Cera
NINETEEN
The Morning After: When midnight passes, the floats are gone, the streets are swept, and what felt endless is simply over, nothing left but litter and a strange quiet. She woke to a swept street where a whole world had stood, with no proof it ever happened but the ache.
I wake first on my right side.
My sheets lie tangled at the foot of the bed, one pillow on the floor, the faint scent of Wells's cologne mixed with cigarettes clinging to everything. The air is warm, still. Last night, we were in too much of a hurry to bother with the ceiling fan.
His arm rests under my neck, and his chest presses against my back, rising and falling in a rhythm so slow I can count each breath. The heat of him seeps into me.
Both other times, he was up and gone before the sheets cooled, back to all business. He says this time goes differently. I'll believe it when we're at the office tomorrow, and he still looks at me like a person.
His breathing stays even. His arm stays where it is. The room holds quiet around us, only the muted hum of traffic and the building settling into Sunday with a low groan.
I roll onto my back, careful not to wake him, and study him in the daylight.
His dark hair is mussed, falling across his forehead, so he looks years younger. His lashes rest dark against his cheeks.
He shifts, and his arm tightens around me for a second before his breathing changes.
I don't move. I let him surface on his own.
His free arm comes over and lands across me, eyes still shut. His hand flexes against my stomach, and then he goes still, like he's orienting himself.
"Morning," I whisper.
His voice is rough with sleep. "Morning."
"You know, I was prepared to be deeply offended if you disappeared before coffee."
He exhales, his warm breath tickling my skin. "I considered it."
"And?"
"I was asleep."
I smile. "Hard to leave when you're sleeping."
"That's what I was thinking."
His hand moves, tracing a slow line along my ribs. I close my eyes and let myself enjoy it.
"What time is it?" he asks.
"No idea."
"You don't care?"
"Not even a little."
He shifts behind me, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, and his mouth quirks at one corner.
"Are you always this peppy in the morning before coffee?"
"You stayed."
"You sound surprised."
"I guess I'm waiting for the cold version of you to come back."
His expression flickers, then closes. "I told you this would be different."
I still don't know what to do with this surprising turn of events, so I don't say anything. I reach up and brush the hair off his forehead, and he leans into the touch like he's been waiting for it.
I think about Midnight briefly. It's Sunday, our normal call night, but I haven't talked to him since Tuesday. I wonder if we're done or if I will hear from him.
"Coffee?" I ask.
"That'd be nice."
I slide out of bed and find my robe on the chair. Wells sits up, the sheet pooling at his waist, and watches me tie the belt.
"You look good in my kitchen," I say.
"I haven't been to your kitchen yet."
"I'm fantasizing about it."
He swings his legs off the bed and stands, reaching for his pants. I catch the flex of muscle across his shoulders, how he moves with purpose even when there's nowhere he needs to be.
In the kitchen, I fill the French press while he leans against the counter, arms crossed, still shirtless. The morning light catches the tattoo on his ribs, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint not to run my fingers along the ink.
"You taste like cigarettes," I say.
He raises an eyebrow. "Speaking of, I need one."
"You'll have to take that outside, then. You know, you really should quit that nasty habit. It'll kill you."
"We all have to die."
"Charming."
I fill two mugs, handing him one. "Creamer's in the fridge, sugar right here," I say, nudging the little pottery dish toward him.
"I like it black," he says with a smirk, taking a sip. "This is delicious. Thank you."
"Of course." I lean against the opposite counter. We're both quiet for a minute as he looks around my apartment. The light coming through the window does something unfair to him. He looks different here, barefoot and shirtless in my space.
There it is again, the almost-smile, the one he lets out when he's amused but won't fully cave to it. I love that look on him.
"Does the smoking bother you?"
"I'm not going to lie. I'm not a huge fan. Plus, it's bad for you."
"I've been doing it basically my entire life. It's not going anywhere."
"You're stubborn like that," I say.
"So are you."
"True."
He picks up his coffee again, and we stand there in the quiet, drinking and not filling the space with unnecessary words. The silence isn't awkward. We earned it.
I think about the cigarettes, the stubbornness, how he watches everything and gives away nothing. A year ago, I would have stacked those up as red flags and headed for the door. Now I'm filing them away as things I can live with.
"What are you thinking?"
"That it's a beautiful Sunday and we should get out to enjoy it."
His attention sharpens on me. "Define enjoy."
"I don't know. A walk, yoga at the Fly, lunch outside."
"Hmm," is all he says. I don't push for a reaction just yet.
He sets his mug down and crosses to where I'm standing. His hand settles on my hip, thumb brushing the edge of my robe, and I tilt my head back to look at him.
"You're trouble," he says.
I smile, proud of that warning label from him.
His hand slides up my spine, the heat of his palm leaking through the thin silk of my robe.
He doesn't kiss me, and we stand like that for several seconds, him looking at me like he hasn't ever looked at me before.
My thighs press together on their own, and there it is, the trouble he just warned me about.
"Tell me something," he says.
"About what?"
"You."
I take a sip of coffee, buying time. The question sounds simple, but it isn't, not for me.
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything."
I could deflect, make a joke, change the subject, hand him some polished version of myself that risks nothing. I don't. "I used to teach yoga."
He tilts his head slightly. "Used to? I thought you said you go on Wednesdays to teach the kids."
He remembers. He actually listens.
"I still do that. I meant for real money. I taught five classes a week at a studio in the Marigny, and I loved it."
