Chapter 7 I’m a Pathetic Man
I’M A PATHETIC MAN
HENSON
The next morning, I wake up next to a sprawled Amira, her breathing steady, her body warm beside mine.
She’s still asleep, curled up in the sheets, hair a mess, lips slightly open like she’s dreaming something good. Or maybe nothing at all. Maybe I’m the only one still stuck in the moment we created last night.
What happened between us wasn’t just sex. It was something I haven’t felt in a long time, or ever. It knocked the wind out of me, in the best possible way.
I’m no stranger to one-night stands. Usually, they’re transactional. Tension, release, and silence by morning. The women I meet at parties or events know exactly what to expect. There are no questions or lingering touches, and definitely no over-sharing.
But last night wasn’t clean. That was messy, raw, and honest. Real.
I opened up to Amira in ways I never do. Told her things about my anxiety and my past that I haven’t even told people I’ve known for years.
I glance at her again.
Beautiful.
She looks unbothered, like last night didn’t shake her as much as it did me.
With a quiet exhale, I slip out of bed and head for the bathroom. I didn’t shower last night. Neither of us did. We fell asleep tangled up in each other, too exhausted to move.
The mirror catches my reflection—hair wild, jaw shadowed, bite marks on my collarbone that weren’t there yesterday.
Jesus.
The water steams up fast, and I step under the spray, letting it wash away the sweat, the heat, the questions trying to claw their way to the surface. I shouldn’t be thinking this hard about a woman I just met. Someone I’ll be saying goodbye to in a few hours.
Try telling that to my brain.
I lean into the tile, letting the night replay in flashes. How she moved under me. The sounds she made. The way she whispered my name like a prayer.
Her body…
A low groan escapes before I can stop it. I press my forehead against the wall, water beating down my back, though it doesn’t do much to cool me off. My body remembers everything too well.
I wrap my hand around my cock, jaw tight, eyes closing as I try to chase down the edge that’s been haunting me since I opened my eyes.
I stroke slowly at first. My hips twitch forward, steam curling around me as if it’s trying to hide how fucking pathetic this is.
This should be simple. Just something to take the tension out of my body so I can get on with the day. But it’s not. Every time I squeeze my fist tighter, I see Amira.
The taste of her is still on my tongue, the shape of her curves etched into my hands, the sound of her moans echoing in my head like a damn song I can’t turn off.
My hand moves faster, tighter, trying to match what she gave me—but it’s useless. I can’t recreate her warmth.
It’s the connection that’s messing with me. One night with a stranger who felt like anything but, and now, here I am, touching myself like some desperate teenage version of me, chasing something I know I’m not going to find in my own hand.
Still, I keep going.
My hips jerk into my palm, breath ragged, skin flushed, frustration and need twisted so tightly together I don’t know where one ends and the other begins.
And then, I stop.
My fingers curl into a fist, pressed against the tile.
It’s not fucking working.
I let the water scald my skin a little longer, trying to wash away the need and pull Amira has left behind.
When I finally step out, I towel off and throw on some sweats, glancing back toward the bed.
She hasn’t moved.
I should probably wake her, remind her we’ve got a flight to catch.
Instead, I head out to the kitchen area, quietly rummaging around for the hotel’s coffee setup. I manage to get the machine going and lean against the counter, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot.
I pour two cups, bring one back to the bedroom, and set it down on the nightstand beside her with some milk and sugar, not sure how she likes it. Maybe the smell will do the trick.
A minute passes before she stirs.
Amira blinks up at me, groggy. She looks fucking adorable.
“Thanks,” she mumbles when she spots the mug.
“Figured I owed you something after wrecking your sleep,” I say with a crooked grin.
She gives a faint smile though it doesn’t reach her eyes and just sips quietly, holding the mug like a barrier.
And suddenly, the warmth drains from the room.
Amira’s distant again. The version of her I got last night—the soft, open, wickedly honest one—feels miles away. I should’ve expected that. We agreed this was one night. We made that clear. But there’s something in the way she won’t meet my eyes that makes me want to pry.
Why do I care?
I’ve sworn off relationships for a reason. They’re messy, complicated, distracting.
Instead, I say, “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”
Silence stretches between us, awkward and thick. I sip my own coffee to fill the space. This is the part where things are supposed to be easy again. Back to strangers. No complications.
Without a word, Amira slides out of bed and disappears into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her.
