Episode Nine: What we pretend
1393 Words
Ava never thought silence could feel this safe.
For once, she wasn’t walking on a razor’s edge, waiting for a command, a punishment, a moan torn from her throat. She was lying on Damien’s chest, still and warm, tracing slow, meaningless shapes over his ribs as morning light slipped through her blinds.
He was still.
No mask. No dominance. Just skin and breath and heat.
The part of her that once craved the weight of his control now craved the stillness between.
But she knew what they were doing—trying. Like two actors in a new scene, figuring out who they were without the script of power dynamics and s*x to carry them.
Trying to love each other like people.
Not predator and prey.
Not dom and sub.
Just… Ava and Damien.
It was harder than she expected.
The trouble didn’t start in the bedroom.
It started in the everyday things. The mundane.
Her leaving a toothbrush at his place.
Him showing up at her work to “surprise” her.
Her inviting him to dinner with friends.
Him going quiet when she asked if he could stay for the weekend.
There was nothing dramatic. No screaming.
Just the tension of two people with jagged edges trying to slot into something soft.
One night, two weeks after they decided to try being “normal,” Ava came home with groceries and found Damien already inside.
Not waiting.
Not naked.
Just sitting on her couch, watching a documentary she’d told him about three days earlier.
She froze in the doorway.
There was something in the air she couldn’t name.
Something… foreign.
He muted the TV, turned his head. “Hey.”
She forced a smile. “Hey. How’d you get in?”
“You gave me the code.”
“I meant more like—why tonight?”
His jaw tensed. “You said Mondays were slow.”
She put the bags on the kitchen counter. “Right. Yeah. I just wasn’t expecting you.”
Silence.
Then, “Should I have texted?”
“No. It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine.
Because Damien—the man who once tied her wrists with precision and whispered filth into her mouth like poetry—was now asking for permission to exist in her world.
And she didn’t know how to handle it.
Dinner was quiet.
Too quiet.
He picked at the pasta she made.
She asked him about work.
He gave short answers.
She pressed. He deflected.
Finally, she said, “You don’t have to do this.”
He blinked. “Do what?”
“Play boyfriend.”
His fork froze. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“It is. But not if it’s a performance.”
“You think I’m pretending?”
“I think you’re struggling.”
He set the fork down. “This is new for me.”
“I know.”
“You’re not making it easy.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I’m not making this easy?”
“You expect me to be something I’m not.”
“No,” she said. “I expect you to try without resenting me for it.”
Silence again.
He looked at her, jaw tight. “I’m trying not to mess this up.”
“I believe you,” she said. “But part of you still wants to control it.”
He didn’t deny it.
Because it was true.
That night, he didn’t stay.
He kissed her cheek.
Told her he’d call.
And left without touching her the way she ached to be touched.
Days passed.
She tried to distract herself—work, friends, gym, sleep.
But Damien lived in her body now.
She couldn’t untangle him from her nervous system.
Even when he wasn’t there, his fingerprints lingered in the back of her mind.
Finally, on Friday, he showed up again.
No call.
No text.
Just… at her door.
This time, he didn’t say a word.
He pulled her in by the waist, kissed her like it had been years, not days.
She melted.
Fell into him.
Let herself want again.
But when he carried her to the bed, stripped her slow, and paused—just paused—above her, something shifted.
He didn’t take.
He asked.
“Is this okay?”
And for some reason, it wrecked her.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was too careful.
Too polite.
Too… unlike him.
She pushed him off gently.
Sat up.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” she whispered.
“I’m not.”
“You’re holding back.”
He sat beside her, naked and stiff. “I’m trying to respect you.”
“I didn’t ask you to stop being you.”
He looked at her. “You said you wanted this.”
“I did. I do. But not if it means losing the part of us that worked.”
His silence was brutal.
Then, softly: “What if that part breaks everything else?”
“Then we rebuild it,” she said. “Together.”
He touched her face.
Leaned in.
And this time, when he kissed her, it was a little rough. A little desperate.
And she moaned into it.
Because this—this—was them.
Flawed. Feral. Fused together by something neither could name.
They made love that night.
No ropes. No commands.
But no fear either.
It was messy. Human.
Real.
The next morning, she made coffee.
He walked around barefoot in her T-shirt.
She laughed when he couldn’t find the sugar.
He kissed her neck in the kitchen and didn’t try to f**k her on the counter.
It was the closest thing to normal they’d ever had.
And she started to believe, maybe, they could make this work.
But normal didn’t last.
It was Sunday brunch.
Her friends.
A restaurant in the East Village.
She wore white linen and flats.
He wore black and silence.
They were already halfway through their mimosas when one of her friends—Kelly—asked, “So, Damien… what do you do, exactly?”
He smiled that careful, empty smile.
“Finance.”
Kelly laughed. “That’s vague.”
He shrugged. “Intentionally.”
Ava winced.
Another friend, Liam, chimed in. “How’d you two meet?”
A beat too long passed.
Ava said, “We ran into each other at a gallery.”
Not quite a lie.
Not quite true.
Damien just sipped his coffee.
Liam pressed. “Was it instant?”
She glanced at Damien.
His jaw was tight.
“I’d say… intense,” she said.
Kelly grinned. “Is he romantic?”
Ava hesitated.
Damien said nothing.
And suddenly, all the air went out of her lungs.
Because this? This wasn’t working.
Not here.
Not in the daylight.
Not when their story had no clean lines.
After brunch, they walked in silence.
He lit a cigarette.
She didn’t stop him.
Finally, she said, “You hated that.”
“I didn’t belong there.”
“You didn’t try.”
He stopped walking. “You want me to lie to your friends? Laugh about art and wine and pretend we’re normal?”
“I want you to meet me in the middle.”
“I can’t pretend, Ava.”
She looked at him, eyes wet. “Then maybe we can’t do this.”
His jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”
“I’m tired of hiding you. Of explaining you. Of rewriting our story so I can bring you into rooms without everyone staring at you like you’re a question I’m scared to answer.”
He dropped the cigarette.
Crushed it under his boot.
“I never asked you to bring me into those rooms.”
“I wanted to.”
“And now you regret it?”
She looked away.
Then back.
“No,” she said. “But I regret thinking I could fix something that doesn’t want to be fixed.”
He didn’t respond.
Because they both knew the truth.
Damien could dominate.
He could control.
But he couldn’t conform.
Not without fracturing.
That night, Ava didn’t call.
She didn’t text.
She didn’t check her phone.
She just lay in bed, curled up on her side, whispering to the dark.
“I love him.”
And hating how much it still hurt to say it.
- Writer
