“You Don’t Even Look at Me After”

Fyodor's POV

I can feel him breathing beside me. Not loudly. But enough to know he’s awake.

He hasn’t moved since I turned over, hasn’t said a word since we fell silent. Since I rolled away.

I didn’t want to roll away. But I always do. And now we lie here. Quiet.

The sheets are still warm between us. I hate that they are. It makes it harder to lie to myself.

His body doesn’t touch mine, but it’s close. I could reach back, just barely. My shoulder still remembers where his hand was. My skin still burns from the things I said without meaning to. Or maybe I did mean them. Maybe that’s the problem.

He shifts behind me. Not much. Just enough to let me know he’s done waiting.

“You don’t even look at me after.”

His voice isn’t angry. It’s soft. It’s tired. I hate it when he sounds like that.

I stare at the wall in front of me. It’s the same cracked plaster I stared at last week. The same peeling edge of paint. Nothing changes.

I swallow.

“I don’t know how to.”

The words come out quieter than I expected. I almost hope he didn’t hear.

He does. I feel him breathe in like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Good.

Because what else can I say? I don’t know how to turn around and face him. not when we’re like this. Not when he let me touch him like that. Let me see him like that.

He’s too much when I look at him after.

His mouth soft and his hair sticking to his neck and that awful expression he gets, like he’s hoping I’ll say something kind. Like he’s waiting for affection, or meaning, or a reason. And I don’t have any of those.

So I give him nothing. Because it’s safer than giving him what little I do have left.

He shifts again. The bed creaks faintly under him. And then:

“You mean you won’t.”

He says it without venom. It’s not an accusation. It’s worse, it’s the truth.

I close my eyes. Not to sleep. Just to disappear a little.

“No.” I breathe. “I mean I can’t.”

I mean I don’t know how to look at someone who lets me touch them like that. Not when I know I’ll keep hurting him. Not when he keeps letting me.

He doesn’t answer. Eventually, I hear him turn over too. Facing the other way.

Now we’re both facing away from something we’re not brave enough to admit.

The space between us feels wider than it ever did when we weren’t in the same bed.

And I already know neither of us will be the first to close it.