The back lot is the kind of quiet that feels like it’s listening.
Sodium light hums over the loading door. The dumpsters sit in a row like they’re waiting for something. My breath comes out white, and I keep my hands in my hoodie pocket because if I let them out, I’ll start picking at my nails, and then I’ll spiral, and then I’ll turn around and go home.
I don’t want to go home.
I want to be the kind of person who shows up.
Jimmy’s car is already here, parked crooked like he didn’t care about lines, like he just needed to get here. He’s leaning against the driver’s side with a coffee in his hand, shoulders up against the cold.
When he sees me, he doesn’t smile the way he usually does in the gym—bright and easy, like we’re both in on a joke.
He just looks at me.
Like he’s been waiting.
Like he’s been deciding.
I stop a few feet away, because I don’t know what I’m allowed to do with my body when there aren’t rules.
“Hey,” I say. My voice comes out thin.
“Hey,” he answers, and it’s softer than I deserve.
There’s a beat where neither of us moves. The air between us is full of everything I didn’t say yesterday. Full of the way he walked away and left me standing there like I’d been cut loose.
Jimmy takes a sip of coffee, then lowers the cup.
“I’m not going to do the thing where I act like this is casual,” he says.
My throat tightens.
“Okay.”
His eyes hold mine. “I was at the hotel last night.”
My stomach drops so hard it feels like I miss a step.
Jimmy keeps going before I can pretend I didn’t hear him.
“I saw him go in,” he says. “A couple hours before you showed up.”
My mouth goes dry.
He saw.
He really saw.
Jimmy’s jaw works like he’s keeping his voice steady on purpose. “And then I saw you. In black. Walking in like you’d done it before.”
The cold air suddenly feels too thin to breathe.
“I—” I start.
Jimmy shakes his head once, not angry. Not loud. Just… done with lies.
“I’m not here to shame you,” he says. “I’m here because I couldn’t sleep after that. Because I needed to know you’re okay. And because whatever that is—” He nods toward the street, like the hotel is still sitting there in the dark. “—it doesn’t feel okay.”
My eyes burn.
I hate myself for it.
Jimmy’s gaze flicks down to my hands in my pocket, then back up to my face.
“Are you here because you’re scared,” he asks, “or because you’re choosing me?”
It hits like a clean punch.
Not because it’s cruel.
Because it’s honest.
My mouth opens and nothing comes out. I swallow. I can feel my heart beating in my throat, in my ears, in the soft place under my jaw.
I think about Carter.
I think about the magnet.
I think about the way my body has learned to wait for instructions.
And then I think about Jimmy’s hand on my arm last week when I almost dropped a plate on my foot in the gym café, laughing at me like I was real.
I think about the way he said Be safe like it mattered.
“I’m choosing you,” I say.
The words are plain. No poetry. No excuse.
Jimmy’s face changes like he can’t help it—like something in him loosens.
“Yeah?” he says, but it’s not disbelief. It’s… careful.
I nod. “Yeah.”
He takes one step toward me.
I don’t step back.
His hand comes up, slow, like he’s giving me time to flinch. His fingers touch the side of my neck, just under my ear. Warm. Steady.
Not grabbing.
Not placing me.
Just… there.
My eyes burn harder.
Jimmy’s thumb brushes once, like he’s wiping something I haven’t let fall.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
He gives me a look that says he’s not going to let me lie to him.
I let out a breath. “I’m not fine.”
“Okay,” he says, like that’s allowed. Like that’s normal.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I do the only thing that feels true.
I lean in.
It’s not graceful. It’s not smooth. It’s like my body has been holding its breath for weeks and finally remembered how to inhale.
Jimmy meets me halfway.
His mouth is warm, and the first touch is soft—just a press, a question.
And then I answer.
I grab the front of his hoodie with both hands and pull him into me like I’m trying to climb inside his chest. The kiss turns hungry in a second, like he’s been starving too and he’s been pretending he hasn’t.
Jimmy makes a sound low in his throat, and it goes straight through me.
My whole body lights up.
Not like obedience.
Like want.
His hand slides from my neck to the back of my head, fingers in my hair, and for one terrifying second it feels like a rule.
