Respectfully I’m Spiraling

Dear Diary,

I am once again asking why I'm like this.

I'm half-naked, tangled up in a guy who's basically boyfriend material in a six-foot-something tattooed package--Nico, or Nic if he's being sweet--and somehow, I'm still panicking.

I had a rule: no bartenders. Ever. They're charming, chaotic, and always half in love with the next doe-eyed girl that bats her eyelashes at them. I broke that rule for Nic because I told myself it was just for fun. Not serious. A rebound. A flirt. Someone safe because he wasn't someone I could fall for. There's nothing worse than needing to find a new favorite bar because you hurt the bartender's feelings.

Except now I'm in his bed and he's being perfect.

Maybe that's the problem.

Maybe I've been so wrapped up in finding Mr. Right that I've forgotten how to just want someone without turning it into a test or trying to fit them into my plans for the future.

He finally kissed me last week, and tonight... well, tonight almost happened. Emphasis on almost.

Let's rewind...

He pulls my oversized shirt up and over my head and just stares at me.

"That look should be illegal," I blurt out before my brain catches up.

I'm nervous. Like, sick-to-my-stomach nervous. Not because I don't want this--I do. I really do. I've been thinking about this moment for far longer than I'd like to admit. We're having sex. It's happening. He's looking at me like I'm the last drop of water on a desert hike, the final piece of his favorite candy, like something he's been craving for so long it hurts. And I can tell--he wants me.

So why the hell do I feel like I might throw up?

This happens every time. I get here--straddling some insanely hot guy who clearly wants me under him, screaming his name--and my brain just short-circuits. The want is there. The heat. The ache. And yet, I'm caught in this loop of panic.

There's a literal puddle forming underneath me. I'm soaked. Aching. I want to get fucked so badly it hurts--every nerve in my body is screaming yes, and yet my mind won't catch up. It's like there's a governor on the engine, some tight-fisted little control freak in my brain pulling the emergency brake just as I hit full throttle.

I'm sitting on his lap, my thighs trembling, hips tilted forward like I'm begging, and still I'm stuck.

Why does this happen? Why every time?

Why can't I just let go?

His voice cuts through the noise in my head like a warm hand on my chest, pulling me out of the spiral.

"Are you okay?" he asks, soft but steady. "We don't have to do anything if you're not ready. If I'm being honest, you're so hot I could get off just looking at you sitting here on my lap."

The words echo, looping in my mind. You're so hot. We don't have to do anything.

He's hard beneath me--I can feel it--and still he says that. Still he means it.

Something in my chest unknots. Just a little.

Not enough to make the fear vanish. But enough to make me breathe.

I nod slowly. My voice is shaky when it comes out.

"I want to. I really do. I just... need a minute."

And he doesn't roll his eyes. He doesn't sigh. He just leans forward and presses his lips to my shoulder, so soft it almost doesn't register.

"Take all the time you need," he whispers. "I'm not going anywhere." The feeling of his breath on my skin is electrifying.

Then he chuckles, pulling back just enough to look at me with that lopsided grin that drives me insane.

"One request, though--the t-shirt stays on the floor."

I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him--needy, hungry, desperate to hold on to something solid.

"I'm sorry, Nic," I whisper between kisses. "I don't know what's wrong, but... cuddles might be all I can handle right now."

My face goes hot. "Just my luck to go full-blown panic attack at the worst possible moment."

He kisses me again, slower this time, and sucks my bottom lip into his mouth. I feel the curve of a smile against mine, and somehow it doesn't make me feel embarrassed. It makes me feel wanted.

"You're good. Don't be sorry," he says softly. "I still have a ridiculously hot girl in my bed tonight."

His fingers brush down my spine, steady and sure. "Seriously, Mara--you're gorgeous. We'll take things at your pace. I'm not gonna force you to do something you're not ready for."

I press my forehead to his and breathe in the warmth of him.

I don't say it out loud, but I think this might be the first time someone's ever said that to me and meant it.

