Her voice didn't rise.
It didn't accuse.
It just stayed there—low, almost breathless—curling against my skin like smoke from a dying flame.
I flinched, just slightly, at the sudden mention of her mother and that generalized view of men.
But she didn't move. Her arms stayed around my neck, her thighs still spread, her weight still pinning me in place, with the full softness of her hips bearing down.
Warm.
Heavy.
Alive.
Her cheek pressed into my shoulder, lips close—almost brushing my ear now. Her voice came again, quieter. Slower.
"But maybe… maybe it's not your fault."
The words caught me off guard.
I blinked. Breathing shallow. Frozen beneath her body, her warmth, her scent of sea salt and skin and something almost too human to name.
"…Maybe men are just built that way. Visually triggered. Always reacting first. Always wanting first. Always needing to feel… before you feel."
She paused.