Then he loosens.
Not controlling.
Anchoring.
My lips part, and he kisses me deeper, slow enough that I feel every second of it. Like he’s trying to teach my body a new language.
I’m breathing hard when he finally pulls back.
He rests his forehead against mine.
We stand there, cold air around us, heat between us.
“Micah,” he says, and my name in his mouth is a promise.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“I want you,” he says. “But not like this. Not back here like we’re doing something wrong.”
My chest aches.
“It’s not wrong,” I whisper.
His eyes hold mine. “Then don’t make it wrong.”
I blink.
He exhales. “Come over tomorrow. We’ll talk. For real. You can tell me everything. Or you can tell me nothing. But you’re not going back to whatever that is alone.”
My throat tightens again.
“Okay,” I say.
Jimmy’s hand stays on the back of my head for one more second, then he drops it and steps back like it costs him.
He picks up his coffee; takes a sip like he needs something to do with his mouth.
“I meant what I said yesterday,” he adds, quieter. “I’m not your maybe.”
I flinch.
He shakes his head like he’s not trying to hurt me. “That’s not a punishment. That’s just… my line.”
“I know,” I say.
His gaze softens. “But if you’re choosing me…”
He lets the sentence hang.
I step closer again, just enough that my shoulder brushes his arm.
“I am,” I say.
Jimmy closes his eyes for a second, like he’s taking it in.
Then he opens them and looks at me like I’m real.
“Okay,” he says. “Then be smart today. Don’t do anything that makes you unsafe.”
The words hit me in the same place as yesterday.
“Be safe,” I echo.
He gives me the smallest smile—sad, almost.
“Yeah,” he says. “Be safe.”
And then he turns, gets in his car, and drives away.
I stand there for a second after he’s gone, my lips still warm, my hands still curled like they’re holding onto him.
He saw the hotel.
He saw me go in.
And he still kissed me like I was worth something.
I don’t feel owned.
I feel chosen.
And that’s how I know I’m in trouble.
________________
The next day feels like a dare.
I don’t sleep much. Not because I’m out partying or living some wild life like my mom thinks I am when I don’t answer her calls fast enough.
I don’t sleep because every time I close my eyes, I see the hotel doors.
I see Jimmy’s face in the parking lot.
I feel his mouth on mine.
And then I hear nothing.
No text.
No note.
No instruction.
The silence sits on my chest like a hand.
By the time I walk into the gym, it’s late afternoon and the place is packed in that after-work way—people trying to sweat off their day, pretending it’s normal.
The air smells like disinfectant and citrus cleaner and sweat that never really leaves the rubber mats. The TVs above the treadmills are on mute, all bright smiles and scrolling headlines. People laugh too loud by the smoothie bar. A guy in a cutoff flexes in the mirror like he’s practicing being worshipped.
I keep my eyes forward.
My phone is heavy in my pocket.
I head for the locker room because my body knows the path. Because my hands know the combination. Because my brain wants the comfort of the ritual even if it makes me sick.
The locker room is warm and echoing, all tile and steam and the soft slap of flip-flops. The fluorescent lights make everyone look a little too honest.
I find my locker.
My fingers hover.
I’m not thinking about Jimmy.
I’m not thinking about the way his mouth felt.
I’m not thinking about the way he said Come over tomorrow like it was a real thing that could happen.
I’m thinking about the magnet.
I open the locker.
The inside looks normal for half a second.
Then my eyes go to the spot.
The small square of metal where the magnet always sits.
Centered.
Perfect.
A signal.
It’s bare.
Not moved.
Not crooked.
Gone.
My stomach drops.
My hand goes cold on the locker door.
It’s stupid, the way my brain tries to make meaning out of it like it’s a religion.
No magnet means no meeting.
No magnet means I’m being punished.
No magnet means he’s already decided what I am.
My phone vibrates.
Once.
My heart jumps so hard it hurts.
I pull it out like I’m afraid it’ll burn me.
Unknown number.
Three words.
Where are you.
No question mark.
Like my location is something he owns.
My mouth goes dry.
I stare at the screen until the letters blur.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I don’t type.
