Chapter 1: Late Night Knock
Ava’s phone buzzed against the plywood coffee table, scattering the light from the paused Almodóvar film across its surface. The text glowed: "Coming over."
A slow smirk pulled at her mouth. “Fuck, finally,” she muttered to the empty room, the word dissolving into the hum of the screen.
She picked up the phone, her thumb hovering. Play it cool, or make him sweat? She couldn't decide. A simple ‘k’ felt too passive, but ‘door’s open’ was an invitation she wasn’t ready to give. She typed ‘Bet.’, deleted it, then regretted that. Her fingers moved again, landing on something: "Bet. I’m here."
Ava tossed the phone onto the couch cushion and let out a long, measured breath. She rustled her fingers through her curly black hair, the texture springing back against her knuckles as she laid back against the worn cushions. Peering down over her outfit—a vintage band t-shirt and soft cotton shorts—a flicker of doubt cut through the cool she was trying to project.
This ain't even a fit, just some around-the-house shit, she thought. He gon’ walk in here, see me lookin’ like I ain’t care, and think it was too easy. Her thumb tapped the edge of the phone, the question of his ETA a live wire in her mind. She let her hand fall back to her lap, the impulse fading into the low light.
“Fuck it,” she said, the words sharp in the silent room, and pushed herself up from the couch. The floor was cool under her feet as she walked toward the bedroom, decision solidifying with each step. She would change.
She yanked open the closet door, pushing past academic gowns and winter coats. Her fingers brushed past silky things she’d never wear for him, settling on a simple crimson blouse, a worn leather jacket, and a pair of black skinny jeans that required a tactical hop to zip. She tugged on thick socks and forced her feet into a pair of heavy boots, the cold eyelets pressing into her fingers. Turning to the full-length mirror, she did a slow, critical rotation.
Alright. This says you could have been out, but you chose to be in. For him. Now act like it was a coin toss.
She strode from the bedroom back into the lamplit clutter of the main room, the floorboards creaking under her boots. It would be easier if he was already here, a script of familiar motions to follow. A tight, hollow feeling bloomed low in her stomach, an anxious tremor in her hands she hid by clenching them. The thought arrived, unbidden and specific: a craving for the blunt pressure of his mouth between her legs, for the obliterating focus of it. The directness of the hunger made her throat go dry. She needed a drink.
The hollow feeling propelled her into the kitchen, where she filled a thick glass with tap water, the cold shocking her palm. She drank it in one long, mechanical tilt of her head, the liquid doing nothing to settle the low buzz in her nerves. She poured another, draining half of it just to have something to do with her hands. Her phone, left on the couch, buzzed again, a short, sharp vibration she felt in her teeth.
She went over to check it.
The screen flashed with a new text, not from Gavin. It was her study group thread, a blur of anxious emojis about next week’s exam. The hollow feeling in her stomach curdled into something sharper—irritation, or maybe relief. She dropped the phone back onto the cushion like it was hot, the fleeting drama of her anticipation now just pathetic.
Outside, a car door slammed.
The sound pulled her gaze to the window, but the text tone buzzed again, slicing through the quiet. She checked the text—‘Be there in two’ from Gavin—and replied with a single cold period. She put the phone away, screen down on the table. A thick silence filled the apartment, holding for three long breaths before it was shattered by a firm, rhythmic knock on her door. Ava answered.
Gavin stood in the hall, the overhead bulb casting a harsh light on the tired slope of his shoulders; he leaned in and pressed a dry, close-mouthed kiss to her cheek. The gesture was familiar, but the way his lips lingered a half-second too long against her skin felt oddly intimate, a silent confession in the stale hallway air. She stepped back, the leather of her jacket creaking.
Ava watched his fingers flex at his sides, then nodded toward the kitchen. “You want a drink?” He nodded, a tight little jerk of his chin. She decided to get them both a beer, crossing to the fridge and pulling out two cold bottles, the glass sweating instantly in her grip.
She knew she didn’t drink it, hadn’t touched the stuff since a brutal hangover sophomore year, but here she was, twisting off the cap and taking a long, bitter swallow just for him, to have something to do with her hands, to mirror his posture.
“So,” she said, crossing her arms, her voice carefully flat. “How was your day?”
