Another moan. Fuck, I shouldn’t listen to this. Turning to leave, the lump in my throat is sharp. Painful. But then: “Flynn.” It’s so soft I almost miss it. Because she’s not calling to me; she’s lost in the haze of what she’s doing. Tossing and turning in my bed, touching herself and saying my name. The bedroom door swings open under my palm. I’m not thinking anymore; I’m moving on instinct. She whispered my name. Now I want her to scream it.
