Page 115 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
And I’m done.
There’s no escaping it. No talking myself out of it. That single word wrecks me more than anything she’s ever said while awake. It burrows beneath the logic, beneath the rules, beneath the carefully stacked agreement we both signed with a bottle of wine and a pen I probably stole from the gym.
She just said my name like it matters.
Like I matter.
My throat tightens. Not in that oh-shit way. Not fear. It’s something quieter. Something worse. It’s the impulse to pull her closer and never let go. The gut-deep knowledge that this—her hand on my stomach, her body tangled with mine, her voice cracking open pieces of me I thought were locked away—isn’t casual anymore. Not to me.
I look down at her. She’s already fallen back into a deep sleep, lashes resting against her flushed cheeks, lips parted as if she’s mid-thought. Still wearing my shirt. Still ruining me.
I brush my fingers over her wrist, barely grazing her skin. Just enough to convince myself I’m still allowed to touch her like this. That it’s not some illusion or a dream I’m going to wake up from alone.
Just for tonight, she’s here.
And God help me, I want every second of it.
I close my eyes and let my hand drift across her back, rubbing a slow circle between her shoulder blades.
She doesn’t wake.
But she sighs again—quiet, content. Like her body knows something her brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
I’m not even sure how we got here.
I remember the contract, the kiss, the slow slide into blissful madness. Her falling apart under my mouth, whispering my name as if it was built for her lips.
I remember everything.
I remember her coming out of the bathroom afterward—hair wild, eyes blown wide with what-the-fuck-just-happened confusion, wrapped in a towel and blushing like she hadn’t just made me come so hard I forgot how knees worked.
But it’s not just that.
It’s the way she looked when I helped her get dressed. She didn’t know what to do with someone being gentle with her. Like she almost didn’t trust it—but let me anyway.
The way she let me pull my shirt over her head and steady her hips as she stepped into my boxers like it was a slow dance.
Like letting me take care of her wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever had.
I don’t do caretaking. I don’t do midnight cuddles or dress someone like we’re already halfway to domestic bliss. This isn’t me. This isn’t what I’m built for.
And yet—here I am.
Holding her as if she’s fragile. As if she’s already mine. And I don’t regret any of this. I’d do it again. Every night. Every morning after.
Should I act on it? Should I say something? Or should I just shut up and pray she doesn’t hear how fast my heart beats every time she breathes near my neck?
I should tell her.
This isn’t just physical for me. That somewhere between the first flirty text and the first real kiss, I stopped seeing her as a distraction and started seeing her in color. In brightness. In fucking blinding clarity. Not just lust.
But light.
But if I say it out loud, it’s real.
And she might not be ready for real.
So instead, I whisper into the dark—into the space between her sigh and my next regret.
