger dissipates, and everything warms. “I thought you were…”

He props himself up with one hand and keeps trying to cover himself with the other, pushing it down.

He glances at me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. His narrow waist disappears under the covers, his hair hanging in his eyes, and he’s actually more handsome this way. A little vulnerable.

Since I met him, he almost hasn’t seemed human. Like he has a database of the most optimal responses to any given situation, and he’s never wrong.

He doesn’t always have the right answer, though. He has problems just like the rest of us.

“I thought maybe women didn’t turn you on,” I broach. “I’ve heard the stories.”

He points to the door. “Get out.”

I laugh under my breath. “No, now come on,” I beg. “Don’t be mad. It’s okay to still be figuring yourself out. Maybe you’re attracted to both. I just kind of assumed…”

“Yeah, everyone assumes,” he fires back. “Why can a woman be picky, but a man’s sexuality is questioned if he’s not diving into every short skirt like an animal who can’t control himself?”

He crashes back to the bed, the back of his hand resting on his forehead as he stares at the ceiling.

His body responded to mine. Like I’m sure it did to all the women he turned down.

I didn’t mean to imply that chasing every short skirt is normal. But his sudden anger implies this is a sore subject.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

He chews the corner of his mouth, still not looking at me.

“She’s really pretty,” I say. “She won’t stay single for long, you know?”

I don’t know why I’m encouraging him to get back with his ex. I’m sure she treats him fine, but she’s kind of bitchy.

But then, so am I, so whatever.

I sit there for a minute, and he lets me, the wheels turning in his head.

After a few more moments, his breathing calms. “I just can’t get out of my head,” he says. “It happens every time. A thought and then a thought and then a doubt and then a worry, a concern, a dread, until my head is swimming, and I want to scream.” He closes his eyes, and I can tell he’s trying to control himself. “It’s so loud, and then I’ve lost it. The moment.”

He sits up, resting on his hands behind him, and I watch him wet his lips.

“What do we do after?” he says, thinking out loud. “What’s next? Is she going to expect me to be a certain way? Will she be forever? What if I get her pregnant? What if she doesn’t like it? What if I finish too soon?” He pauses and then says a little quieter, “What if I don’t love her?”

I know these questions aren’t for me, but I don’t know what to say, because I think it’s amazing that he thinks like that. So many of us seize immediate gratification, but he wants it all to mean something.

“I just…” He searches for his words. “I want what my parents have.” He finally raises his eyes to mine. “They have to have each other, because the only other option is unthinkable. There’s no choice. He can’t be in a room with her and not touch her.” He looks down at his lap. “I’ve never felt that. Not ever.”

I wait, listening.

“I mean, I should’ve felt something like that with someone, right?” he asks. “Some kind of overwhelming need? Even for just a moment?”