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1.
She lies facing away from him, the sheet cool under her cheek as her chest rises and falls, her heart rate starting to slow. She can hear his rapid breaths, can feel the heat radiating from his body.
It would be so easy to just let go, but-
"We still need to talk," she says, after long moments of silence. She says it quietly, into the empty space, and feels him stiffen behind her.
She knows he was hoping they'd said it all with what they just did, his fingers working the only explanation she's likely to get into the surface of her skin.
"What else is there to say?" His fingers just barely graze her lower back, enough to make her shiver. "It's not going to change anything."
"I don't need a precedent where you distract me with sex every time we need to have an actual conversation," she says, turning over onto her other side so she can look at him. He's frowning up at the ceiling like he's wishing he could levitate right up through it.
He is silent for long moments before cool blue eyes fall to her face.
"I didn't plan the sex," he says, more of an afterthought to the things he hasn't actually said. Her heart sinks.
"You're deflecting."
"Fine. Talk, Lucy. I'm all ears."
"Tim."
"You really think there's going to be a different outcome if we have this conversation again?"
She holds his gaze for a moment before she breaks it, rolling out of bed and picking up her t-shirt off the floor.
"Where are you going?"
"Home. If you change your mind, you know where I'll be. Otherwise, don't bother calling me next time you get lonely."
2.
She's on the living room floor later that same night, painting her toenails vivid crimson when he knocks.
She mutters under her breath as she gets up, walking carefully across the room so she doesn't leave a trail of red splotches in her wake. She knows who it is before she even glances through the spyhole; he always keeps to the same rhythm.
She lets him in wordlessly, before turning around and moving back to her original spot, picking up the tiny brush again. She doesn't bother to look at him.
He watches her paint for a second, sinking down into the couch.
"Lucy, I'm sorry."
"I wish that made a difference."
He sighs, rubbing his hand over the late night stubble covering his jaw. She can feel him watching her, the tiny motions of the brush, the toned lines of her bare legs stretched out in front of her.
"I don't know what else you want me to say."
"How about the truth?"
His expression flickers to a terse, evasive frown. "I've told you the truth. We can't be anything more, Lucy. It's a line we've already stepped over too far."
"Do you love me?" she asks, looking up suddenly, and he tenses up like she knew he would. His expression is laced with guilt, pain, regret. It's an answer in itself.
"It's not that simple," he says, and she shrugs, like his flat out refusal to go there with her isn't a tiny death inside her each and every time it occurs.
"I don't think we should do this anymore," she says, putting the brush back into the little glass bottle. She screws it tight and stands up, wearing her bright toenails and her dark expression like they're armour.
He looks at her for the longest moment, but she already knows he's not going to change their course.
She also knows that when he walks out that door, she won't be opening it to him again.
3.
Days pass in a sort of grey monotone.
They don't see one another except in passing for two weeks after the last time they slept together. It feels for all intents and purposes like a bereavement, only she doesn't feel entitled to show it. It's not like they were together; he made that clear enough.
She tries not to hear about him in that time either, because she tells herself she doesn't want to know.
Either he's hurt like she is, which will make her feel like shit, or he's fine, which will still make her feel like shit.
When she does see him next, it's completely out of the blue and she's tired and maybe her guard is down. She tells herself that's the only reason her heart leaps painfully in her chest the second she lays eyes on him.
She's struggling to carry too many bags of groceries up the stairs into her apartment, and he's sitting right there on the top step.
For a moment they just stare at each other, him above and her halfway up with one foot on the next step.
"Well, don't just sit there," she says, as cool and unaffected as she can be, and he pushes up, reaching for one of the bags.
She opens the door to her apartment and doesn't bother to check whether he's following her in, leaving the door open behind her. She hears him kick it shut before he follows her into the kitchen.
"Lucy," he tries, but she's resolute. She's unpacking cartons of eggs and tofu and oat milk into the fridge at top speed, each carton landing on the shelf with an audible thunk.
