PRESENT DAY #4
My breath starts to hitch. I’m close…
But right then, I feel the pulse of his cock inside me. Martin groans. Three more thrusts, and the fucker is done.
And fuck me, I was this close!
I reach for my cock, trying to finish it off, but right then—
—I hear voices out in the hallway.
Someone’s coming!
The doors in this dorm are paper-thin.
I abruptly push Martin off me, yanking my pants up with a frustrated growl. I hate being left like this, one fucking step away from release.
But I know who’s coming. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
"Shit, Martin. That’s my dad. I swear to fucking Fate," I mutter.
Martin’s face is flushed, dazed, but he snaps out of it fast. He zips up and runs a hand through his hair.
"Damn, I thought now that you moved into the dorms, we’d finally be rid of your nosy-ass family."
"Yeah, me too," I growl. "Now get out. Best if you two just pass each other in the doorway."
"But we still need to talk—"
"Later. Go," I hiss.
He heads to the door, opens it, and walks out fast, almost crashing into my dad, who’s already six feet away.
"Good afternoon," he mumbles stiffly and bolts down the hall.
My dad stands frozen mid-step, staring after him, then at me. His eyes scan my flushed face. He swallows. Yeah. It’s obvious what just went down here.
He’s holding a pot. And right behind him is that beta from reception, clearly decided to escort my dad all the way here just to catch the show.
Fucking weasel. I see that smirk. Sure, Martin paid him, but clearly not enough to keep my dad stalled downstairs like he should have.
I open the door wider.
"No point standing in the hallway," I mutter through clenched teeth.
Dad steps inside. The beta spins on his heel, shoots me a smug look, and leaves.
Now it’s just the two of us in the room, and the whole place reeks of sex. I see my dad’s nostrils flare as he sets the pot down, right on the desk I was just getting railed on .
"Guess I came at a bad time," he says with an unsure smile.
"That’s an understatement. Seriously, you could’ve texted or called," I snap. "We saw each other last week. You really missed me that much?"
I see the way my words sting. His heartbeat picks up, but I don’t care.
"Actually… I did," he says quietly, brushing the side of the pot. "I made your favorite lecsó . Thought you might miss some home cooking after a week of dorm cafeteria crap."
"I don’t miss anything, Dad. Martin takes me to the best restaurants. World-class cuisine," I sneer. "Puts any homemade food to shame."
He stays quiet.
And fuck, I shouldn’t have said that. I love home cooking.
But my head’s a fucking storm right now. I’m pissed at Martin. I’m over him. I’m still shaken from that dinner. And I’m just… tired. Tired of being angry all the damn time. Angry at this bullshit life that hands everyone else so much, and can’t give me the one thing I actually dream about.
Every time I look at my dad, I see a man who started off in a horror scenario but found his heaven, his perfect mate, built his perfect family.
That’s never gonna be my life.
And that’s why I feel this seething rage. Maybe I shouldn’t take it out on him, but he’s the symbol of everything I’ll never have.
"I’ve been worried about you, Sun," he starts. "I’ve had this weird feeling for days, like something’s not right."
"Come on, Dad," I cut in. "It’s just 'cause I moved out for the first time. All parents freak out when their kid leaves the nest."
He hesitates. "I don’t know. When Skye went to college, I didn’t feel like this. But now I wake up at night with this… unease."
I feel this fucking anger bubbling up inside me. Irrational, maybe, because he's just worried, just looking out for me. But I really don’t need it right now.
"Everything’s fine, Dad. The only issue is, I’m probably breaking up with Martin. Things have gotten worse between us."
"Didn’t look like it," my dad says quietly. I see his nostrils twitching again, so I walk over and throw the window wide open to air out the reek of sex.
"Just because I’m fucking him doesn’t mean we’re good," I mutter.
I can tell that hits him hard. His shoulders slump a little. Then he takes a deeper breath.
"That worries me, what you’re saying. Sex should be something intimate, shared between two people who love each other. Not just a way to burn off frustration."
"Maybe that’s how it is for you," I shoot back, folding my arms, "because you’ve got your perfect mate. I’ll never have that, so… I take what life throws my way."
Dad looks at me like he’s trying to stare straight through to my soul, like he can see all the hidden corners I never show anyone.
"I still wish more for you."
