A heaviness is settled in my gut as the flashbacks of my time with Dylan invade my mind.

The feel of his skin against mine, our breaths mingling in the space between us, his fingers digging into my shoulders. My muscles straining as he manhandled me. The bliss I felt when his gentle tongue tasted my skin. And that moment when we're both soaked in sweat, our skin flushed, breathing heavily, it's like he knew exactly how to switch the angle, slide his dick deeper making me a trembling, gasping mess.

After that first time I went on three different occasions to Dylan's house, all three times demanding to be fucked just like I knew he could. Hard and brutal. He fucked me against the wall. The day after across the kitchen table. The next one, over the sofa again. We don't talk about the fact that I always leave when we are finished. My walls had come up instantly, an automatic defence mechanism to protect myself. Or him.

But the sex is great, and I can't imagine not having him whenever I have the chance. He is like that drug that you get addicted to from the very first fix. It's so hard to break that bond that we created so much that last night in the shower I pressed my finger against my rim, and pushed pushed pushed chasing that feeling that he gives me whenever he's inside of me, wishing I had a way to keep him there longer. 

And the four days without a chance to see him have felt like torture. He was spending more hours in his town office lately and whenever he was on the site he was never to be seen near me. I haven't heard from him in almost three days now and my chest aches. My body craves his attention.

I force away the thoughts of Dylan, climb out of bed, hurry through a shower and get dressed. I head towards the kitchen where I find Adel. 

"Coffee?" She offers when she sees me.

"Yes, please," I answer and she slides the mug across the kitchen island. "Thank you."

"You look much better."

The corner of my mouth kicks up. "That's because you're too kind to me with all your good cooking."

"Did you know I absolutely hated cooking when I first met Paul? I was still living with my parents then, and very soon we got married. I was completely clueless." She chuckles at the memory. "But then we started cooking together, Paul knew around the kitchen some, and it started like that. We ended up having some of the best moments in the kitchen, just making food, mostly failing but it was so much fun."

"It's really good seeing you and Uncle Paul together after all these years."

"It's not all roses all the time. But we made it."

"How do you..." I clear my throat and think about what I'm going to ask next. "When you see that something is wrong–it doesn't feel right, for example in your relationship, how do you fix it?"

She eyes me suspiciously and gently puts her mug down. "Well, usually I just say to Paul what is bothering me."

"Right. That sounds simple."

"It's not always easy. Sometimes I don't know how to explain or express things that make me upset. Usually, he can figure me out and he starts the conversation." She is quiet for another moment. "That is the thing about being with someone you'd know for most of your life. You had each other's rhythms down without even trying. But the point is that the both of us are willing to fix the problem, to acknowledge the other's feelings, and very importantly that we listen to what the other person is saying..."

I nod feeling even more troubled because I realize there is no conversation between us anymore. I started losing Dylan as a friend. Before, we would sit at lunch together and talk, I would know some basic things about his day. But ironically since we started fucking Dylan became more closed off. With the heavy snow and the biting winter wind we weren't eating outside anymore and he never came to have lunch in the tent with the crew. He would never message me first either, but whenever I asked to see him he would always say yes and then it would be strictly business.

I look at my Aunt and her eyes are still trained on me, but she doesn't ask a thing. I am so grateful for this kind woman. "I may have met someone." I manage in a timid voice.

"Oh, that's nice. Did you meet her in that bar where you sometimes go with your crew?"

"It's him," I say. "And we met at work."

"Oh god, I'm so sorry for assuming. I should know better."

"No, don't worry, I'm not offended." I smile at her and how embarrassed she looks for making that mistake. But I somehow knew that she wouldn't bat an eye at me being gay.

"It's nothing serious between us," as soon those words come out of my mouth I feel coldness creep up my spine and I shiver. That doesn't sound right. "Well, I don't know what we are, but we seem to have stopped talking and he's not replying to my texts anymore."

It's the weekend and he should have been free. On Friday my messages were just ignored, leaving me frustrated with my own confusing thoughts.

"Just say that you're worried and ask if everything is alright. If he cares about you he'll know to reply to that one. And then go from there."

I quickly pull out my phone and type the message that my Aunt suggested and add that I would like to meet. When he replies I'm out of town for the weekend I stop and stare. I'm completely blindsided by this short, simple message and puzzled at how it makes me feel.

This is not how it's supposed to be. I miss him even though I can have him inside of me any time I ask. Literally. And now he's gone somewhere, I know nothing about it, and it seems he thinks I don't even deserve to know.

But it's killing me. What is he doing right now? Is he going to see someone? A man? But we have a rule, he was the one who demanded to be exclusive. And if he breaks our rule?

What if I pushed him away?

What if I lose a person who I started considering as my only friend just because I wanted easy sex?

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