The next thing she's about to slam inside is snatched out of her hand before she can do it.
She turns to Tim, eyes blazing, and he's standing there looking so goddamn repentant with a carton of tomato soup in his hand that she sighs, and closes the fridge door.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, suddenly tired of playing games, and he lowers the carton to the counter.
"You wanted to talk," he says, eyes drifting back up to hers. "I think we should too."
4.
He seems like he doesn't know where to begin, now he's got her attention and he's standing there in front of her in her apartment, her expression reserved and unyielding.
She doesn't help him out either, because whatever this is, it's a situation of his making.
"I know you're angry," he finally says, a muscle in his jaw working. Lucy shifts her weight, the corners of her mouth downturned.
"No. Tim. I'm not angry. Not anymore," she says, tucking a strand of wayward hair that's escaped from her ponytail behind her ear. "That was two weeks ago. Now, I'm just done. I'm tired of wanting things I can't have."
And it's true. Sleeping with him was a temporary fix to cover over only partly reciprocated feelings that she now suspects are of a permanent nature. She's tired of hurting over it, of wanting, when he's already made up his mind not to give.
"What do you want?" he asks, and it's so offhand she just stares for a moment.
"Why are you asking me that?" she says, a flicker of fresh ire briefly running through her. "You already know the answer, and it's not what you want."
"Tell me anyway."
It's too much. Her eyes flash dangerously and she snaps.
"I want you to want me for more than sex. I want you to be willing to admit that you do."
He looks at her levelly, dropping his folded arms.
"Of course I want you for more than sex," he says. "I always have." He pauses, considering. "That night. The last time we were together. What did you ask me?"
She's thrown for a moment, staring at him in confusion before it comes back to her like a quiet bolt from the blue. That ugly exchange, the realisation that they had finally, finally hit the wall. He looks like he sees the exact moment where she remembers, and nods slowly.
"Ask again."
She turns her head to one side, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. She doesn't want to comply, doesn't want to feel all that again. But he just keeps looking at her, waiting, and eventually she has to know once and for all. She looks back at him.
"Do you love me?" she asks, a hitch in her voice, while he holds her gaze steady.
"Yes."
5.
Time seems to slow and speed up all at once.
"Why are you doing this? Why now?" Lucy asks, and she has to scrub fiercely at an errant tear forming in the corner of her eye before it falls.
Tim's watching her, chastened and penitent, and where he's going with this is so unexpected it's also terrifying, an abyss she can't see the end of.
"You deserve more than I was giving you," he says, and there's a kind of quiet conviction about the way he says it, like he's ready to face up to whatever punishment he receives. "And I know I'm about to lose you for good. I don't want to."
"What about everything you said? About us always being doomed to fail, about not crossing the line-"
"Forget what I said," he says, suddenly seeming agitated before he sighs. He takes a half step closer to her, making her suddenly aware of the shadows under his eyes, the tiredness in his expression. "Those were always excuses. What I'm saying now is, if you still want to do this, I'm all in. No messing around. I know it's two weeks too late and I know I've been an idiot, but... I just needed you to know the truth."
She looks away, blinking hard to try and stem the tears that pool in her eyes unbidden, threatening to fall. It's even harder when he moves, slowly, cautiously, to place his hands underneath her jaw so he can angle her face up and brush away the ones that escape with his thumbs.
"Trust takes time," she tells him, staring up into his eyes, because though she'd always trust him with her life, when it comes to her heart her trust in him is badly shaken.
There's pain in his eyes as he nods, lowering his forehead to hers.
"I know," he says. "Do you want me to go?"
And she could say yes, maybe even has good reason to. But the reality is, with him and her, and everything they've both been through, there's only one response that makes sense.
She slowly lifts one hand to his cheek, her eyes flicking between each of his eyes. They're steady and full of sincerity, and the way he wraps his arms tightly around her just to hold her and not back away feels like a sea change in itself.
It feels like he's found his way home.
"Stay," she says, and when she turns her head up to kiss him, he bends and meets her halfway.
.