"What does that even mean—‘more’?" I ask, my voice sharp. "You’ve got such an old-school view on sex. It doesn’t have to be all"—I lift my hands and do air quotes—"‘loving relationship’. That’s a really outdated mindset. Sex can just be fun. And I’m not gonna deprive myself of that."
He bows his head, eyes on the floor for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, calm.
"Still… there’s nothing like sex when you’re in love. It’s like this whole extra octave. A whole new level opens up, deeper emotions, a different kind of fulfillment. The kind that reaches places nothing else does."
I roll my eyes. "Come on, Dad. Don’t preach. That sounds like something out of a cheap romance novel. Don’t turn sex into some grand emotional fantasy."
But even as I say it, something tightens in my chest. Because fuck, I used to have that. I know how much better it is when love’s involved. But I’m not going there again. I’m not telling him that deep down, I probably agree with half the shit he just said. I’ve got too much pride for that.
"Seriously, Dad, I’m not having a heart-to-heart about sex with you. And next time, can you just text or call before coming over? I might not even be home. No point wasting your time." I tack that last part on to soften my tone a little.
He nods slowly.
"You’re right. I shouldn’t drop by unannounced," he says gently, and something twists inside me. He’s always like this. So fucking good to me. And I’m always the same prickly bastard, like a hedgehog, all spines and no soft spots you can safely touch.
Oh, dear Fate, I wish I could respond to him with the same softness. Just once. Thank him for being endlessly patient, endlessly kind. But I can’t. Because I’m too bitter. Because I feel this gaping emptiness, this damn jealousy of him.
He sighs quietly.
"Okay, I’ll get going. But please, Sun, text me. Tell me what’s going on with you. These bad feelings I’ve had, they’re eating me up inside. Just… do it for me, alright? Please?"
I nod. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll text you, Dad."
He comes closer. He wants to hug me.
But I step back, quick.
I don’t want him to touch me, not now. Not because I’m mad, but because I know it would make me crave that special kind of warmth. That real closeness and tenderness I’ve been trying not to need.
"Better not, Dad. I reek of sex. I need a shower."
I see the flicker of sadness in his eyes, but he respects it. He steps back and nods.
"All right, honey. Take care of yourself. Let me know if you need anything, I’ll bring it over."
"Sure. We’ll stay in touch."
He turns around, and before he leaves, he whispers, "I love you, Sun."
But I don’t react. I just can’t. I never reply. I never use the word love . I forced myself to leave it behind.
So I just watch him go. His long platinum braid drapes down his slim back.
I get my looks from him, though mine are more statuesque, thanks to the part of DNA from my father, who used to be in a boy band and had a poster-boy face. I’m basically the best of both worlds. Maybe even a synergy of them, if I’m being honest, not modest, because why should I be?
Frowning, I glance at myself in the mirror. My hair’s darker than Dad’s, a deep, rich honey-golden shade. My eyes are the color of sunlit spring grass. Bright. Vivid.
Sometimes I hate how I look. I know life would’ve turned out differently if I didn’t look like this. Maybe I’d be in a calmer place. Free from attention. No modeling gigs. No male gaze. No empty stir.
Maybe I wouldn’t be that shitty son, that rude, ungrateful fucking brat.
I lean against the wall and slowly slide down until I’m sitting on the floor.
I press my hand to my face and now, with no one around, I can finally do what I’ve been doing more and more lately.
I cry.
I sob.
I weep.
Sometimes I do it for minutes. Sometimes for a quarter of an hour straight.
Sometimes more.
Why the fuck… why?
Why did I lose him?
I am the epitome of a cliché: I want to be loved. I want to love. I want to be vulnerable and innocent and happy and carefree, like I was with him. I want to ride a bike and never stop, want to catch the wind between my fingers, to feel the miles flying by beneath the wheels, forward, into the sun…
But then the sobs quiet.
They leave that familiar vacant space behind. And once again, the emptiness hits me. The hunger to fill the void. Desperately. With risk. With anger.
Slowly, I pull a folded piece of paper from my phone case.
Nothing on it but a string of numbers.
Anzo Ferro’s phone number.
I smile to myself.
Gotta fill the void somehow, right?
Gotta find a way to forget the anger.
So I type a quick text:
"Hi"