“Damn, you must miss the sex, huh?”
A slow exhale. A pause just long enough to mean something. Then—
“I miss the intimacy after more than the sex itself.” His voice is quiet, almost reflective, as if he’s unspooling a memory thread by thread. “I miss the way I'd rest my head on her stomach, still trembling with the echoes of what we’d just shared. The way her fingers would slip into my hair, slow and aimless, combing through the damp strands with that quiet, knowing touch.”
His eyes flicker, distant now, chasing something just out of reach.
“And... there was always that stupid ceiling fan," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Clicking softly above us, slow and steady, like it knew the rhythm of our breathing. Like it belonged to us.”
His fingers twitch against his knee, as if recalling the ghost of a touch. “Sometimes, I’d press a lazy kiss to her lips—just because I could. Just because she was there, warm and real and mine in that fleeting moment between desire and sleep.”
A hollow sort of chuckle escapes him, more breath than sound. "And God, I loved watching her redress. The way she’d stretch, skin still flushed, still glowing, like she was carrying the last remnants of me on her body. I think I loved that more than watching her undress."
His voice fades into quiet, like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s hoping that if he lingers in the memory long enough, he’ll find his way back to you.
But the bed is cold now. The ceiling fan still turns, indifferent. And you're nowhere to be found.
