Page 73 of Falling Off Script

Just now.

He walks me backward, slow and sure, until my thighs hit the edge of the bed I haven’t bothered making.

When he pulls off his hoodie, I forget how breathing works.

When he touches me again, I stop trying to remember.

I reach for him without thinking. He catches me like he knew I would.

More than anything, I’m afraid to wake up.

I don’t.

33. Adrian

Her hair is a mess.

Not the “sex hair” kind they photoshop on perfume ads. The real kind. Lopsided bun, strands stuck to her cheek, one curl trying to unionize against gravity. It should be funny.

It is, actually.

But also... something else.

She sits on the edge of the bed, mug in hand, legs bare. Barely awake. The kind of quiet you only get when someone forgets to be defensive.

And for some reason, I can’t look at her for too long without something in my chest doing a weird little ache-shift-ache loop.

So naturally, I say the dumbest thing possible.

“Do you always make that little noise when you stretch, or was that a performance exclusive?”

She blinks.

Sips her tea.

Then looks at me with the vague expression of someone deciding between murder and sarcasm.

“Did you seriously just talk to me like a man who owns a podcast mic?”

“Too soon?”

She narrows her eyes. “Too true.”

I smile. But not all the way.

She stays quiet.

And I hate that part of me—the one I trained out of existence years ago—that wants to fill that silence. Wants to understand what she’s thinking.

Which is terrifying.

Because I’ve spent a decade mastering the art of not needing to know that.

I get up. Find my pants. Fasten my belt slowly, like that will somehow make this feel more casual. Like I haven’t watched her fall apart under me and worshipped every second.

“This doesn’t have to be complicated,” I say.

Which is, in fact, the thing people only say right before it becomes complicated.

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