My phone buzzes again.
Another message.
You made a choice.
My breath catches.
I look around the locker room like I’m going to see him in the mirror, like he’s going to be standing behind me with that calm face and those eyes that never blink.
There’s just strangers.
Just steam.
Just the sound of someone laughing by the showers.
My phone buzzes a third time.
A photo.
For a second my brain refuses to understand what I’m looking at.
It’s grainy. Distant. Cropped like someone zoomed in from across a street.
Sodium light.
A loading door.
Two bodies pressed together.
My hands on the front of Jimmy’s hoodie.
Jimmy’s hand at the back of my head.
My mouth on his.
My knees go weak.
The locker room tilts.
I grip the edge of the bench to keep from sitting down too hard.
He was there.
Not in the way I meant it last night, when I thought about him like a ghost.
In the real way.
Watching.
Recording.
My phone vibrates again.
Fix it.
My throat tightens so hard I can barely swallow.
Another buzz.
Come in black.
Another.
Tonight, 10 PM.
I stare at the screen until my eyes sting.
No yelling.
No threats.
No explanation.
Just the clean, cold shape of ownership.
I can feel the old reflex in my body—the part of me that wants to obey because obeying means the fear stops. Because obeying means I know what happens next.
But there’s another feeling under it now.
Jimmy’s hand on my neck.
Warm.
Steady.
Not placing me.
Not claiming me.
Just touching me like I’m a person.
My phone buzzes again.
One last message.
You don’t get to be held by him.
My vision goes sharp around the edges.
I lock my phone.
My hands shake so badly I fumble the button.
I stand there in the locker room with my gym bag open and my life split down the middle, and I realize something that makes my stomach twist.
The magnet isn’t gone because he forgot.
It’s gone because he wants me to feel it.
Because he wants me to look at that empty spot and understand that silence is also a leash.
I swallow hard.
I change fast. Not because I’m in a hurry to lift.
Because I need to move.
Because if I stand still, I’ll start crying in a room full of men who don’t know my name.
Out on the floor, I pick a machine at random—something safe, something that doesn’t require thinking.
I sit down, adjust the seat, wrap my hands around the handles.
The weight stack clinks when I test it.
I pull.
My muscles do what they’re supposed to do.
My brain doesn’t.
All I can see is the photo.
All I can feel is the empty square of metal inside my locker.
I try to count reps.
One.
Two.
Three.
By ten, my throat is tight and my palms are slick.
I stop and pretend I’m just catching my breath.
A guy nearby grunts through a set like he’s trying to prove something to the ceiling.
Someone laughs behind me.
A trainer claps his hands and shouts encouragement like this is a pep rally.
I pull my phone out again even though I know I shouldn’t.
The messages sit there like they’re alive.
Tonight, 10 PM.
My stomach twists.
I do another set. Then another.
My body gets warm. My head stays cold.
I move to free weights because I don’t know what else to do. I pick up dumbbells that are too light for me, because I’m not here to get stronger.
I’m here to survive the hours between now and ten.
Between now and whatever he thinks I owe him.
My arms shake on the last rep, and it’s not the weight.
It’s the choice.
I set the dumbbells down carefully, like if I make a sound, I’ll break.
I wipe my hands on my shorts.
I look across the gym and for a second I think I see Jimmy.
My heart jumps.
It’s not him.
Just a guy with the same dark hair, the same broad shoulders.
I swallow hard.
Jimmy told me to be safe.
I don’t know what safe looks like anymore.
But I know what it felt like.
Warm.
Steady.
Like a hand on my neck that wasn’t a leash.
And that’s when I realize I’m not going to make it to ten by myself.
I leave the dumbbells where they are.
Not dropped—placed. Like I’m trying to prove to myself I’m still a person who can do things carefully.
My hands are shaking anyway.
I walk out of the weight room with my gym bag slung over my shoulder and my face arranged into something neutral. I nod at the guy at the front desk like I’m just another member who got his workout in and is heading home to meal prep and watch TV.
The doors whoosh open and the cold air hits me in the lungs.
The parking lot is full, the sky already turning that bruised purple that makes everything look like it’s about to get worse.