“It was alright,” Gavin said, taking a long pull from his bottle. It wasn’t; the tight set of his jaw betrayed a day spent clenching his teeth. He gestured vaguely with the beer. “We screened this messed-up Italian neorealist thing for film study today—Il Bidone—about these grifters preying on peasants.” He fell silent again, his eyes tracking the condensation drip down the glass.
Ava watched him, the clinical part of her brain already labeling the micro-expression of shame that flitted across his face before he could hide it. "Sounds exhausting."
He nodded, his eyes dropping to the label on his beer bottle as he picked at the edge with his thumbnail. "I brought you something," he said, the words coming out in a rush, as if he'd been holding them back. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, crumpled paper bag. Inside, I knew without looking, would be something pointless and sweet, a peace offering for all the silent days. The weight of it in his hand seemed to anchor him to the spot, his gaze finally lifting to meet mine.
The weight of it in his hand seemed to anchor him to the spot, his gaze finally lifting to meet mine. He lifted it up. It was an ankle chain, a fine braid of silver links, similar yet distinct from the one she’d lost last summer at the reservoir. “You mentioned you missed it,” he said, his voice low, as he knelt on the scuffed floorboards and offered to take off her boot and sock. His fingers worked the laces, then peeled the wool away, the cool air hitting her skin a second before the metal did, clipping it on her right ankle with a quiet, definitive click.
His fingers worked the laces, then peeled the wool away, the cool air hitting her skin a second before the metal did, clipping it on her right ankle with a quiet, definitive click. Ava felt oddly special once it was clipped into place. She brought her ankle closer, admiring the gold contrasted on black skin, a private, gleaming fact in the low light. Without a word, she decided to take off her other boot and sock, getting comfortable, yanking at the laces with a blunt urgency until her left foot was also bare. “You like it?” Gavin asked, his voice a low scrape in the quiet, still kneeling on the floor as if awaiting verdict.
"You serious?" she asks with a beaming smile, lost for words. "I... baby, I fucking love it." She takes his cheeks in both hands to kiss him, the taste of cheap beer and his own particular warmth flooding her senses. When she pulled back, the silver chain glinted, a cool counterpoint to the heat in her skin. Soon it would be the only thing she had on.
She led him by the wrist into the bedroom, a space dominated by a rumpled bed and the stale, sweet smell of slept-in sheets. The only light came from a streetlamp outside, cutting a sharp diagonal across the floor.
“Where’s Tanya?” he asked, his voice too loud in the quiet.
“Out,” she said, the word dropping between them like a dismissed objection. She reached behind her and closed the door, the click of the latch definitive.
He nods, pressing her back against the door. He leaned into her smaller frame, hands reaching to unbutton her skinny jeans, the stiff denim giving way under his fumbling fingers.
"Fuckin' missed you," he muttered in between kisses, the words a hot, damp blur against her neck.
“It was only like, five days,” her voice thin and tight as the leather of her jacket scraped the wood.
"Too many," he insisted softly. Her jeans collapse by her ankles, unbuttoning her blouse. The cold of the door pressed against her bare shoulder blades, a stark contrast to the heat of his hands sliding the silk from her skin. She tasted the cheap beer on his tongue and thought, clinically: This is the ritual.
He tossed his shirt onto her desk chair, the pale fabric a ghost against the dark wood, and unbuckled his belt with a sharp, metallic rasp. Ava silently admired his tall swimmer’s body in the slatted light, its texture smooth and warm where her hand pressed against it. She swallowed, the sound loud in her own ears, her mind clinically going over where this might go sexually—the predictable script of it, the specific, practiced angles. His hands were on her hips now, turning her toward the bed. The backs of her knees met the edge of the mattress, and she let herself fall.
Gavin stood over her, hiking up her legs and hips. He pulled away her underwear, exposing her. She reached to unclip her bra as he admired between her thighs, his gaze a physical weight, clinical and hungry all at once.
“Look at you,” he breathed, the air cool on her newly bared skin. Ava stared at the water stain on her ceiling, her mind cleaving in two: one part arching into his touch, the other already detached, noting the chill, the pressure, the mechanical promise of it all.
The words in her mind were clear. I wantchu, she’d breathe lowly. Only they wouldn’t come out. She awkwardly filled the space with stammer. “Fuck, ugh... just like that.” The voice a flat recitation, the script as worn as the sheets.
