He stays over me, careful with his weight, breathing against my neck.
I run one hand up his back, over the marks I have made.
“You are heavy,” I say.
“You are mean after sex.”
“Only when trapped.”
He shifts immediately.
I catch him before he can move fully away. “Ryan.”
He looks down at me.
There is too much in his face.
I have no idea what is in mine.
So I do what I know how to do and make it survivable.
“Do not leave,” I say.
Something in him changes so fast it scares me.
He comes down beside me and pulls me in with one arm. Not managing. Not performing. Just holding on because neither of us has the language yet for staying.
For a while, we let the quiet hold.
I trace one finger over the center of his chest. Not idle. I am thinking. He has learned the difference.
“I get a question,” I say.
Ryan’s hand stills against my back.
Then he lets out one breath. “Ask.”
“Tell me something no one gets.”
He looks at the ceiling. “You ask terrible pillow-talk questions.”
“This is not pillow talk. This is investigative romance.”
His laugh moves under my hand.
Then he goes quiet long enough that I nearly take it back.
“I hate the captaincy sometimes,” he says.
My finger stills.
“Not the team. Not the responsibility. The way people use it to make every other part of me negotiable.”
I do not answer immediately. That is one of the things he has started to trust about me. I do not rush to reward honesty like it is a trained behavior.
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.”