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There’s rules to this. Don’t stay the night. Don’t ask questions. Don’t care; and most importantly, don’t pretend this means anything.
You and Ryland broke up eight months ago. You haven’t gotten back together. You don’t want to get back together. You were horrible for each other. All the fighting and the screaming—breaking up was the healthiest decision you two had ever made.
That should’ve been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Your phone buzzes against the kitchen counter. The sound feels obnoxiously loud in the silence.
You lean over, squinting at the screen as it lights up the dark kitchen. You didn’t bother turning any of the lights on tonight. There’s a glass of water sitting beside your elbow that you haven’t touched, the remains of dinner pushed to one side of the counter.
You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve been standing here for the past five minutes, staring out the window at nothing.
Thinking. Not thinking. Mostly failing.
Then your phone buzzes again. You pick it up.
Ryland: You awake?
It’s a stupid question. You’ve been awake for hours. You could’ve gone to bed. You should’ve gone to bed. Instead, you’ve been wandering around your apartment with nothing to do and no real reason for staying up this late.
You look at the time. 12:17AM. You look at his name again.
It’s been three weeks since you’ve spoken. Not that either of you keeps track. You just happen to know.
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You already know what he’s asking. You know you probably shouldn’t answer. You know better than to answer. So naturally, you do.
You: yes
The typing bubble appears almost immediately. Three dots. Then nothing. You wait. The dots appear again. Disappear. You almost laugh. You’re about to place your phone back down when you feel it buzz against your palm.
Ryland: Come over.
That’s it. No explanation. There never is. Not anymore, at least.
You stare at the message for another few seconds, even though your answer has already been decided. Because this is how it always happens.
One of you gets lonely. Or angry. Or restless.
Sometimes there’s a reason, sometimes there isn’t.
Someone sends a text. The other answers. Whatever happens between you two stays conveniently outside the door.
You set your phone down. Then pick it back up. You check the message again. ‘Come over.’ flashing almost aggressively. You shouldn’t. You know that.
You also know you’re already reaching for your keys. You slip your shoes on by the door, grab your jacket, and turn the porch light on. By the time you step outside, the familiar ache of regret is already settling somewhere beneath your ribs.
Ryland’s apartment is only fifteen minutes away. You know because you’ve made this drive enough to stop relying on GPS. You park in the same spot you always do.
Third floor. Left to the stairs. Second door to your right.
You don’t bother knocking when you get there. You never do anymore. Your hand is already reaching for the handle when the door swings open.
Ryland is standing on the other side.
He’s wearing a plain white shirt and a pair of sweatpants that sagged past his hips, just enough for the waistband of his boxers to peek out. His glasses are sitting low on his nose and his hair is more tousled than usual. It’s evident that he’s been running his hands through them.
You barely register him before his right hand wraps around the back of your neck and pulls you inside. The door slams shut behind you. His lips crash against yours at the same exact time.
The kiss only lasts a few seconds before you’re stumbling back. Your hands find their way under his shirt, trailing them up to his chest—he swats them away.
Neither of you say anything. There’s nothing to say. This is just how it is.
His hand slides from your neck to your waist, pulling you closer as your arms circle around his shoulders. You know the feel of him well enough that you don’t have to think about where your hands go. You don’t have to think about anything, really.
His left hand finds its way to your waist, his fingers digging into them just enough to leave bruises for tomorrow. You’ll complain about them later. He knows that. You know that. Neither of you care.
His mouth finds yours again. This time, you’re ready for it.
Your chest presses harder against him as you tighten your arms around his neck. His hands pull you closer even though there’s barely any space left between you. He starts to walk backwards and you follow. His place is just as dim as yours. The only light illuminating the place is the lamp in the corner of the living room.
You barely notice anything else.
Not the shoes by the door. Not the jacket thrown over the back of the couch. Not the stack of papers sitting untouched on the coffee table.
Your attention is entirely on him.
You fumble with your shoes as you try to kick them off without actually breaking the kiss. One slips off easily, the other catches on your heel. You nearly trip.
