Page 38

37

Lena

E llis doesn’t speak again. Just crosses the room, quiet and deliberate, and reaches for me.

His hand slides to the side of my neck, steady, not rough. His thumb rests just under my jaw. It’s not a question. It’s a pause. “I won’t make promises,” he says.

“Good. I don’t want any.”

He kisses me.

It’s practiced, yes. Controlled. He’s not chasing hunger—he’s delivering something he already knows how to sell. But I’m not here for improv.

He undresses me without ceremony. Unzips, unfastens, drags the zipper of my skirt down like he’s trying to erase a line. My shirt hits the floor. Then my bra. He steps back and looks—not with awe, not with worship. With approval.

His shirt comes off. His belt. His pants. The whole thing has the efficiency of a transaction that doesn’t want to be named.

The sex is fine.

Technically, it’s better than fine. He knows what he’s doing—almost too well. His hands are confident, precise. His mouth finds places that should be private, and I let him.

But the thing is—he doesn’t know me.

He doesn’t know that I tense before I come. That I prefer left side to right. That I hate when someone talks too much during. That pressure matters more than rhythm.

His hands find all the right places—my hips, my thigh, my throat. Everything practiced to perfection.

But it’s not perfection I’m after.

I don’t gasp. I don’t white knuckle the sheets. I don’t make it easy for him to believe he’s figured me out.

Because he hasn’t.

He doesn’t know how my body used to respond when it was loved. Doesn’t know what my ex-husband did with his mouth that made me forget my own name. Ellis doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell. I let him think this is mastery.

Let him keep working for a reaction I won’t give easily.

When I do make a sound, it’s quiet. Half of it is performance. The other half is memory.

He fucks me like he’s trying to prove something.

I don’t stop him.

And when he finally hits that spot, and I arch just enough to show I can take it, he exhales like he’s won something.

He hasn’t.

I close my eyes for one second—just one—and let the quiet click of dissociation settle behind my ribs.

Not floating. Not distant.

Just watching from inside myself, like I’m letting this happen to a version of me I can fold up later and store away.

But then I feel it rise—unannounced, stupid—and before I can stop it, the word slips out.

“Kevin—”

He stills.

My breath catches, and I know it’s too late to take it back.

He pulls out like I’ve hit him—more surprised than angry. Not upset. Just recalculating.

Neither of us says anything for a long beat.

“I didn’t mean—” I say, but I already know it doesn’t matter.

He gets up, starts dressing. Calm. Detached. Like he’s sealing something off.

I stay on the bed, sheet half-draped over me, heart thudding in my ears.

“I told you,” I say, attempting to smooth the situation. “It wasn’t about you.”

He doesn’t look at me when he replies.

“It is now.”

He reaches for his phone. I reach for my underwear.

“You don’t have to go,” he says without looking up.

I’m already clasping my bra. “I know. But I’m going to.”

He glances over.

Not with disappointment. With calculation.

I smile, small and sharp. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“No,” he says. “But you already knew that.”

I pull on my skirt. Button my blouse.

He’s still watching.

And I let him.

Because next time—if there is one—he’ll know I’m not the story he thought he’d already read.

And for now, that, is enough.