“They are.”
I look at him. He looks at me. The morning light is brighter now, coming in around the door, and I can see more of him than I could before. There’s a scar on his collarbone. His hands are big, resting on his knees. He sits with his shoulders square, back straight, even though we’re on a bed in a sex club at seven in the morning. He looks like he’s always ready for something.
“I’m going to break them,” I say.
He goes still.
I reach up and pull off my mask.
The elastic gets stuck in my hair, and I have to yank it free. Not exactly a dramatic reveal, but I’m not trying to be graceful. I’m just being honest. My face, bare, in the ugly morning light of a room that smells like sex. My eyes are probably red. The tattoo on my face, the one that curls around my eye, the one clients always ask about. My real face, the one that belongs to someone with a name and a job and a life outside this place.
I hold the mask in my lap, look at him, and let him look at me.
He doesn’t move for a long time. His eyes go over my face, the way I’ve been looking at his body all morning, taking it all in. I see his breathing change. His hands clench on his knees.
Then he reaches up and pulls off his own mask.
He’s younger than I thought. Late twenties, maybe. Strong jaw, tired eyes, a mouth that looks like it doesn’t smile much. There’s a scar through his left eyebrow, his hair is dark and messy from the mask, and he needs a shave. He’s looking at me like he just found something he lost. Like he’s scared and relieved all at once.
I look at him, and I think:oh. There you are.
The same words he said when he pushed inside me. Except this time it’s his face, not his body, and this time I’m choosing it with my brain and not my biology.
He’s still staring at me. His eyes linger on the tattoo, then back to the rest of my face. I can see him putting it all together, filing away details. His mouth opens, then shuts again. The guy who talked me through two heats and a gallery show doesn’t know what to say to my real face.
“Hey,” I say. Because somebody has to start.
“Hey.” His voice sounds different without the mask. Closer. More real.
And then I see it. His hands. They didn’t shake once all night—not during the first knot, not during the lull, not when he carried me here. Now they’re shaking. Just a little, fingers trembling on his knees. You’d miss it if you weren’t looking. But I am, because I’ve spent eight hours memorizing how his hands move, and they’ve never done this before.
He sees me notice. His jaw tightens and he curls his fingers into his palms. He’s not hiding it, just letting me see. Like he knows he’s been holding it together all night, and now it’s morning, and we’re both bare, and he can finally let go.
I don’t say anything about it. I just file it away with the scar on his collarbone, the way he said 'there you are,' and the scratch I left on his back. Evidence. The start of a person I don’t know yet. Then he does something I don’t expect—he looks down at his hands, the ones that were steady all night, and laughs. It’s short, quiet, almost like he can’t believe this is happening.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t—” He stops. Starts again. “I’ve never done this. The mask thing. I’ve never wanted to.”
It’s simple. He’s not saying he loves me or making any promises. He’s just telling me that whatever happened between us messed him up too, and he has no idea what to do about it. Just a guy with messy hair and a scar through his eyebrow, looking at me like I’m a problem he can’t fix by keeping cool.
I reach into my jacket on the floor—at least the jacket survived, even if my jeans didn’t. My hand finds what I’m looking for: a Micron pen, 005 tip. I always carry one. You never know when a client will want a sketch on a napkin.
I take his hand. He lets me. His fingers are warm, same as they’ve been all night, and I turn his forearm up and uncap the pen with my teeth and write my number on his skin.
My handwriting is good. Always has been. I’ve been writing on people’s skin for a living since I was twenty-one. The numbers come out clean and even on his forearm, dark ink on warm skin. I take my time. This is what I do—I mark people. Usually it’s permanent, but this will wash off in a day or two. The offer behind it won’t.
I cap the pen and look up at him.
“Call me when this isn’t just biology,” I say.
He looks at the number on his arm. Looks at me. His jaw works, and I can see him thinking. I can see the exact moment he decides.
“Beckham,” he says.
Just that. Just his name, offered the way I offered my face. No last name. No context. Just: this is who I am behind the mask.
“Perry,” I say.