I sigh and drag a hand through my hair.
One night. That’s all it was.
Yet I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have a second.
The car ride to the airport is quiet.
Amira stares out the window, arms crossed lightly over her chest.
I drum my fingers on my knee, glancing her way. “You know,” I say casually, “if we sit in silence any longer, I’m going to assume you’re plotting my death.”
Her lips barely twitch. “I wasn’t, though now that you’ve put it out there…”
“That’s what I get for trying to be charming.”
“You tried?”
I fake a wounded expression, and she lets out a tiny laugh, some of the awkwardness lessening.
When we pull up to the terminal, the driver helps with the bags, and we start walking toward the entrance. I glance over at her, trying not to overthink how badly I want to stretch this time together just a little longer.
“Want to grab a drink before we board?”
“It’s nine in the morning.”
I lift a shoulder, unapologetic. “There are no rules at the airport. It’s international airspace or something.”
Amira squints at me as if unsure whether I’m serious, then sighs. “I guess I could be convinced to order a mimosa.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say, motioning for her to follow me to the first-class lounge.
She hesitates just a fraction of a second at the entrance, her fingers tightening on the strap of her bag.
I catch the tension in her shoulders and step in front of her. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
She gives me a tight smile. “I don’t like feeling like a charity case.”
I frown. “You’re not.”
“You paid for the flight, the hotel, and now this.”
“It’s Christmas spirit.” I offer her a grin. “Think of it as a gift from the Grinch.”
That earns a scrunched nose and a little giggle. “The Grinch?”
“I’m the designated Christmas hater of my family. It’s kind of my brand. Cynical, broody, emotionally repressed… all the festive hits.”
Amira huffs out a laugh, and we make our way to a small table in the corner of the lounge after ordering our drinks.
“My family loves Christmas,” she says after a pause. “I’m Lebanese, and we really enjoy spending time together and eating over the holidays.”
“Oh, yeah? What does that usually look like for you?”
“Lots of traditional food and quality time. Singing and dancing. It’s the opposite of quiet.”
“Sounds chaotic.” Then, with a small smile, I add, “But kind of nice.”
Amira blinks, as if not expecting that answer.
“My family is loud, too. But the holidays never felt relaxing to me. They always came with this weight I couldn’t shake.”
She nods, her expression softening.
“Still, hearing you talk about your traditions… it doesn’t sound overwhelming. It sounds like joy.”
Her eyes drop to her lap. “Not everyone thinks so. My ex didn’t. He always made me feel like I had to ignore that part of my culture to fit into his boxed traditions and his family’s strict expectations. He wanted turkey, all the trimmings, and nothing… different.”
“That’s bullshit.” It comes out sharper than I meant to.
“His parents never accepted me, and he knew mine would struggle to accept him. The difference is, I was willing to fight for us. And I did,” she explains, fidgeting with her glass.
“My parents are open-minded, kind-hearted people who embrace everyone. But even they had a hard time with Chad. Not because he was white or non-Arab, but because he never showed the slightest interest in my culture. He didn’t try to understand it, let alone respect it.
Instead, he wanted to mold me into someone who fit into his world. ”
“No one should ever make you feel like you have to shrink yourself to belong,” I say, jaw ticking. “If anything, they should be trying to understand what matters to you. And if they can’t do that, they don’t deserve a seat at the table.”
Amira looks up at me, vulnerability shining in her eyes. She stares at me, like my words caught her off guard. I wasn’t planning to say all that, but something about this situation and her asshole of an ex makes it impossible to keep my mouth shut.
Her fingers curl around the mimosa glass. “Yeah. Well, my parents weren’t impressed. Still, I begged them to see the good in him, to trust that he was worth it. I convinced them. Turns out, they were right all along. He was an asshole.”
I put my hand over hers and hold her gaze. “I know sometimes it’s just easier pretending things don’t matter as much as they do, but easier doesn’t always mean better.”
For a second, we just look at each other. Then, I smirk. “That said, if we continue trauma-dumping before takeoff, this flight is gonna feel like a therapy session.”
That earns a real laugh from her. “What, you don’t want to unpack your baggage over champagne and bagels?”
She’s loosening up again, piece by piece, and I don’t realize how tense I’ve been until my shoulders relax.
Before I can deliver a comeback, a chime over the speakers announces boarding for our flight has started. Amira glances away, then back at me, and I wonder if she’s going to pull away again.