The orgasm was a lightning strike of pain and pleasure and there was nothing to do but let it roll over her and through her. She clutched him and sobbed.

“Jesus, fuck, Zilla,” he groaned. Grabbing her so hard against him it hurt. It hurt until it felt good.

Chapter Three

Zilla

She loved him.

He must know that, right? He must feel that?

She’d never been very good at hiding it. She tried, covering her love with rage like she could throw him off the scent of her real feelings.

He taught her how to take care of herself, how to manage the panic attacks, the violent fantasies, the sharp edges of herself that the world told her was wrong.

And she loved him.

He handed her the pocket square from his tux and she used it to clean up between her legs. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was. Even after he accidentally broke her rib. Or the time she snuck into his bed, naked and crying, feeling raw and alone.

No. Silence wasn’t their problem. Talking was.

“Why did you come to my room?” she finally asked. Two years too late maybe. The question easier to ask because she wasn’t looking at him.

“At Belhaven?”

She nodded, her long hair falling over her face.

The touch of his fingers against her chin stole her breath and forced her to look at him. “Because I recognized you. Because I know how lonely nights like there can be.”

“There were a dozen other people there. Half of them women. If this was about sex—”

It sounded ridiculous even as she said it. If it was about sex, why did he wait two years?

“It was never about sex,” he said. “It was always about you. I went into your room at Belhaven because I couldn’t stay away. And I ran across the Brooklyn Bridge because I couldn’t stay away.”

“And tonight?”

“I couldn’t stay away.”

She shook her head. “And now? You leave again? You vanish for three days and show up in my apartment in the middle of the night.”

He stepped back, tucking himself away. Fixing his shirt. His jacket. Until he was put back together again. Distant and impenetrable.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, the words pulled from her stomach. And then she did what she swore she’d never do. “I love you, Jacob. I love you and it’s killing me.”

He was silent, which, of course he was.

A sob filled her chest. Grief filled her head.

There it is. The thing I’d been pretending wasn’t real. My love and his lack of it.

“You don’t have anything to say?” she asked him. Begged him. But he was so far away. It was like touching him minutes ago was a fever dream. One of the millions she’d had about him. “Of course not. You never do.”