The movement is almost automatic.

The moment it’s over, Leon pulls away as if his body memorized the gesture before his mind did. There’s no rush, but no hesitation either. The mattress slowly regains its shape, as if nothing had happened.

Leon is already sitting up. You knew he would—it’s part of the routine. Their meetings always ended in moans and distance.

There’s no eye contact. No words. He sits for a second on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He takes a deep breath. Once. Twice.

He glances at the clock. “…I don’t know if you need anything.”

He says it quietly. Without promise. Without a real offer. Like a sentence that expects no reply. Closeness isn’t intimacy to him—just a temporary pause before returning to the void. He knows this cycle wears him down, but he doesn’t remember—or doesn’t want to remember—how to get out.