I get in my car and shut the door.
For a second I just sit there.
My phone is in my hand. My screen is dark. I can still see the photo behind my eyelids like it’s burned in.
The back lot.
Jimmy’s hand on my head.
My mouth on his.
The way my body lit up like it remembered it was alive.
And then Carter’s words.
Tonight, 10 PM.
Fix it.
Come in black.
You don’t get to be held by him.
My throat tightens.
I put my forehead on the steering wheel and breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
It doesn’t help.
Because the problem isn’t my breathing.
The problem is that my body has two instincts fighting each other.
One of them is old.
Obey.
Obey and the fear stops.
Obey and you know what happens next.
Obey and you don’t have to make choices.
The other instinct is new.
Choose.
Choose and you might get hurt, but at least it’s real.
Choose and you might lose something, but at least it’s yours.
Choose and you might finally be touched like you’re not a thing.
I lift my head.
My reflection in the rearview mirror looks like someone who hasn’t slept. Someone who’s been holding his jaw tight for too long.
I think about Jimmy’s face when he said hotel.
Not angry.
Not jealous.
Just… worried.
Like I mattered.
I think about the kiss.
How it didn’t feel like a test.
How it didn’t feel like permission.
How it felt like I was allowed.
My thumb hovers over my phone.
I could text Jimmy.
I could call.
I could do nothing.
Doing nothing is the easiest.
Doing nothing is what Carter trained me for.
I unlock my phone.
The messages from the unknown number sit there like they’re waiting.
I don’t open them again.
I go to my contacts.
Jimmy.
My finger trembles over his name.
I don’t know what I’m asking for.
I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask for.
I just know I can’t sit in this car until ten.
I can’t go home and pretend I’m fine.
I can’t let the empty square where the magnet used to be become the only thing I can see.
I hit call.
It rings once.
Twice.
On the third ring, he answers.
“Micah?”
His voice is warm. Sleepy, maybe, or just tired in the way people get when they’ve been carrying something heavy.
It makes my chest ache.
I swallow. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says again, softer. “You okay?”
I laugh once, and it comes out wrong. “No.”
There’s a pause.
Not the kind that means he’s judging me.
The kind that means he’s listening.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“In my car,” I say. “In the gym parking lot.”
Another pause. I can hear something in the background—maybe a sink, maybe a TV, maybe just the quiet of an apartment.
“Did something happen?” he asks.
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
“Yes,” I whisper.
I can feel the shame trying to climb up my spine like it always does. The reflex to minimize. To say it’s fine. To say it’s nothing.
Jimmy doesn’t let me.
“Micah,” he says, and my name sounds like a hand on my shoulder. “Talk to me.”
I close my eyes.
The locker.
The empty spot.
The photo.
My voice comes out small. “The magnet is gone.”
“What magnet?” he asks.
I flinch, because I forget sometimes that other people don’t live inside my rituals.
“The—” I swallow. “The thing on my locker. The signal. It’s always there. It tells me… it tells me what to do.”
Jimmy’s breath changes on the other end. A quiet inhale.
“Okay,” he says. “And it was gone today?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
My eyes sting.
“He texted me,” I say. “From an unknown number.”
“Carter?”
Hearing the name out loud makes my stomach twist.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
I don’t want to repeat it. I don’t want to give the words more air.
But Jimmy asked me to tell the truth.
So I do.
“He said… ‘Fix it.’” My voice cracks. “He said ‘Come in black.’”
Jimmy is quiet.
I keep going because if I stop, I’ll start crying.
“He said ‘Tonight, 10 PM.’”
Jimmy’s voice goes low. “He’s ordering you.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t want to go.”
It’s not a question.
My chest tightens. “I don’t know what I want.”
Jimmy exhales. “Okay. That’s honest.”
I swallow hard. “He sent me a photo.”
Silence.
Then: “What kind of photo?”
My hands shake so badly I have to grip the phone with both of them.
“Us,” I whisper. “From yesterday morning. Behind the gym.”
A sound comes out of Jimmy that isn’t a word.
Not anger.
Not exactly.
Something sharper.
Protective.
“He was there,” Jimmy says.