He shifts beneath me, turning us both so I'm cradled in his arms, and gently lays me back onto the couch. His lips brush my forehead--barely there but so full of meaning it makes my throat tighten--and then he drapes a thin blanket around my shoulders like I'm something precious. Like I'm his.

"I'll order us some food," he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "And probably take a quick cold shower to, uh... help me reground." He smirks, the heat still lingering in his voice even as he pulls away.

"Put your superhuman movie-picker into full blast and find us something good to watch," he adds, already tapping at his phone. "I'll be quick. Then we eat, and let's move to my room. Blanket fort optional but encouraged."

I laugh. A real one.

And for the first time tonight, I feel okay. Not perfect, not fixed--just okay.

Which, all things considered, might be the most intimate thing of all.

I follow him to his room, dragging the blanket around me like a cape and leaving my shirt where he said--abandoned in the living room like some kind of offering to the sex gods. His bed is messy in a cozy way, and I crawl right in, limbs still buzzing. I try to focus on picking the perfect movie--something not too serious, not too cheesy, something that says I'm chill and not thinking about the way you looked at me like you wanted to eat me alive.

But my mind keeps drifting.

The water's running in the bathroom, and I swear he left the door half open on purpose. Which is honestly fair after the heavy petting couch session that nearly broke my brain.

"Nico... I don't know what to pick," I shout over the water and the lo-fi playlist I turned on for ambience or maybe emotional regulation, who even knows anymore.

"What's taking you so long? I thought you said quick," I add, flopping onto my back with a dramatic huff.

His voice floats out, thick with amusement.

"You kinda left me hanging there, Mar. I couldn't survive the rest of the night if I didn't, uh... take care of things."

My face goes bright red imagining him touching himself beyond the curtain of shower fog.

Then he adds, smoother now, like he knows exactly what he's doing:

"But the visual of you in my bed? That's all I need."

There's a pause, the sound of water hitting tile, and then--

"Now let me have my moment before I get out and drag you in here to finish what you started. Respectfully, of course."

I bury my face in his pillow and let out a strangled noise that's half squeal, half groan.

I am so not surviving this night.

I end up picking some low-scare horror movie--something with just enough jumps to keep me from spiraling, but not enough plot to make me think.

Right as the opening scene starts, I hear him heading downstairs. He reappears five minutes later with the food, perfectly timed, like he's psychic or just criminally good at comfort.

We sit on the bed cross-legged, sharing takeout containers and not talking much, both of us totally engrossed. His thigh is pressed against mine. Every time I reach for a fry, his fingers graze mine like it's a quiet little dare.

Halfway through, I gather up the carnage--boxes, napkins, sauce packets--and dump it into the little trash can by the desk. When I turn back around, he's already rearranged the pillows and pulled the blanket down.

"Get back here," he says, and it's not a question.

He pulls me into bed again, guiding me until I'm tucked in front of him with my head on his chest and one leg slung over his. He's half-sitting up against the headboard, fingers tracing lazy lines on my arm.

I feel his breathing slow, his grip soften. And just before the movie hits its big twist--the one I know he was waiting for--I hear the quiet hitch in his breath that tells me he's asleep.

I lie there, half naked, completely wrapped in him--and furious at myself.

Because I want this. God, I want him.

He's kind, patient, perfect. And I still couldn't go through with it.

My body aches for him, and yet something in my chest just won't let go. Won't loosen. Won't let me cross the line.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe next time.

Maybe when I stop being afraid of not being enough.

I turn off the TV, switch the speaker to soft nature sounds with rain, and press a tiny kiss to his cheek.

"You can't be comfy like that," I whisper into his ear.

He stirs just enough to wrap his arms tighter around me, then slides us both down into the bed--pulling me with him like I'm something he doesn't want to let go of.

And here we are now. Me typing up this stupid diary entry with my phone brightness so low I can barely make out what's on my screen. And him clinging to me like his life depends on it.

Guess I should join him in dreamland.

Maybe, if I'm lucky, my dreams will have a happy ending.