NICK
The way these things usually started with Lila was gradual, then suddenly not gradual at all. One minute we were still on the couch, the half-empty cartons of barbequed chicken cooling on the coffee table.
The next, her hand had drifted across the distance between us and settled high on my thigh, fingers tracing the seam of my sweatpants with casual ownership.
It belonged there, in a way. We had done this dance enough times, weeks, months, however long this arrangement had been running, that the choreography felt automatic.
No awkward pauses, no second-guessing. Just the quiet click of two bodies that had learned each other's shortcuts.
It wasn't romance. It was never romance with Lila, and we both preferred It that way. Romance implied expectations, softness, futures.
This was simpler: two people using each other's proximity for the same thing we always used it for. A pressure valve. A reliable escape hatch from whatever the day had left clinging to our skins.