Grace’s fingers dig deeper into your hips as you tumble into him. Your body presses against him, and you feel the unmistakable hardness of him against your stomach. He groans into your mouth, the vibrations rattling from your throat and straight between your legs.
He bumps into the edge of the sofa and finally pulls away from you.
It’s dark, but just from the lamp’s light bouncing off the walls, you can see his face. His glasses are crooked and foggy. His eyes are glassy. Lips red and swollen from aggressively making out.
“Bedroom,” Grace spoke, voice low and heavy.
You don’t say anything.
You nod.
His hand finds your wrist, fingers curling around them as he pulls you away from the living room.
You follow without hesitation.
You’ve been here enough times to know your way around in the dark. The hallway. The bathroom to the right. The bedroom at the very end. You could navigate with your eyes closed.
He opens the door and lets you walk in first.
His room is darker than the living room—the curtains are drawn, leaving only the faint glow of the hallway behind you.
You walk further into the room and sit on the edge of his bed. You watch Grace as he locks the door, the click of the lock sounding louder than it should.
He pulls his shirt off by the collar and you watch as if you’re trying to decipher him—because you are.
You’ve done these rendezvous more than enough to realize Grace has his patterns. He does different things for different reasons.
When he’s angry, he’s rougher.
When he’s frustrated, he doesn’t bother pretending he has the patience.
If he’s bored, he takes his time.
When he’s having a bad day, he doesn’t look at you for very long.
And when he’s stressed…
“Lie down.”
…He’s a stress-eater.
You almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, you shift further back into the bed and watch him.
Grace doesn’t say anything. He crawls on the bed after you, the bed rocking slightly as he finds his balance on his knees. Your eyes don’t leave him, and he meets your eyes as his glasses slide back down the tip of his nose.
He just looks at you before reaching for the hem of your shirt.
You lift your arms without being asked.
There’s something almost routine about it.
That’s the strange part.
You know what he likes when he’s like this. You know when he wants to do his own thing or when he wants your attention. You know the difference between the way he touches you when he’s angry and when he’s trying to blow off steam.
Tonight, it’s the latter.
You don’t ask why. There’s no need to. It doesn’t concern you.
He throws your shirt off the bed and leans back in, pushing you into the mattress with the force of the kiss—sloppy and unrefined.
There’s nothing careful about the way he kisses you tonight. You know that means he’s stressed.
His hand moves with the same familiarity they always have, and neither of you have to think about what comes next.
His lips leave yours, trailing down your jaw.
You tilt your head back into the pillows, your fingers finding their way into his hair.
For once, neither of you bothers pretending this is more than what it is.
No questions. No explanations. Just him and you—and the quiet understanding that whatever happens tonight stays here.
He peppers kisses down your shoulders and across your collarbones. His hand snakes behind you, unclasping your bra in one swift motion.
You exhale slowly, your breath catching in his ear. Grace lets out a guttural moan, his lips clasping beneath your ear as he sucks the skin there. The sensation is too intense and you can’t help but clench your legs together.
Your hands tighten against the hair behind his head. He pulls back, a smug grin plastered on his face as you lie there, breaths heavy and uneven. It almost felt triumphant for him—seeing you so undone over such little action.
“You’re so easy.” He murmurs. His hands find their way to the waistband of your jeans, fingers fidgeting with the button before pulling the zipper down.
You lift your hips without thinking, letting him ease them down and off of you.
His lips find yours again, swallowing the quiet sound that escapes you as his hand trails down the inside of your thigh.
Everything feels familiar. Too familiar.
His mouth moves against yours as his hands continue to caress your thigh. He pushes his knee higher, stopping your legs from closing again. Your eyes flutter shut as his hands trail back up and land on the waistband of your panties.
His finger catches beneath the waistband and you exhale sharply.
He pauses.
Not because he’s unsure. Because he likes hearing that sound.
Your eyes open and you catch the smug look on his face.
Asshole.
