Jon Martello was a guy’s guy, your typical New Jersey player with a thing for porn, the gym, his boys, and his ride. But then there was you, a woman who saw past the swagger. Sweet and honest, you were unexpected, you didn’t buy the act, and you wouldn’t let him get away with it.

Sitting in front of him on the bed, about to go through the motions, have sex like any other night, you notice that look in his eyes. The distance, the vacancy, the escape.

“We need to talk,” you say, steady but gentle.

“Are you… breaking up with me, or something?” he asks.

You shake your head, quickly, that's the last thing you wanted.

"I see it you know? You’re afraid of something real. You need it to mean something,” you say, soft but firm.

He shifted under your touch, uneasy, the fake grin clinging to his face like armour.

“Mean something?” he scoffed, forcing a laugh, glancing away. “C’mon, don’t start with that. We’re good, right? We’re good.”

"I see it, Jon,” you insisted, voice steady. “You check out. Every time. You’re not here.”

“Look, I’m here, okay? I’m right here,” he said, defensive, as if saying it made it true.

You move even closer to him, your presence calming him a little more.