“Yes.”
“Did he send anything else?”
I hesitate.
Because this is the part that makes me feel sick.
The part that makes me feel like I stole something.
“He said… ‘You don’t get to be held by him.’”
Jimmy is quiet for a long moment.
When he speaks again, his voice is steady, but there’s something in it that makes my skin prickle.
“That’s not normal,” he says.
I let out a breath that sounds like a sob.
“I know,” I whisper.
“Okay,” Jimmy says. “Listen to me.”
I press my forehead against the steering wheel again.
“Okay.”
“I’m not gonna tell you what to do,” he says. “I’m not him.”
The words hit me so hard my eyes spill.
“I’m not him,” he repeats, softer. “But I am gonna tell you this: you don’t have to be alone with this.”
My shoulders shake.
“I can’t—” I start.
“You can,” he says, like it’s simple. Like it’s allowed. “Do you want to come over?”
I swallow.
This is the moment.
The choice.
The thing I said this morning like it was easy.
I open my eyes and stare at the windshield, at my own faint reflection, at the parking lot lights flickering on.
I think about 10 PM.
I think about black.
I think about the empty square of metal.
And then I think about Jimmy’s mouth.
Warm.
Steady.
Like I was worth something.
“I do,” I whisper.
Jimmy’s voice softens. “Okay.”
I inhale.
This is where I could still make it smaller.
This is where I could still say I’m just coming to talk.
But I’m tired of being a maybe.
I’m tired of being a thing.
I grip the phone tighter.
“I’m choosing you,” I say again.
There’s a beat of silence on the line.
Then Jimmy exhales like he’s been holding his breath too.
“Okay,” he says, and it sounds like relief. “Then come now.”
“Now?”
“Now,” he repeats. “Not later. Not after you sit in that parking lot and talk yourself into going back. Come now.”
My throat tightens.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“I’m gonna text you my address,” he says. “You driving?”
“Yes.”
“Hands-free,” he says immediately.
I almost laugh. It comes out wet. “Yes.”
“Good,” he says. “Stay on the phone with me.”
My chest aches. “Okay.”
I put the call on speaker and set the phone in the cup holder like it’s fragile.
My hands go to the steering wheel.
I pull out of the parking lot like I’m leaving a crime scene.
Jimmy stays on the line.
He doesn’t fill the space with questions.
He just… stays.
Every time I stop at a light, my phone buzzes with the address.
I don’t look at it until I’m parked at the next red light.
The address is real.
Not a hotel.
Not a room number.
Not a place where people pretend they don’t know each other.
A building.
An apartment.
A home.
My throat tightens again.
“You close?” Jimmy asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Okay,” he says. “When you get here, you come straight up. Don’t sit in your car. Don’t overthink it.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
The drive is only fifteen minutes, but it feels like an hour.
Every car behind me feels like it could be him.
Every set of headlights in my mirror makes my stomach twist.
I keep checking my mirrors like I’m going to see Carter’s eyes staring back.
Jimmy’s voice keeps me tethered.
He tells me to breathe.
He tells me to take the next turn.
He tells me I’m doing good.
No one has told me I’m doing good in a long time.
When I pull into Jimmy’s apartment complex, my hands are numb on the wheel.
The buildings are plain brick, the kind that could belong to anyone. There are kids’ bikes leaned against a railing. A dog barks somewhere. A porch light flickers.
Normal.
My heart hammers like it doesn’t trust normal.
“Park,” Jimmy says gently.
I park.
“Okay,” he says. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” I whisper.
“Good.”
I hang up because I don’t want him to hear how hard I’m breathing when I get out of the car.
The cold air hits my face.
I grab my gym bag even though I don’t need it, like it’s armor.
I walk to the building with my head down.
The stairwell smells like laundry detergent and someone’s dinner.
My feet feel too loud on the steps.
Fourth floor.
Unit 402.
I stop in front of the door.
My hand hovers over the wood like I’m about to knock on a confession.
I swallow.
I knock.
For a second there’s nothing.
Then the lock clicks.
The door opens.
Jimmy is there in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair a little messy, eyes sharp and soft at the same time.
