Page 22 of The Comfort Trap

I fumble with my jeans, the denim rough against my sensitized skin, each movement feeling clumsy and awkward. Patrick stands there, arms folded tightly over his chest, his expression flat and unreadable. His eyes follow my every move as I struggle to pull on my shirt, the fabric getting twisted aroundmy arms. I put my head through the wrong hole but manage to free myself. The music continues to pulse from the living room. I can feel his gaze, watching me dress with an intensity that makes my fingers tremble as I button my jeans. When I'm finally dressed, I turn to face him, my heart pounding in my chest, waiting for him to say something, anything.

But he doesn't. He simply stares at me, his jaw clenched, his eyes stern.

I step toward the door, and he follows silently, his presence looming behind me. The apartment feels too small now. I reach for the door handle, my hand sweaty and unsteady, and turn back one last time to meet his eyes.

"I'll see you at the coffee shop," I say, and I swear I see something joyful flicker in his expression—just for a second—before his mask slips back into place.

He stands there with his arms crossed, his posture rigid as I step out into the cool night air and pull the door shut behind me.

The moment the door clicks shut, I press my back against it, letting out a shaky breath I didn't realize I was holding. My heart's still racing, my body still humming from the aftermath, but my mind is already racing ahead, planning my next move.

Because I know one thing for certain: this isn't over. Not by a long shot. I grin at the door, imagining the storm brewing on the other side, and start walking down the hallway, the sound of Patrick's record still echoing in my head.

Chapter 12

The Weight of Silence

Patrick [THEN]

I'msprawledoutonthe cold floor of my apartment,staring at the ceiling while some forgotten emo band whines through my speakers about heartbreak I can't afford to feel.

This isn't me. I'm supposed to be brooding over existential dread or losing myself in some twisted horror paperback, not lying here like some lovesick character from a Hallmark movie. This is Aubrey Martin-level melodrama, and if he saw me right now, I'd have to ghost him forever out of sheer embarrassment.

Work's been a special kind of hell lately. Aubrey keeps giving me those looks—the ones that scream "are you okay?" while I'm steaming milk for yet another customer who doesn't know the difference between a latte and a cappuccino. I keep telling him I'm fine, I’m tired, that maybe I need a boyfriend. He suggests Ricardo, and I stop him flat out. Because I don't want that, I don't want a relationship or a give-and-take. What I actually mean is I need a warm body to help me forget I'm stuck in this soul-crushing cycle of minimum wage and customer stupidity.

Ricardo showed up out of nowhere. He's too nice to complain to my manager when I snap at him to hurry up, but stubborn enough to keep coming back for more abuse. He thinks I'm worth the effort.

I'm not.

I keep trying to hammer it through that thick skull of his, but he only grins and doubles down. Like he's got x-ray vision, seeing straight through all the layers I've carefully built. Like he can feel the loneliness seeping through my bones, this constant ache that's become so familiar I barely notice it anymore—until he shows up.

I told myself it was just a fuck, that he'd get it out of his system and move on. Easy. Simple. But I'm off today, and Aubrey's blowing up my phone. Ricardo came by on his break. Actually looked gut-punched when I wasn't there. Said he'd be back tomorrow.

Aubrey's texted me about six times now, alternating between "you're being an asshole" and "if you don't give him a chance I'm quitting." Meanwhile, I'm texting him back debating whether restraining orders require a court appearance and how fast I could make it happen.

Aubrey tried calling me after that, but I blocked the call.

My brain keeps looping back to last night. The way Ricardo looked at me. The way he wanted me, no pretense, no games. The way he strutted around naked like he belonged here, touching my records like he was testing them, tasting them. The way the lamplight caught his skin, all golden and warm. How he was essentially a Roman statue dropped into my shitty apartment. And that smug look on his face when "Ricky" slipped out of my mouth.

My fingers drift under my shirt, tracing the hard planes of my stomach, up to my chest where my heart's thudding against my ribs. I close my eyes. His face flashes behind my eyelids. It's so vivid it's like he's actually here, standing over me with that stupid, persistent look on his face that's taken up permanent residence in my head. The breadth of his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted as he moved, the confident swagger he carries himself with. The way he smells, clean sweat after a long day at the shop mixed with something sweet.

My touch brushes against a nipple, and I gasp at the unexpected jolt of pleasure. It's not me touching myself anymore. It's his fingers, rough with calluses, teasing me until I'm squirming. My other hand slides down, past the waistband of my jeans. I palm myself through the fabric, already half-hard from thinking about him.

God, this is pathetic. Getting myself off on the floor like some horny teenager because I can't stop thinking about the one guy I've explicitly told to get lost.

I unzip my jeans, pushing them down enough to free myself. The cool air of the studio hits my heated skin, and I shudder. I wrap around my length, already slick with precum, and begin to stroke. Slow at first, matching the rhythm of my ragged breathing.

It's his hand, I tell myself. His touch, confident and knowing, exactly how I like it. I remember the way he touched me last night, the way he let me take control of him. The memory is so vivid, so real, that I can almost feel him here with me.

My strokes become faster and more urgent. I picture him kneeling over me, watching me with that intense look that makes me feel exposed in the best possible way. I remember the way he looked when I was inside him, his face flushed with pleasure, his hair messy, the sweat dripping from his neck onto his collarbone.

I'm close now, the pleasure coiling tight in my gut. I arch my back, my hips thrusting upward into my fist. The name escapes my lips before I can stop it, a broken whisper in the quiet of the studio.

"Ricky."

The sound of his name is my undoing. I come with a gasp, my release spilling over my fingers, my body trembling with the force of it. For a moment, I lie there, panting, the aftershocks rippling through me.

Then reality comes crashing back in.