His head drops down to kiss the divot between your collarbones. Your bra lay loose over your chest, barely covering you anymore. Every small shift in movement made the loose fabric rub against your already-hard nipples.
Grace must have taken pity in seeing your face so flushed and breathing so uneven. He uses his free hand to guide the fabric off of you, exposing your bare chest to him. It took everything in him to not lunge at you like a carnivore that’s been starving for weeks—he’s no better than an animal.
A gasp escapes you when you feel his lips—hot, wet, and eager—find you without so much as a warning. Your hands fly back to his hair and you pull. His tongue swirls around your nipple and you feel as he takes them between his teeth, biting down just enough for you to let out another breathless moan.
You try to speak. You want to speak. Nothing comes out.
Grace’s hands start to pull your panties down, one of his hands gripping into your hips to make you lift up—and you do. He slides them off your legs easily and he wastes no time placing his hands under and over your thighs.
He steps off the bed, pulling you to the edge. He kneels down, situating himself between your legs, hiking them up over his shoulders. Every touch, every trace of his fingertips on your feels like ice and fire simultaneously. The pit in your stomach is already coiling as you feel his hot breath on you.
You try to reach for his hair, for something to grab—he swats your hands away again. “Don’t touch me.” You would have mistaken his words for anger if not for the gentleness of his tone.
You let out a shaky breath as you lay back down on the sheets, your fingers finding their way into the duvet instead.
His tongue plants flat on your clit, making your breath hitch and your thighs squeeze instinctively. It’s hot, really hot. He drags his tongue around, tracing around your clit with careful chaos. His grip on your thighs tighten, pulling them apart.
He doesn’t waste time. He pulls back only to dive back in with a wet stripe through your slit. You don’t know if it’s his mouth or you that’s that wet—it’s probably you.
His left hand drags from your thigh to your hip and he taps you. You hadn’t realized that you’ve been holding your breath and his gesture was more so to remind you to breathe. You exhale, only for a moan to slip out as you feel his tongue move through your entrance again.
He’s moving so achingly slow and you don’t know if you love it or hate it.
“Ry— Please…” Your voice barely registers as you try to speak. You look down and all you see is the crown of his hair. He’s too focused. His tongue plunges into you and another moan slips from your lips as you tilt your head to the side.
The coil in your stomach is tightening. You want more. You need more.
Your hand starts to snake their way down. Just for a while. Just a little bit more friction.
Ryland catches your wrist before you get to do so. You feel him pull back, his mouth and his tongue leaving you cold and without stimulation. You whine and look back down. Ryland is looking up at you, his glasses foggy and sitting crooked on his face. His mouth is glistening, the wetness dripping down to his chin.
“Stop bothering me.” He hisses, as if he’s doing something entirely unrelated to you—like your reactions aren’t exactly what he’s looking for.
It’s not hard to pick up. Your body isn’t yours. It’s his. Tonight, at least.
His grip on your wrist tightens—not painful, just enough to remind you who’s in charge. He doesn’t look up again. His mouth returns to you with renewed focus, tongue pressing firmer, moving with intent now.
The slow teasing is over, much to his discontent. He’s working you toward something more specific, mapping your reactions with the familiarity of someone who memorized every inch of you.
Your fingers twist in the duvet, pulling it loose from the corners. The fabric bunches under your palms as your hips try to lift, but his other arm presses down on your pelvis, holding you still. Open. Vulnerable.
The coil tightens faster now, heat pooling sharp and insistent. You can hear yourself—embarrassing sounds you’d never make with anyone else, wet and desperate—but he’s the only witness, and he’s heard them all before.
He knows what they mean. He knows exactly when to speed up. When to flatten his tongue. When to suck gently on your clit until your vision spots at the edges.
You’re close. So close that your thighs are trembling against his shoulders, muscles tensing involuntarily. He feels it too—he always does—and he pulls back just enough to blow cool air across your overheated skin. You cry out, a frustrated, broken noise, and he laughs. Actually laughs, low and muffled against your thigh.
