AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the first scene of a larger fic that I am currently working on, so this is sort of a test-run to see if the idea
"Was that good?"
"Hmm."
A soft chuckle floats through the air.
"Is 'hmm' good?"
A smile evident in his voice.
"Hmm."
The rustle of fabric and a soft grunt as muscles stretch and pull.
"Now you're just fucking with me."
"Already did."
Another light laugh.
"Fair enough. Five minutes starting now?"
A wistful sigh that wasn't meant to sound as longing as it did.
"Only five minutes?"
"You know I can't stay any longer."
Another sigh, lower now, deeper, more loaded with unspoken emotion.
"I know."
More rustling of high-thread-count sheets, and then silence. The air in the room feels thick and hot and it's like smoke or some kind of gas but it's not, it's just them, and the scent of sex permeates the air. Somewhere outside a car horn honks, glass breaks, and someone is yelling something in some guttural foreign language, but inside there is nothing but their combined breathing and the soft gurgle of the radiator.
"I love you."
Three mumbled words that don't quite break the cover of silence but seem to be a part of it, seem to float under the consciousness of both men. Muffled by skin and the post-coital haze that tends to make an excellent canvas for slip-ups. For a minute they seem to twirl through the air, drifting on a non-existent breeze, before they settle down. His eyes snap open, his body tenses up and he sucks in a breath. His eyes flit to the body on his chest, but he gets no response, as the other man is already asleep, pulled under by the comfortable warmth of another body. His breath comes out in a stuttered shudder. He wrecks his mind for clues, for hints of more than shared orgasms and shared breath and shared body heat. Did he always have that look in his eyes? Did he mean to have that lilt in his voice, an unexpected melodiousness, or did it slip out on a draft of emotion? The sky turns gray already when his eyelids eventually become heavier than his worries, and he finally succumbs to sleep, the weight of the other man on his chest now an uncomfortable pressure on his heart.
Two hours later he wakes up, untangles their limbs, and untangles their lives. He straightens out the sheets on his side, grabs the envelope of cash from the bedside table, removes his number from his phone, and rinses the remnants of red wine from the glass. He was never here, and will never be here again. He gathers his clothes from the floor and takes his bag from behind the potted plant. With as little jingling as possible, he pulls a key from his key ring and places it gently in the bowl sitting on the counter by the front door. When he finally closes the door behind him, the small hand of his watch points at four in the morning, and he feels like he left his stomach on the apartment floor.