18. Michelle
MICHELLE
It’s Monday night, and I’m finally home, trying to shake off what might have been the longest day in history.
I spent the day running open homes, and hardly anyone showed.
I’ve been in a foul mood ever since. When a shower and some time cuddling Monty doesn’t help, I give in.
My period’s over, so I text Dean to come over.
The truth is, I’ve missed him. And not just the sex. It’s the way he settles me. The pressure has been creeping back and somehow he’s the only thing that quiets it. Not that I’d ever tell him.
I miss his smile, too. I’d never tell him that either.
When the doorbell rings, I put Monty in the spare room and try to pretend my pulse isn’t hammering. I smooth down my robe, then open the door, aiming for casual. Like the last time we saw each other wasn’t a complete disaster.
“Hi,” I say, like this is totally normal.
Dean steps inside and shuts the door behind him. His gaze moves over me, catching on the knot of my robe. Then his hands are on my waist, pulling me in like he doesn’t want to wait. His mouth finds mine, hot and urgent, and he walks me backward until my shoulders hit the door. Then he turns me.
From behind, his hand slides between my thighs. He works me with his fingers until I’m panting, my forehead pressed to the wood. Then he tears open a condom, and sinks into me.
He fucks me fast but controlled. His grip on my hips doesn’t give, his rhythm relentless. The door rattles softly with each movement as my head presses against it.
When it’s over, he stills, his weight heavy against my back. Then he steps away, peels off the condom, and zips up without a word.
I stay where I am, one hand braced against the door, my breath still uneven. Behind me, there’s the soft rustle of movement. The bin lid opening. Water running.
I can’t help comparing it to last time. That softness in him is gone. This is exactly what I asked for. Just sex, no tenderness. It should feel good. It doesn’t.
Then his voice carries from the kitchen. “Okay. Now we talk.”
“We don’t talk, Dean,” I say, my tone making my position clear.
“Not about us,” he says.
I don’t get it at first. Then he looks down, just for a second, and something slips through. Not much, but enough to make me feel stupid and selfish for assuming all he could want to talk about was us.
“Sure,” I say, softer. “We can talk.”
I gesture to the lounge and then we’re sitting across from each other. He’s staring at the floor. He couldn’t look any more uncomfortable if he tried.
“Did something happen?” I ask.
He opens his mouth to speak more than once, then closes it again, like the words keep catching somewhere on the way up. Finally, he exhales and leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“Lately,” he says, then stops. “Things feel flat. Wins don’t feel like wins anymore. They don’t feel like anything. I don’t know how to fix it. And I’m not asking you to.” He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “I just wanted you to know.”
He stops there, closing up completely.
I move to sit beside him and take his hand without thinking. Our fingers lace together. His palm is warm and rough. For a second, I wait for him to do what I would do. Pull away. Laugh it off. Pretend it doesn’t matter. But he doesn’t. He lets me hold on.
“Sounds like you’re a victim of your own success,” I say. I know he’s not asking for advice, but I give it anyway. “Maybe it’s time to do something different. Something that scares you a little.”
“The only thing that scares me is you,” he says. “And Monty.”
“Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t like anyone. Except me.”
“That’s something Monty and I have in common.”
We smile at each other, and the moment settles into something easy. Something nice.
“You alright?” I ask, studying his face, even though I know it’s probably useless. He doesn’t let anything slip unless he wants to. Still, feeling flat, not enjoying wins, that’s not nothing.
“I’ll survive,” he says. “But something’s got to change.”
“Maybe those awful hours you keep,” I say.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Can’t really pull that off anymore, can I? I’m getting old.”
He sinks into the couch.
“Don’t say that in front of me.”
He glances over, genuinely confused. “Why not?”
“I’m older than you.”
“Barely.”
“We’re not old.”
“No?”
“No,” I say, firm.
He considers that for a second. “How old is old, then?”
“Seventy.”
He grins.
“What?” I ask.
“Just imagining you at seventy,” he says, lifting his brows. “I need to keep my fitness up.”
I roll my eyes. “You think we’re still going to be doing this by then? Another thirty-five years?”
He shrugs, easy. “Unless you get a better offer.”
I lean into his chest, partly to hide my face. He’s doing it again, tugging at that hopeful flutter I pretend not to notice.
He wraps his arms around me, and the tension I’ve been carrying finally loosens. I focus on the steady thump of his heartbeat and let myself settle there, just for a moment. It feels easy and familiar.
That’s when the guilt creeps in. I try to push it down.
Usually, I can. I was the one who set the boundary.
I kept the distance. I built the walls. But maybe he thinks it’s his fault.
That I’m cold with him because of something he did, or something he is.
I know that feeling. I know exactly what it’s like to walk around thinking you’re the problem.
That you’re too much, or not enough, or just wrong in a way no one can explain.
I lived with that loneliness for years. The thought of him carrying it now is more than I can bear.
“I was engaged,” I say, my voice steady, eyes fixed on his trousers. “A long time ago. He left me for my best friend.”
I pause. Not for effect, but because it still stings to say it out loud. The old pain flares up. Even now, it’s like pressing on a fresh bruise.
“I don’t trust people,” I say. “That’s just how it turned out. It’s not about you.”
Dean goes quiet. So quiet that for a second I wonder if I actually said it out loud or only meant to.
His arm stays around me, and I’m grateful for that.
I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see pity in his eyes.
Being left is humiliating. Now that he knows, maybe he’ll start to rethink this.
Maybe he’ll start to wonder if there are better options.
“Fuck,” he says eventually, pulling me in a little closer.
That’s enough to send my thoughts racing. “So this is never going to work,” I say. “Okay? You should find a normal woman.”
A normal woman would welcome the way he shows up. She’d let herself believe it meant something. I keep twisting it until it feels like a trap.
“Normal women actually like me. That’s a red flag, right?” His hand moves slowly up and down my arm. “I’ll stick with you.”
I sit up and look at him. I’ve been nothing but difficult, made it clear I’m not interested, that nothing will ever happen between us.
And just now, I told him I’d been left for another woman—I wasn’t the first choice.
That should have finished the job. Yet, he’s still here, stretched out and calm, like none of it changed the way he sees me.
Like I didn’t just hand him an easy exit he refused to take.
“You know,” I say, sliding into his lap, “I think you might be more messed up than I am.”
“You’re fine,” he says, wrapping his arms around me, certain in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“Don’t you have work?”
“Not tonight.”
“Boss give you the night off?”
“Special assignment.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Told me to take you to bed and make it worth your while.”
I smile despite myself. “Well. You can’t ignore a direct order.”
“Better not.”
He grins, stands with me still in his lap, and for a split second I register the shift in balance, the strength under his hands, before he starts walking us toward the bedroom. The feeling in my chest is bright and ridiculous. For once, I don’t push it down.