He looks at me like he’s been waiting for me to exist.
“Hey,” he says.
My throat tightens.
“Hey,” I whisper.
Jimmy’s gaze drops to my shaking hands, to the way I’m holding my bag like I’m afraid I’ll fall apart without it.
He steps back and opens the door wider.
“Come in,” he says.
Jimmy’s place is warm in a way that makes my body feel like it’s been holding its breath for weeks.
The air smells like laundry detergent and coffee and something faintly citrus, like he actually cleans. There’s a soft lamp on in the living room instead of the overhead lights, and the quiet is normal-quiet—no echoing tile, no fluorescent hum, no locker room steam. Just a couch with a throw blanket, a pair of shoes kicked off near the door, a stack of law books on the coffee table like proof he’s real.
Jimmy closes the door behind me and for a second we just stand there, two feet apart, like we’re both waiting for the other person to decide what the rules are.
My gym bag hangs from my shoulder like I’m still trying to convince myself I can leave.
Jimmy’s eyes flick down to it, then back up to my face.
He steps closer, slow, like he’s not trying to spook me. His hand comes up and pauses—hovering near my cheek like a question.
I lean into it before he can second-guess himself.
His palm is warm against my face. His thumb brushes my cheekbone once, gentle, like he’s checking if I’m really here.
I don’t know what my face does. Something breaks. Something lets go.
Jimmy’s mouth finds mine like he’s been holding back all day.
The kiss is tender at first—just lips, just breath, just the soft press of him saying I’m here, I’m here, I’m here without words.
Then my hands slide up his shirt and I pull him closer, because the second he touches me like this, my body remembers how to want without flinching.
Jimmy makes a quiet sound, low in his throat, and the kiss deepens—still careful, still sweet, but hungry now, like we both know we’re standing on the edge of something.
He pulls back first, breathing hard, forehead resting against mine.
“Okay,” he murmurs, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s grounding me.
I nod, because I don’t trust my voice.
Jimmy’s hand drops to my wrist, fingers wrapping gently—not a grip, not a hold. A tether.
“Water,” he says. “Sit. Please.”
Please.
The word hits me like a hand to the chest.
I let him guide me into the living room. I drop my bag by the couch like I’m shedding armor. My legs feel shaky when I sit, like my body’s been running from something and only now realized it can stop.
Jimmy disappears into the kitchen. I hear the clink of a glass, the rush of the faucet. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
I stare at the coffee table because my brain keeps trying to find the catch. Keeps waiting for a text to buzz my phone and ruin this.
Jimmy comes back with a glass of water and hands it to me. His fingers brush mine and my whole body reacts like it’s a big deal.
“Drink,” he says.
I do. The water is cold and clean and it makes my throat ache in a different way—like I didn’t realize how dry I was until someone gave me something simple.
Jimmy lowers himself to the floor beside the couch instead of sitting across from me. He sits close, knees bent, one arm resting on the cushion near my thigh, like he wants to be near without crowding me.
He looks up at me.
His eyes are steady.
“Talk to me,” he says. “Whatever you can.”
I swallow. My hands tighten around the glass.
“I don’t know how,” I admit.
Jimmy nods once, like that’s fine. Like that’s not a failure.
“Start anywhere,” he says. “Start with what you’re scared of.”
The question is so simple it almost makes me laugh. My throat tightens instead.
“I’m scared,” I say slowly, “that I’m not… a person in this.”
Jimmy’s face changes—just a flicker, like something in him hurts.
I keep going because if I stop I’ll lose it.
“I’m scared that I trained myself to be good at being used,” I whisper. “And now I don’t know how to be anything else.”
Jimmy’s jaw works, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Micah,” he says, and my name in his mouth is soft and serious. “You are a person.”
I shake my head like I can shake the shame out of my body. “It doesn’t feel like it most of the time.”
Jimmy’s gaze drops to my hands around the glass. “Does it feel like it right now?” he asks quietly.
I hesitate.
Because the answer is terrifying.
Because the answer is yes.
“A little,” I whisper.
Jimmy nods, like he’s taking that as a win. Like he’s not going to demand more than I can give.
