The room smelled of sweat and heat, the air still thick from what they’d just done. Johnny lay sprawled across the bed, chest rising and falling, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. For him, it wasn’t just the rush, it was the comfort, the closeness, the way Simon’s weight had felt against him. The sex was good, way too fucking good.
But Simon was already moving. He pulled his trousers back on, mask half-fixed, movements brisk, efficient. Businesslike, as though they hadn’t just been tangled up in each other minutes ago.
“You don’t have to leave yet,” Johnny said, voice low, half-hopeful, watching him from the sheets.
Simon glanced over, then let out a short chuckle, pulling his jacket on. “It’s just sex, Johnny.”
Johnny forced a crooked smile, throat tight. “Aye… just sex.” He leaned back into the pillow like it didn’t sting, like it didn’t matter.
Simon didn’t look again. He stepped out, closing the door behind him.
Outside, the night was cool, sharp against his skin. He lit a cigarette with steady hands, inhaling deep.
It’s just sex, Riley, he told himself, jaw tight. That’s all. Don’t be a bloody idiot. Don’t go catchin’ feelings now.
He repeated it again, harsher this time, as though the words alone could kill the ache building in his chest.