I stay.
Not the way a man stays when going would cost him.
The way a man stays when he is finally out of reasons to go.
Peyton
Iwake to him watching me.
Early light turns the room gray-blue. His T-shirt is on the floor where I dropped it. My bra is somewhere near the door. His back, I happen to know, carries the marks I left there. He is propped on one elbow, looking at me like he has been at it a while and does not plan to apologize.
“You are staring,” I say.
“Observing.”
“Dangerous habit. Leads to journalism.”
“I hear the career outlook is unstable.”
His smile is unfair this early.
Coffee becomes a negotiation neither of us wins. He makes it. I add too much cream on principle. He takes the mug out of my hand before I can drink and kisses me against the counter until it goes cold and my hands are inside the waistband of his sweats.
“You have recovery skate,” I say against his mouth.
“I have recovery skate.”
“I am respecting your schedule.”
“No. You are reminding me so you can pretend you are the responsible one.”
“I am wounded by your accuracy.”
He carries me back to bed anyway.
Last night was his. He had me against the wall with the careful finally gone, and I let him take it, because I had waited all season for him to stop holding back and I was not going to spend the first night he did it asking him to slow down.
This morning, I am not waiting for anything.
I pull his shirt over my head and let him look. Morning gives us no crisis to blame and nowhere dark to hide.
“Still sure?” he asks.
I bring my hands to his face. “Ryan.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I let him sit in it a second. Then my mouth gets away from me. “No. This morning, I’m asking.”
It stops him. Good.
“Lie down.”
His breath changes. I feel it more than hear it.
“Problem?”