Page 65 of Deviant Need

The sound of Mikhail cutting through the water makes me bite my lip and glance over at him. He’s swimming in slow circles, burning off energy the way he always does when his brain won’t shut up. We’re supposed to go home today, and I don’t know how to bring it up or how to ask what we are now.

This trip was way too short. I needed more time, more days like this where it’s just the two of us and the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I want to bottle up these last few days and replay them on a loop, live in them forever instead of going back to reality.

Are things going back to normal when we go home? Will he just want to forget about this and pretend it never happened? I don’t know what hurts more: pining after him for eight years, finally getting him, and then having him walk away, or never having had him at all.

He finally swims to the edge and hauls himself out of the pool, water streams off him as he rubs his face and pushes the water away. He walks toward me and leans down, pressing his lips to mine in a soft kiss that makes my stomach flip.

“I’m going to shower before we leave.”

Managing a small nod, I watch him disappear inside, leaving me alone with my spiraling thoughts. My hands feel useless resting on my thighs. The burn marks scattered across my skin catch the sunlight, raised and permanent.

I’m so confused by the DNA results. I thought I’d get actual answers when I opened them, something concrete I could work with.

A name, an address, coordinates to a life I could track down and demand explanations from. My mom or dad living somewhere, existing in a way I could reach. Instead it’s just percentages and one random old woman in Germany.

Going to Germany is unrealistic. I don’t have the time or the resources to chase down a stranger on another continent based on a percentage match. But I can dig into her digital footprint when we get back, see if there’s anything useful buried in public records or social media. Maybe she has family listed, maybe there’s a connection I’m missing. It’s something, at least.

Pushing up from the sun chair, I make my way into the house. The sound of the shower running echoes from the bedroom’s bathroom, and I head there, sitting down on the edge of the bed to wait for him to finish. My leg bounces anxiously, and I pick at my nails until the beds are raw and stinging. The nervous energy won’t settle, just keeps buzzing through me with nowhere to go.

I can’t go back to how things were before or pretend I don’t want him, not now that I know what it feels like to have him. But I also can’t force him to want this if he doesn’t.

The shower cuts off, and a few minutes later he comes out, water still dripping down his shoulders. He bends down to grab clothes from his bag and lets the towel drop. I watch him pull on black boxer briefs, then shorts, then one of his worn t-shirts.

When he glances over at me, something in his expression shifts. “What’s wrong?”

I can’t get the words out. My fingers come up to my lip, and I bite at them anxiously, the familiar sting grounding me for half a second.

“Just thinking,” I finally say.

“About?” He sits down on the edge of the bed next to me.

This is it. I either ask now, or I lose my chance forever.

“About what happens when we get home.” I clear my throat. “About us.”

He freezes, his entire body going still. When he turns to look at me, his expression is unreadable. “I don’t really know, Danya. The trip was way too short. The things I want now aren’t the same as when we arrived here.”

“I know.”

“Time doesn’t stop just because we go home. I mean, we could take some time to think about things back there too.”

That hits me wrong. The careful tone, the vague deflection like he’s already decided something and won’t say it outright. He’s pulling away, I can feel it happening. He fucked his brother and now reality’s crashing back in, and he realizes how messed up it all is.

Pushing myself up from the bed, I rub the back of my neck and start pacing. My thoughts spiral faster than I can process them, racing through every possible outcome and landing on the worst ones. This was temporary. He got what he wanted, and now it’s over. I’m going to have to watch him go back to how things were, pretend this never happened while I’m stuck knowing exactly what I’m missing.

Is he going to go back to fucking girls? What if he didn’t like being with me and he’s already regretting it? The idea of sitting in my room listening to them through the walls, the bed slamming against the other side while some girl moans his name—it makes me sick.

I still remember the cheap perfume on his clothes, lying awake wondering whose bed he was in, watching him leave and not knowing if he’d come home or pass out in someone else’s sheets.

Eight years of that nearly ended me. I got rid of most of the girls before anything happened, but the ones who slipped past me destroyed me. I can’t survive that again. If it goes back to how it was, I’ll lock myself in my room and slit my wrists.

“Listen.” He stands and puts his hands on my shoulders, stopping me mid-pace. “We have so much⁠—”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” The words blurt out of me before I can stop them, desperate and pathetic.

“What?”

“What we did doesn’t have to mean anything.” I swallow hard, and it feels like choking on glass. “You don’t have to go back to fucking girls. We could keep doing this without it meaning anything, keep it casual so it’s not weird. Or we could chalk it up to a fun trip and pretend it never happened, if that’s what you want. You don’t have to stop talking to me just because we hooked up.”