Gavin pulled down his underwear, allowing her a moment to see his cock, to entertain the idea it'd be inside her soon, knowing they'd need a condom. The sight was familiar, almost clinical under the slatted light—a fact of the situation, not an appeal.
He turned to fumble in the nightstand drawer, the cheap wood grating loudly in the quiet. Ava watched the muscles in his back tense and release, her mind blank except for one clear, distant thought: I should feel something right now. He found the foil square and turned back, his expression unreadable in the dark.
"Still got some left," he smirked.
Ava chuckled, a dry sound in the quiet room. "Cutting that shit close," she admitted, watching his hands.
"I'll get more," he said, the promise automatic as he knelt on the bed to kiss her.
The kiss was deep, a practiced convergence that tasted like closure. His weight settled over her, a familiar topology of heat and intention, as the streetlight painted a barred shadow across his back. Her mind, that relentless spectator, noted the exact pressure of his knee between her thighs, the faint sound of the foil packet, the clinical coolness that preceded him. She arched into the emptiness, a reflex as hollow as the click of the chain against her ankle.
He began to kiss down her body, his mouth a slow, warm migration from her sternum past her navel, his intent clear. The first flat stroke of his tongue was a jolt that spliced her in two, trailing down to its destination.
Alright, so we doin’ this. Part of her watched from the ceiling, clocking the rustle of sheets, the shift of his shoulders. The other part sunk down into the feeling, that slow, building heat, thinkin’, Just be in it, damn, why you always gotta watch yourself get lived? But then his fingers dug into her hips, gentle yet possessive-like, and the thought flared, bright and bitter: This the part where he think he claimin’ somethin’. The silver chain felt tight against her ankle.
Gavin’s mouth was on her then, a warm, insistent pressure that made her breath hitch. Ava let her eyes close, rolling behind them into private darkness.
Okay, alright, that’s the spot, right there— the thought was a spark of pure sensation, a grateful flicker. But why he gotta hold my hips down like I’m gonna run, like he’s pacifying something? The two voices argued in the silence behind her eyelids, one arching into the skill of it, the other stiffening at the ownership.
His mouth moved against her, a wet, warm pressure, and his voice, muffled and low, vibrated into her skin. “You taste so good, you know that?” he said, the words not a question but a statement, a lazy rhetorical claim laid upon her body. A moan broke from Ava’s throat, a genuine convulsion of pleasure that she immediately dissected.
Yeah, I know I do. Everybody tastes ‘good,’ you unoriginal motherfucker.
His tongue circled, deliberate, as if confirming his own bland pronouncement. God, she loved it.
"God, you're... so fucking wet," he breathed against her skin, the words a script she'd heard before. Ava's inner voice sighed, a tired Yeah, and?, but her body betrayed her, a shuddering yes he felt against his mouth. He fastened his tongue again, a firm, claiming pressure, and she moaned, the sound echoing the reluctant thought in her head: Okay, fine. It’s working. Shit. Her hips lifted from the sheets, a silent plea for more, even as her mind cataloged the transaction.
His hands slid up to her waist, gripping her there. The pressure was firm, a borderline that felt less like passion and more like perimeter control. A fresh, acidic critique bubbled up—He’s marking territory, like a fucking dog—but it was immediately followed by a sharper, more familiar voice in her head: Why you gotta do that? Why can’t you just feel it without turning it into some damn thesis? The contradiction split her, even as a low, undeniable heat pooled where his mouth worked, her own hips rising to meet him in a silent, shameful plea.
He pulled back slightly, his breath hot on her inner thigh. "That feel good baby?" he murmured, the question hanging in the air like performed script.
"Yeah, God, it's... it's good," Ava managed, the words cracking into a moan as he resumed, her hand fluttering to his hair then away. "I’m just—fuck—I’m in my own head a little."
"I know," he murmured against her skin, his voice a low vibration. "Right here."
He fastened his licks then, a sharper, more deliberate rhythm, the flat of his tongue and the faint, promising scrape of teeth.
Lock in, she commanded herself, the thought a clean, sharp order that cut through the static.
Her back arched off the mattress, a surrender that was also a victory, and the next breath she caught was pure sensation, no translation.