"Why'd you stop?"
"Time, mostly. The usual reasons people put things down and forget to pick them back up."
He watches me, waiting.
"I plan to do it again, one day. My dream would be to move to Costa Rica and do that full time."
Wells doesn't offer reassurance or tell me I can start again anytime. He just nods, absorbing it.
"What else?" he asks.
"I hate asking for help. I'd rather burn everything down than admit I need something from someone."
"I noticed that about you. We aren't that different, you know. I'm the same way."
"And I count things when I'm anxious. Steps, breaths, cars. Anything I can turn into numbers."
His fingers find mine, threading through them without pressure. "What are you counting now?"
"Nothing."
The truth of it surprises me. I'm not counting anything. I'm just here, sitting with him, talking.
The old urge rises, to crack a joke, to undercut this, to step back before it goes somewhere I can't control.
I sit with it and don't move, letting him keep looking at me.
Wells doesn't say anything. He squeezes my hand once, a quiet acknowledgment, and the silence between us is full now, not hollow.
We finish our coffee in the same easy quiet. Then he stands, pulling me up with him, and we walk back to the bedroom.
Wells buttons his shirt in the soft daylight filtering through my windows, and I watch from the doorway. His jacket is draped over the back of my couch where it landed last night, and his shoes sit beneath the coffee table, one on its side.
He picks up his phone from the counter, checks the screen, and slides it into his pocket. The gesture is ordinary, the kind of thing people do a hundred times a day, but I hold onto it anyway, the picture of him here in my space, moving through it without any rush to be gone.
"I'm sorry I have to leave you on this beautiful Sunday, as tempting as your activities sounded."
"Try not to spend the whole day ruining your eyesight in front of six screens," I say.
"I only use four on the weekends."
"That was not the flex you thought it was."
His eyes smile, and he crosses to where I'm standing. His hand settles at my waist, pulling me in, and he kisses me. It's slow enough that it stays on my mouth after he pulls back.
"I'll call you later," he says.
He opens the door, glances back once, and leaves.
I stand there after the door clicks shut, staring at the empty space where he was. The apartment is different now, lighter. The mug he used sits on the counter next to mine. The sheets are still tangled on my bed. The faint scent of him lingers in the air.
I move through the afternoon without rush. I strip the bed and put the sheets in the laundry, take a long shower, and let the hot water ease the pleasant ache in my muscles.
I do go to the Fly for an afternoon flow on my own. I hate not having my partner in crime around, especially with this much to tell him, but Locke gets back from Vegas tonight.
After I get home, I make a chai and sit on the couch with my laptop, intending to sort through emails or maybe look at job boards out of habit.
My fingers open a browser tab, and I pause. OnlyFans is one of the frequently used tabs highlighted on the blank page. I almost forgot today is Sunday and that I'm supposed to have a call with Midnight.
I'm not sure what to expect there, but since he paid for the month, I plan to suit up and be online. I won't wait for him for an hour like I did on Thursday, though.
Him ghosting me almost helps with the guilt I carried about "seeing" two men. Funny way to put it, since I never saw him at all. He only ever saw me.
I log in out of curiosity to see if he ever messaged me. I already know he didn't, because I would have gotten a notification on my phone. But I can't help checking anyway.
I take a sip of my tea and set it down on the side table.
The page loads and I scan it on autopilot, messages and notifications, and the subscriber list.
Nothing.
I blink at the screen, my brain catching up slower than my eyes. His profile belongs right there, his username, our message thread. It's gone.
I refresh the page. Still nothing.
I click into my subscriber list and scroll through the names. I search for his username manually, typing it into the search bar.
No results.
I open the messages tab and look for the thread. The conversation we've had for weeks, the one that became something I looked forward to more than I wanted to admit.
I sit back, my hands hovering over the keyboard, hitting refresh for the third time.
The page reloads with the same empty spaces.
My fingers go cold against the laptop. Something drops out from under my ribs, a twist I don't see coming, and my mouth goes dry around it.
This isn't a glitch. He deleted the account. He didn't just ghost me Thursday night. He erased himself.
I close the laptop and set it on the coffee table, staring at the closed lid.
The apartment around me still smells faintly of Wells. The warmth from this morning is still under my skin. I have every reason to be fine, better than fine. I spent the night with a man I actually like, one who stayed, who kissed me goodbye like he meant it.
But sitting here, staring at the space where Midnight used to be, ridiculous is the word for me. I'm embarrassed that it stings, that he left with no explanation, not even a cheap "it's been fun, but I gotta go."
Just like Cas. Just like my dad. Just like every person I've ever thought loved me.
I stand up from the couch and carry my mug to the sink. The tea is cold now, undrinkable, so I pour it down the drain and rinse the ceramic under the tap. The water runs cold, then warm, then hot. I watch it spiral into the drain and tell myself I'm fine.
It was just an arrangement, a transaction. It was money for performance, exactly what I said it was. At least he was honest about what it was for him. So why does it feel so crummy?
I dry the mug and set it in the cabinet, then wash his. The soap smells like lemon, cutting through the coffee still clinging to the porcelain. My hands move on autopilot, putting things away, making order where there's no real mess to fix. It's the only thing that helps.
When the kitchen is spotless and there's nothing left to straighten, I open the laptop one more time. I type his username into the search bar, slowly, like the letters might conjure him back. No results.
A man I never saw, gone as if he was never here at all. The only proof he existed is the money already in my account and the shape of the hole he left.