“Impatient,”” he murmurs, like he’s not the one who started this with two words and no explanation.
“Ry, please— I need you. Your fingers. Anything.” You beg, breathless as your chest heaves up and down unevenly. You feel him shake his head against the inside of your thigh. “Not yet.”
Then his tongue is on you again, hungrier now, as he laps up the juices that have leaked out. His mouth finds its way back to your clit, sucking and nipping relentlessly. The sensation rattles through you entirely, the way that makes your back arch off the mattress. It’s almost impossible, the way he’s working you with his mouth alone. Your toes curl, your legs bending involuntarily and pulling him even closer to you.
It builds fast—too fast, overwhelming. Your orgasm hits you like a wall, sudden and brutal, tearing through your abdomen and down your spine. You cry out, loud in his quiet apartment, and he doesn’t let up, drawing it out until you’re pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive, begging without words.
He finally lifts his head. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His glasses are completely fogged now, barely even on his face anymore. He pulls them off and tosses them somewhere on the floor. Without them, his eyes almost seem softer, but the expression is the same—hungry, satisfied, distant.
He stands up from the ground, and for a second you think he’s about to take his pants off. He doesn’t.
He crawls over you, his legs on either side of your torso. He hooks his hands around your ribs and pulls you up with ease, as if you weigh nothing at all. You’re barely conscious at this point—and maybe you like it like that. He positions you properly on the bed, your head landing on one of his pillows.
Your eyes, half-lidded, follow his every movement—feel his every move. His left hand trails down to your waist, he repositions your legs over his as he kneels between them, the drag of his fingertips burning your skin. He reaches over you and pulls one of the pillows down.
Your body really isn’t yours, at this point. You let him move you around however he sees fit. His hand draws down to your hips and wedges them under, his palm planting on the back of your hips as he lifts you up. He pushes the pillow under the small of your back before setting you back down.
Your spine is at a tilt. An all-too-familiar tilt. He’s being meticulous and it’s times like this where you wish time would speed up. You feel the coil winding again and you feel insatiable.
Finally, finally he looks at you. His starved eyes take all of you in, his right hand trailing from your pelvis, up your stomach, to the delve between your tits, and he pauses for a beat before dragging his forefinger up your neck, your jaw, and landing on your lips.
He doesn’t need to do anything else. You part your lips and let his finger glide inside. He presses down on your tongue, pushing your jaw open.
Neither of you break eye contact. A content hum leaves his throat as he pushes and plays in your mouth, tracking the edge and underside of your tongue with ease. He slips another finger in. He presses flat on your tongue and pushes deeper. You can feel his knuckles graze the roof of your mouth. You try to close your lips around them but he forces them open.
Tears brim your eyes and you forgo blinking in an attempt to not let them fall as you hold back your gags. He sees them—doesn’t acknowledge them.
His other hand begins trailing back down the side of your body, the glide of his fingers sending chills down your spine and making you shiver. They slither painstakingly slow. Past the dip of your waist, over your hipbones, across your hips.
All at once, his fingers are back on your clit, rubbing tight circles on your overly sensitive clit. You choke out a gasp that bleeds to a whine as Grace’s fingers persistently keep up with its rhythm.
It’s all too much. His fingers halfway down your throat, on your clit, his body keeping your legs spread apart. You feel it bubbling in your stomach. It’s coming on way too fast. Too sudden. Too surreal.
Just as you’re nearing the edge, ready to pour over, he pulls back. You gasp in a breath as he pulls his hand from your mouth, leaving a string of saliva connected to the tip of his fingers, leaving you clenching on nothing as he pulls his fingers from your clit.
Your eyes trail from his face, down his bare torso, and onto his pants pitching a tent. You can barely see it from the darkness, but it’s there and it’s unmistakable. He pulls back from you, and you watch with drool pooling in your mouth as he stands from the bed to take his pants off.
In one swift move, he’s back in between your legs. He grabs one of your ankles, lifting it up over his shoulder as he scoots closer until his hips are flush with yours. His cock stands on attention as he palms himself in front of you.