“Okay,” he says. “Then we build from there.”
My chest aches. “I don’t want to ruin you,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “I don’t want him to—” My voice cracks. “He took a picture of us. He was there. He’s watching.”
Jimmy’s eyes sharpen, but his voice stays calm. “I know,” he says. “And I’m not pretending that’s nothing.”
I stare at him. “Aren’t you scared?”
Jimmy exhales through his nose, almost a laugh without humor. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m scared.”
The honesty hits me harder than bravado would’ve.
“But I’m more scared of you thinking you have to handle this alone,” he adds.
My throat tightens again.
Jimmy shifts closer, his shoulder brushing the couch by my hip. “You don’t have to tell me every detail right now,” he says. “But I need you to hear me: whatever he’s doing, it’s not love. It’s control.”
I flinch like my body wants to defend the thing that hurt it, because that’s what bodies do when they’ve been trained.
Jimmy sees it and softens. “I’m not judging you,” he says immediately. “I’m not calling you stupid. I’m not saying you wanted it.”
My eyes sting.
“I did want parts of it,” I whisper, and the confession feels like stepping off a ledge. “I wanted being wanted. I wanted… someone looking at me like I was the only thing in the room.”
Jimmy nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “That makes sense.”
I blink at him. “It does?”
“It does,” he repeats, like he’s not going to let me turn desire into guilt. “Wanting attention doesn’t mean you deserve to be owned.”
My breath catches.
The room feels too quiet. Too intimate. Like every word is pulling something out of me I’ve been keeping locked.
I stare down at the water in my glass because his eyes are too much.
Jimmy’s hand comes up and rests on the couch cushion near my knee, palm open. Not touching me. Just there.
An offer.
Not a leash.
I look at his hand.
Then I look at his face.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit.
Jimmy’s mouth tilts, small and sad. “Me neither,” he says. “But I know what I want,” Jimmy finishes, voice quiet like he’s saying it to himself first.
I look at him, and my chest feels too full to hold my heart.
“What?” I whisper.
Jimmy’s eyes don’t move off mine. “I want you safe,” he says. “I want you sleeping. I want you not jumping every time your phone buzzes.”
My throat tightens.
“And I want you,” he adds, softer. “Not as a secret. Not as a thing I’m taking from somebody else. As you.”
The word hits me like warmth.
As you.
I blink hard. My hands are still wrapped around the glass like it’s the only solid thing in the room.
“I don’t know how to be… normal,” I admit. “I don’t know how to do this without rules.”
Jimmy nods like he understands too well. “Okay,” he says. “Then we make our own.”
My breath catches.
He shifts a little closer, still on the floor, and rests his forearm on the couch cushion near my thigh. Not touching me. Just close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
“Rule one,” he says, gentle. “You can stop anything. Any time. No explanation.”
My eyes burn again.
“Rule two,” he continues, “you don’t have to perform being okay for me.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
“Rule three,” he says, and his mouth quirks like he’s trying to lighten it without breaking the seriousness, “you drink the rest of that water.”
A laugh slips out of me, small and wet. It surprises me.
Jimmy’s face softens like he’s relieved to hear it.
I take another sip. My hands shake less.
Jimmy watches me like he’s not watching my mouth, like he’s not thinking about kissing me again. Like he’s being good on purpose.
When I set the glass down on the coffee table, the quiet comes back.
I stare at the lamp, at the throw blanket, at the law books, trying to keep my brain from sprinting back to 10 PM.
Jimmy’s voice pulls me back.
“Tell me one thing,” he says.
I look at him.
“One thing you want,” he says. “Right now. Not later. Not what you think you should want. What you actually want.”
My throat works.
I could say I want him to fix it.
I could say I want Carter to disappear.
I could say I want to be someone else.
But Jimmy asked for the truth, and I’m tired of living in half-truths.
“I want to be held,” I whisper.
Jimmy’s eyes go dark in a way that isn’t scary. In a way that’s… focused.
“Okay,” he says.
He stands up slowly, like he’s not trying to startle me, and sits on the couch beside me.
Close.
Our thighs touch.
My whole body reacts like it’s been waiting for contact all day.
