Nicholas’s POV
The room smells like sweat and shame and the ghost of the cigarette I smoked earlier even though I quit six months ago for *her*. The phone screen is burning my retinas. I haven’t blinked in minutes.
It’s that picture again.
Her hair wild, mouth open mid-laugh, eyes crinkled in a way that used to feel like sunlight hitting the back of my throat. I took it on a day when she still reached for my hand without thinking. When “Nicholas” still sounded like a promise in her mouth.
Now she says his name like it’s holy.
My c**k is so hard it hurts. Not the good kind of hurt. The kind that feels like punishment.
I drag my boxers down just enough. The elastic snaps against my thigh like a reprimand. I don’t care. I wrap my fist around myself and the first stroke is vicious—too
