The Muse's Undoing

“Can I get you anything before I go?” he asks.

“I’m fine.” My words are short and clipped.

“Obviously,” he says. “What do you need, Fischer?”

You, I want to tell him. But I can’t say that. “I just don’t want to sit here all alone with my thoughts. It can be a dangerous place.”

He stands with his backpack strapped to his shoulder. He’s actually leaving.

“Matthew,” I say, but it sounds more like whining.

“What?” He’s exasperated.

“Don’t go…”

So fast I almost don’t register it, he flicks his gaze down my body and swallows. Something in me stirs, because I do register it. My legs twitch, the urge to bend my knees and open my legs is sudden and strong. My heart thuds with the need to keep him here, not because I want to alter our relationship for all time or anything, but because I want to bask inside it.

It’s a mind fuck.

Teasing him might keep him here longer, but ultimately he’ll get annoyed and bored and leave anyway. But not for the first time, I’m having a hard time with the idea of him leaving and not knowing when I’ll see him again besides in the lobby.

I guess we did cross a couple of those increasingly blurry lines last night, and it’s all the more reason I don’t want him to go. What if he thinks about it too much like I will? What if he pulls away? What if he doesn’t think about it at all and dives headfirst into his muse?

“I need to clear my head,” he says.

Exactly what I was afraid of. He’s already thought about it too much. It’s probably why he had trouble sleeping last night. I fucked up.

I can’t look at him anymore. My jaw is clenched. I’m getting too emotional about this. Maybe I do have a concussion. “When do you work next?”

He takes a second to check his phone. “Tomorrow night. You want me to send you a link to my calendar?”

The question isn’t sarcastic. “Yeah,” I say. “That’d be great.”

“It’s nothing exciting. It just has my work schedule on it,” he says, tapping at his screen.

My phone buzzes with the link. “Thanks,” I mumble.

He comes over to my side of the bed, and I scoot to make a room for him to sit. He’s offering a hug.

“How’m I supposed to give you a decent hug with a backpack on?” Jesus, I am pouting. Right out in the open like an unsatisfied spouse.

“Now who’s the needy baby?” he asks, sliding it off and letting it thunk to the floor.

I go directly into his open arms, and he sighs sweetly once his chin rests on my shoulder. After a few breaths, around the time I expect the hug to end, it doesn’t. It’s a great hug, so I allow myself to indulge in it. I rub his back, and he rubs mine, too.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too.” And maybe I squeeze him tighter. For whatever reason, it’s harder to breathe. I even feel like I could cry actual tears.

I never cry.

As he eventually pulls away, he presses a soft kiss to my lips. I feel it everywhere.

“Call me if you need anything? Please?”

I’m reeling so hard, all I can do is nod my head.

“I’m serious,” he says. “If I don’t hear from you, I’m calling an ambulance.”