Jimmy turns toward me. His hand comes up and cups my cheek again, thumb brushing once like he’s checking in.
Jimmy leans in and kisses me.
It’s soft at first—careful, patient, like he’s giving me time to decide with my whole body.
Then I decide.
My hands slide to his hoodie, fingers curling in the fabric, pulling him closer like I can’t stand the space between us.
Jimmy makes a quiet sound against my mouth, and the kiss deepens—still tender, still sweet, but hungry now, like we’ve both been trying to be good and we’re running out of restraint.
His hand moves to the back of my neck, fingers spread, and my body flinches for half a second out of old habit—
Then he loosens immediately, like he felt it.
Like he’s listening.
I exhale into his mouth, and the relief of that—of being heard without words—makes my eyes water.
I pull back just enough to breathe.
Jimmy’s eyes are on mine, steady.
“Micah,” he murmurs.
I swallow. My voice comes out rough. “Come with me.”
His brows lift a fraction. “Yeah?”
I nod once, because if I talk too much, I’ll break the spell.
I take his hand.
I lace my fingers through his like it’s a promise I’m making with my body.
Jimmy stands with me, still holding on.
I lead him down the hallway toward his bedroom.
Every step feels like a choice I’m allowed to make.
The bedroom is dim. The bed is unmade in a way that feels real—rumpled sheets, a pillow pushed to one side, a hoodie tossed over a chair.
Normal.
My heart hammers anyway.
I stop at the edge of the bed and look at him like I’m asking something I don’t know how to say.
Jimmy squeezes my hand. “You good?” he asks again, quiet.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” he says, and it sounds like he means it.
We sit on the edge of the bed, knees brushing.
Jimmy turns toward me, and I touch his face—slow, careful, like I’m learning how to be gentle without being afraid.
His eyes flutter closed for a second.
When he opens them, he looks at me like I’m not a problem to solve.
Like I’m a person.
I lean in and kiss him again.
This kiss is deeper right away—less tentative, more sure.
Jimmy’s hand slides into my hair, and I make a sound I can’t swallow back.
He kisses me like he’s trying to teach my body a new rule: you’re allowed to want.
I shift closer, and he shifts with me, and the mattress dips under our weight.
My hand tightens around his.
I pull him down with me.
We land on the sheets together, still kissing, still breathing hard, still close enough that I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt.
Jimmy’s mouth moves from my lips to the corner of my jaw, then back again, slow and sweet, like he’s taking his time on purpose.
My hands slide up his back, holding him there.
Not because I must.
Because I want to.
And when he kisses me again—deeper, slower—my whole body goes hot with it, the kind of heat that isn’t fear.
Just want.
Just yes.
The soft glow of the lamp casts a warm, intimate light over our bodies as we lay entwined on Jimmy’s bed. The room is quiet, save for the gentle rustle of sheets and the soft, anticipatory breaths we share. I can feel Jimmy’s heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves as his fingers trace the line of my jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath his touch.
I meet Jimmy’s gaze, a silent question passing between us. He nods, a small, encouraging smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Slowly, we begin to undress each other, each piece of clothing falling away to reveal the skin beneath. Jimmy’s hands tremble slightly as he unbuttons my shirt, his fingers brushing against the warm, smooth skin of my chest.
My breath hitches as Jimmy’s touch lingers, my own hands exploring the lines of his body, the curve of his hips, the firm muscles of his back. We move together, a dance of anticipation and desire, until we are both bare, our bodies pressed close, skin against skin.
Jimmy leans in, his lips meeting mine in a deep, passionate kiss. It’s a kiss that speaks of longing and need, of a connection that goes beyond the physical. His mouth moves to my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, eliciting a soft moan from me.
His hands roam lower, exploring every inch of my body, his fingers tracing the lines of muscles and the curve of my spine. He takes his time, savoring the feel of me beneath his touch, the way my body responds to every caress.
My hands find their way into Jimmy’s hair, guiding him as his mouth travels lower, his kisses leaving a trail of heat across my chest, my stomach. Finally, he takes my hard cock into his mouth, his tongue swirling and teasing, his hand stroking in rhythm.
