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“No. I’m an impatient twenty-eight-year-old who wants details about the hot mechanic sex you had last night,” she deadpans.

I sigh. “It was good. Really good.”

“That’s the least amount of detail anyone has ever given me.”

“I’m trying to protect Dean’s dignity.”

“Fuck dignity, babe. Just tell me how big his dick is.”

We both burst out laughing, but mine fades before hers does.

“I freaked out,” I admit, staring down into my coffee.

G’s smile disappears. “Freaked out how?”

“Nothing dramatic. I just…froze.” I run my thumb along the rim of my mug. “He stopped.”

“And then what?”

“And nothing. He just stopped.”

Even saying it out loud feels strange. I expected frustration. Questions. Some sign that I’d ruined the moment.

Instead, Dean stepped back and waited.

G watches me carefully, noticing the surprise I can’t seem to hide.

I drag a hand down my face and look out across her yard. “My ex wasn’t always great with that stuff.”

“Sex?” she asks cautiously.

“Control.”

When I look back at her, G’s eyes are fixed on mine.

She’s pissed.

I can’t handle the weight of it, so I drop my gaze to my coffee again.

“If I didn’t want to have sex, it became a whole thing,” I explain. “Sulking. Guilt. Accusations. Sometimes he’d be affectionate all day and then act like I owed him something for it.”

“Blair…” G’s voice softens.

I hate it immediately.

Not because it’s her.

Because pity has always made me feel exposed.

But I trust G. She’s my best friend—or the closest thing I’ve ever had to one—and I want her to have this part of my story.

“He never called it that,” I say quietly. “Neither did I at the time.”

G leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Is that why it surprised you when Dean stopped?”

“Maybe.” I swallow around the tightness in my throat. “He didn’t make me feel guilty. He didn’t make me explain myself. He just…stopped.”

“And that’s exactly what should’ve happened, babe,” she says gently.