The air in the room is thick—warm with the scent of last night, skin against skin, bodies moving in the dark. The sheets are heavy, tangled around my waist, clinging to the heat we left behind. My body is sore in the best way, but my mind is already pulling me back to reality.

I should leave. That’s how this works.

For the past few months, it’s been the same: we meet, we fuck, we leave. No texts unless it’s to set up the next time. No talking about anything deeper than what we want in the moment. It’s simple. Clean. Exactly how I need it to be.

But right now, I’m still here. Still lying in her bed, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing. She’s curled up beside me, back turned, one arm tucked under the pillow. Peaceful. The kind of peaceful I don’t let myself think too much about.

I drag a hand over my face and sigh. The room is still dim, early morning light slipping through the curtains, painting everything in muted grays. The city hums faintly outside, cars rolling by, life moving forward.

I should be moving too. But I don’t.

Instead, I glance over at her again. At the bare skin of her shoulder, the way her hair spills across the pillow. At the sheets pulled just high enough to keep things from getting complicated.

I don’t do complicated. I‘m to old for that bullshit.

I don’t do waking up in someone else’s bed, lingering like it means something. It doesn’t. This doesn’t.

I sit up, running my fingers through my hair. I’ll give it five more minutes. Just five. Then I’ll get dressed, grab my stuff, and walk out the door like I always do. Like I have to.

Because this is just sex. And nothing more.