The way she’d rushed toward the bathroom with panic in her voice, like I mattered.
The split second in the steam when her eyes had landed on me—quick, accidental, human—and something in her gaze had caught.
My hand flexed on the couch cushion again, knuckles whitening.
No.
I wasn’t doing this. I wasn’t going to use Clara Darling like she was a fantasy I could indulge and then tuck away when I was done.
I tried to breathe through it, tried to pretend this was just another flare-up—like phantom pain or the nightmares that dragged me under. Something you rode out. Something you survived without giving it more power.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, fists tight at my sides.
The erection didn’t care.
It lingered, heavy and insistent, a physical betrayal on top of everything else. My skin still held the memory of hot water and steam, my brain still stuck on the flash of her silhouette in the doorway, cheeks flushed, voice trembling with adrenaline.
The worst part was how easy it would be to give in.
To wrap my hand around myself and chase the quick, mindless relief that would erase her voice for sixty seconds. To pretend I was still the kind of man who could take what he wanted and not pay for it later.
My throat worked. Shame crawled up my spine, hot and mean.
I wasn’t that man anymore.
I couldn’t even be alone on a couch without wanting something I had no right to want.
I shut my eyes hard, hoping the darkness could smother the image of her and the ache in my body at the same time, and I let the self-loathing settle where it always did—thick and familiar, layered over the need, over the humiliation, until I couldn’t tell which one made me feel worse.
I listened for her.
For the soft click of her bedroom door, for the cautious creak of the stairs, for the sound of her like she hadn’t just seen me naked and trembling under the spray of water. Part of medreaded it—the forced eye contact, the apology, the inevitable joke she’d use as a shield.
Another part of me waited anyway, wired and restless, as if her footsteps could undo what had already happened.
Nothing came.
My hand slid down my stomach before I could stop it. One brief, stupid drag over the front of my sweatpants, palming myself like I might find some kind of answer there. My cock twitched, aching hard and hot, and my chest tightened with a sharp, ugly mix of want and rage.
“At least one thing isn’t broken.” Bitterness hit so fast it tasted like blood.
Disgust flared. I yanked my hand away like the skin had burned me.
Clara was upstairs. In my house.
The need lingered anyway, pulsing and stubborn, as if my body didn’t give a damn about any of the reasons I had to stay away.
I rolled onto my side with a grunt, shifting until the pressure eased enough to breathe. My shoulder sank into the cushion I’d worn into a permanent groove. My eyes locked on the dark wall across the room. The words came quietly, certain as a verdict.
Letting her move in was a terrible idea.
Letting her see me like this.
Letting her see me at all.
Somewhere upstairs the house gave a tiny settling creak, like it was laughing at me, and I lay there in the quiet with my jaw clenched and my heart still racing—waiting for a door that didn’t open.
The next fewdays Clara and I barely made eye contact. My house was filled with awkward hellos and noncommittal grunts, like we were speaking a language made entirely of avoidance. The neon House Rules she’d slapped on my fridge stayed there like a hostage note. I told myself I was leaving it up out of spite—because taking it down would mean she’d gotten under my skin.