The raw, buzzing silence of pure feeling shattered as her phone erupted from the nightstand, the generic marimba ringtone slicing through the room’s thick air. The screen glowed with a picture of her mother, smiling in a sunhat.
Shit. Shit.
“It’s my mom,” Ava gasped, her hand flinging out blindly toward the noise, her body still taut beneath Gavin’s mouth. He didn’t stop, his grip on her hips tightening, a low, affirmative grunt vibrating against her skin. She swiped answer, bringing the phone to her ear, a sharp inhale her only preparation.
“Hey, Mama,” she said, her voice miraculously even, almost bright, as she stared at the ceiling, one hand clenching in the sheets.
“Just checkin’ on my baby,” her mother’s voice filled her ear, warm and granular with static. “You sound out of breath, everything alright?”
Gavin’s tongue pressed a slow, deliberate circle and Ava’s thighs trembled. “Yeah,” she managed, the syllable tight. “Just… ran up the stairs.”
What the fuck are you doing?
“How’s that big paper coming?” her mom asked, the sound of a dishwasher running in the background.
“It’s… good,” Ava breathed out, the word hitching as Gavin’s tongue found a devastating rhythm. “Almost… got the structure down.”
“You eating alright? You sound strained.”
Oh, we're eating alright, she thought.
“Yeah, yeah, Mama,” she said, her voice a careful plateau as a sharp, electric thrill shot up her spine, making her toes curl. She bit down on her own knuckle, the taste of salt and skin, to stop the gasp from breaking through.
“Oh, your Aunt Bernice wants to know if you’re coming for Father’s Day,” her mom said, the clatter of plates now clear behind her voice. Gavin’s tongue traced a slow, maddening figure-eight, and Ava’s free hand fisted in his hair, a tension that was both plea and punishment.
Say the apartment’s on fire. Say you’re sick. Say you have to go study with Tanya right now. “That’s—that’s next month, Mama, I gotta check my clinical rotation schedule,” she stammered, her voice splintering as Gavin hummed softly against her.
“I think… I think my roommate’s calling for me from the other room,” she blurted, the lie flimsy and hot in her mouth. “Can I—can I call you right back?” She didn’t wait for the answer, jabbing the screen to end the call and tossing the phone into the dark abyss of the bed. The disconnected silence lasted only a second before a ragged, grateful moan tore itself from her throat, louder now, unfiltered, giving Gavin everything the performance had withheld.
“That good, huh?” he murmured, his voice thick and muffled against her skin.
“Just fuck off,” she gasped, her body arching in direct contradiction.
He only smiled, a slow, knowing thing she felt in the darkness, before he lowered his head again, licking a slow, torturous path that made her heels dig into the sheets.
The pressure built, a coiled spring in her lower belly, as his tongue found a relentless, practiced rhythm. Her mind, usually a chorus of critiques, went quiet except for one clear, granting voice: Okay, just let it happen. You can come.
Her body seized, a sharp, silent intake of breath before the wave shattered through her, muscles clenching and releasing in a raw, unraveling pulse. A broken sound escaped her lips, part relief and part surrender, as the sensations echoed into a quiet, trembling stillness.
Gavin lifted his head, his breath warm against her thigh, and in the dark, she felt his satisfied smile more than saw it.
He crawled up her body, the mattress dipping with his weight, his intention as clear and transactional as a tapped shoulder.
Her mind, still soft and scattered from the climax, abruptly hardened: Fucking seriously? Right now?
She forced her head down, taking him into her mouth with a mechanical resolve, the taste of her own salt and his skin a flat, metallic fact against her tongue.
Gavin groans as she works her way through it with obligation, a low, grateful sound that vibrates against the roof of her mouth. Her jaw ached with the practiced rhythm, her mind cataloging the pressure, the faint taste, the way his fingers tightened in her short curls. "Fuck, that's good."
It damn well ought to be, I thought, my jaw hinging with a dull ache. He finally pulled away, the loss of his heat a sudden chill against her thighs. With a quiet, efficient rustle, he tore the foil and sheathed himself. The mattress dipped under his returning weight, a procedural shift in the dark. His hands found her hips again, aligning them and the moment condensed into a single, breathless point. They were ready to fuck.