You want to reach out, do it yourself. It’s really the least you can do. You don’t. One of his hands wraps over your leg over his shoulder and rests on your hip, the other wraps around the base of his dick, positioning himself against your entrance.
You feel the head of his cock glide against your slick folds, going through them in an attempt to gather your wetness.
He pushes in slowly—slower than you expected, slower than he needs to be. You’re wet enough that there’s no resistance, just the stretch of him filling you, and he watches your face the entire time, cataloging every flicker of expression.
When he’s fully inside, he stops. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, his thumbs pressing into the curve of your hips. You're pinned in place, impaled, and he likes you like this—you can tell by the way his jaw tightens, the way his breath catches.
Then he starts to move.
It’s not gentle. It’s not meant to be. He sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. The bed frame knocks against the wall—three hard raps, then a rhythm. You hope his neighbors aren’t home. You know you don’t actually care.
He lets your leg off his shoulder, his hands momentarily leaving you as they hook under your calves and wraps them around his waist. Your heels dig into the small of his back and he grunts, leaning down to bite at your collarbone.
His teeth break skin, maybe, or nearly—tomorrow there will be marks. There are always marks. You’ll wear them like evidence, like proof that this happened, even though you’re not supposed to acknowledge it.
You’ve tipped. Your mind is foggy and your brain is malfunctioning. You clench onto him, your muscles spasming onto his cock. Your hands finally gain enough strength and they fly to his arms, your nails digging into his skin.
The sounds that leave you are unholy. Sinful. Music to his ears.
His pace stutters, loses its rhythm. He’s getting close. You can feel it in the way his grip tightens, the way his thrusts become shorter, deeper, more desperate. He drips his forehead to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your neck, and you can feel him shaking—just barely, just enough.
He comes with a sound that might be your name, or might just be air forced from his lungs, his whole body going rigid above you. You can feel the pulse of him inside you, the warmth, the fullness, the sudden stillness.
For a moment, neither of you move. He stays inside you, heavy and sweating, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You stare at the ceiling, counting your own heartbeats, waiting for the separation to begin.
It takes him thirty seconds, maybe a minute. Then, he pulls out—abrupt and efficient—and steps back. You feel the loss immediately, cold where he was hot. Empty. You don’t look at him. You stare at the ceiling fan instead, watching it rotate slowly in the dark.
You hear him move around the room. The rustle of fabric—he’s pulling his sweatpants back on. The bathroom door opens, water runs. Closes with a dull thud.
When you finally sit up, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, back to you, elbows on his knees. His glasses are back on. His shoulders are tense.
You look for your clothes. Your shirt is somewhere near the door. Your bra is tangled in the sheets. Your jeans are on the floor by the bed, inside out.
You dress in silence. It’s a skill you’ve perfected—getting clothed in the dark quickly, quietly, without drawing attention to yourself. The rules echo in your head, louder now that the physical distance is returning.
Don’t stay the night. Don’t ask questions. Don’t pretend this means anything.
Your shoes are by the couch. You remember tripping over them earlier. It feels like hours ago.
You’re at the bedroom door and you pause with your hand on the handle. You could say something. I’m sorry. I miss you. I hate you. See you in three weeks.
Instead, you open the door and step out into the hallway. You don’t stop walking until you’re grabbing your shoes from the floor of the living room. You don’t stop until you’re by the front door, the cold metal of the handle burning the palm of your hand.
You step out. The stairwell light flickers overhead, buzzing faintly. You walk down three flights, out into the parking lot, to your car. The drive home takes another fifteen minutes.
You don’t turn the radio on. The bruises on your hips throb with every shift of the pedals.
When you get back to your apartment, the porch light is still on. You left it that way. Your phone is still on the kitchen counter where you left it, screen dark.
You pick it up. No new messages.
You stand in the kitchen for a while, in the dark, staring at the same window, the same nothing outside. The glass of water is still there. You don’t drink it.
Eventually, you go to bed. Like you’re supposed to.
Like you agreed.