Chapter 1: The Last Straw
Some groom it
The air in Serena’s dorm room was thick and still, heavy with the sweet smell of her perfume over something muskier, a remnant from the night before. Afternoon light cut a sharp blade through the slats of the blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing over the chaos of discarded clothes and textbooks. Ethan was on his knees beside the bed, the rough campus carpet digging into his skin. His world had narrowed to the heat and scent of her, the gentle pressure of her hand on the back of his head.
He moved his tongue, a slow, deliberate rhythm he hoped was right. His jaw was starting to ache, a faint throb building at the hinges. Serena shifted above him, her thighs tightening against his ears for a second.
“So then,” she said, her voice conversationally calm, almost bored, “Dr. Evans handed back the midterms, and of course Jessica started crying right there in the lecture hall. Like, full-on sobbing. It was so dramatic.”
Ethan paused, lifting his head slightly to breathe. “That sounds rough,” he murmured, his own voice raspy.
Her hand pushed down, not hard, but firm, guiding him back. “It was annoying,” she corrected. “Anyway, so I got an A-minus. Which is basically an insult for the amount of work I put into that paper.”
He tried to refocus, to lose himself in the task, but his mind kept circling. He could map the constellations of freckles on her inner thigh from memory. He knew exactly how she liked to be touched, the specific rhythm that made her back arch. He’d become an expert in the geography of her pleasure. But his own body felt distant, a clumsy afterthought. When was the last time she’d even kissed him like she meant it? When had her hands explored him with the same single-minded intensity?
A sudden, sharper pain shot through his jaw. He winced and pulled away, rubbing the sore muscle. “Serena, hang on, my jaw is cramping.”
Her green eyes, sharp and impatient, flickered down to him. She let out a short, exasperated sigh. “Ethan, for god’s sake. Just keep your head where it is.” Her fingers tangled in his messy brown hair, not gently, and held him in place.
Then she started to move. It wasn’t the gentle rocking from before. This was purposeful, urgent. She ground herself against his face, controlling the pace completely, using his mouth for her own gratification. The sounds she made were different теперь—guttural, concentrated. He felt like an instrument, a thing being played. He struggled to breathe through his nose, the pressure on the back of his head relentless. The ache in his jaw bloomed into a full, radiating pain.
When he couldn’t take it anymore, he twisted his head to the side, gasping for air. “Serena, stop. I can’t.”
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then she shoved him away. “Useless,” she muttered, the word like a slap.
He stayed on his knees, watching as she leaned back on her elbows, her gaze furious and fixed on him. Her hand moved between her legs, a brisk, efficient motion. She didn’t look away from his face, her expression a mix of frustration and contempt. He felt himself shrink under that stare, humiliation heating his cheeks. This was what she wanted him to see. This was his role.
Her breathing quickened, hitched, and then she let out a sharp, final cry, her body tensing before collapsing back onto the rumpled sheets. Silence descended, broken only by the distant hum of a lawnmower outside.
She lay there for a minute, then sat up, swinging her legs off the bed. She didn’t look at him. “You should go. I have a study group.”
Ethan got to his feet, his legs stiff. He pulled on his jeans and shirt, the fabric feeling alien against his skin. She was already scrolling through her phone, as if he’d ceased to exist the moment he was no longer of use.
“See you,” he said, the words hollow.
She gave a non-committal hum.
The hallway outside was stark and bright, a brutal contrast to the dim room. The door clicked shut behind him, a sound of finality. Walking back to his own dorm, the sunlight felt accusing. The memory of her stare, the cold efficiency of her hand, played on a loop in his mind. It wasn’t about the sex, not really. It was the utter erasure. He was a ghost in his own relationship.
His room was a mirror of Serena’s in its mess, but it was his mess. Faded band posters, stacks of sketchbooks, a half-finished charcoal drawing on the easel by the window. He sat on the edge of his own unmade bed, the springs groaning. The taste of her was still in his mouth. The sting of her words was still on his skin.
He looked at his hands, then at his reflection in the dark screen of his laptop. He didn’t recognize the guy staring back—passive, frustrated, waiting for a scraps of affection that never came.
He picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over her name in his messages. He typed three words, deleted them, then typed them again.
We need to talk.
He hit send before he could change his mind. The message delivered instantly. There was no immediate reply, not even the bouncing dots to show she was typing. Just silence. And in that silence, Ethan felt something shift, a grim resolve hardening in his chest. Tomorrow. He would do it tomorrow.