We establish rhythms during work: the way we time our bathroom breaks and lunch and made-up meetings. In empty studios and hall closets, the cot room and even restrooms, we find a dozen ways to make each other come. If there’s only time for one of us to get off, I make sure it’s Ammy—every time.

I don’t know the rules for her, don’t know what’s making this work in her head, so I watch for cues and spend a lot of my days hard and waiting. She summons me into the hall by asking me for gum, then leads me by the dick into a supply closet and blows me while I sit on boxes of sketch paper.

She kicks the wheel of my office chair and says, “Do you want to go get coffee, and I’ll tell you about the one thing,” and leads me to the nearest bathroom, where we dry hump up against a locked door until I ruin my khakis. (She loves that). Mostly, though, we fumble at each other in my car, making it through the workday barely intact, pained and breathless by the time I click the unlock button.

I try my best to give her pleasure.

I find what she likes best: the way she likes my fingers and my tongue. I find she likes to torture me with blow jobs, teasing with occasional deep-throating till my legs are shaking and I can’t catch my fucking breath. I let her do that, even though it drives me crazy, makes me want to yank her by the hair and shove myself down her throat.

I would give her anything she asked. This is my penance.

And I know—it’s not enough. I know it will never be enough. And so it is my punishment as well: to know all this is temporary. When summer ends, she’ll shut the door on this, write the last chapter of Dash and Amelia; she will end it how she wants, and she’ll feel powerful again. That’s all I want for her. How well I understand why she would crave that.

For my part, I worship her as often and as thoroughly as possible, and even though I know I don’t deserve this, I can’t help but relish it. Amelia is my comfort. Always was, still is, and probably always would be.

It’s just physical until the Monday morning Weiss drops by to hear about our progress. I wake up tasting metal in my coffee and am seeing spots by noon and battling a full-on migraine by three when Am follows me out of the studio, pulls me into a vacant room, pushes my pants down my hips, and wraps her mouth around me. I come, because of course I’m going to come, but when she flips the light back on, I guess I wince. Her eyes go wide, and in a different voice—one that throws me back through years—she says, “Dash, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Your face is white. Like, really white.”

I shrug, my sweaty fingers struggling with my jeans button. “Just tired.”

The light goes off. She flicks it back on, then steps closer to me, eyes narrowed. “You have a migraine. I can so tell.”

I shrug, daring to touch my throbbing forehead. “Be home soon,” I mumble.

“Oh no you won’t. You’ll be home now.” She holds a finger up. “Wait here. I’ll tell the others that we’re going.”

I feel so awful, it’s really not even a choice.

Still, I’m surprised when she returns to where she left me with her purse and my bag. She carries both and takes my hand, and I feel like I’m in a dream—a hellish dream.

I hear more than see her unlock my car’s doors. She leads me to the passenger side and pulls the door open.

“You have some medicine at home?” she asks as I climb in and lean my head against the window.

“Yeah.”

She drives to the apartment building’s parking deck. I know her car’s in there. She walks to work mornings and rides back with me every day.

Ammy parks, opens my door. When I step out, she wraps her arm around my waist. Her fingers stroke my back as we move inside, toward the elevator bank. In the elevator, I lean on the wall and she takes care of button-pushing. I don’t realize until she leads me off that she’s walking me to my door.

“Which one?” she asks.

“Eleven oh-nine.”

“All right, big D. We’re almost there.”

I crack my eyes open more fully when we stop moving and find, indeed, we’re at my door. I hold my hand out for the keys, but Ammy says, “Is it the bigger silvery one?”

I only pause a moment before I tell her, “Yeah.”

“Do you mind if I come in?” she asks, but it sounds cursory as she pushes the door open and ushers me into my own foyer.

I’m not sure I even answer.

We move past the kitchen and dining room on the right, and through the open living space.

“I bet your bedroom is where mine is,” I hear her murmur.

My brain pings from concern about whether my nightstand drawer is cracked open—there’s condoms in there—to whether the bottle of Zoloft I tried briefly last year might be seen if she digs in my medicine cabinet. Ultimately, every thought I have is like a fucking dagger, so I shut them down. I sink down onto my bed and put an arm over my eyes.

“Thanks, Amelia. You don’t need to stay.”

“Where do you keep your medicine?”

“Bathroom cabinet.”

The bathroom I know for sure could probably use a cleaning, but by the time I have that thought, I hear the nauseating rapping of her heels on tile. Shortly thereafter: “Here ya go. Is this glass from the bathroom okay to put water in?”

I grit my teeth and try to shake my head.

“I’ll get one from the kitchen. Don’t worry, I don’t mind.”

I measure my breathing and use mindful breathing to stop my thoughts while she’s gone to get water. I hear her walk back into my room. From by the bed, she says, “It’s the Sumatriptan, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you sit up to drink this glass of water?”

I don’t answer her, I just sit up and take the glass and start drinking.

“I can’t believe they want you to drink a whole glass,” she says. “That seems so labor intensive.”

I’m working on draining the glass when I feel her hand around mine. “Here’s the pill, okay?”

I swallow it and peek my eyes open so I can see her. She’s perched on the side of my bed.

“I didn’t know you got these headaches. When we were younger, it was only Lexie.”

I give her a shake of my head and stretch out on my side. Embarrassing that she’s still here. I draw my arms up by my face. “You can go.”

“How about I keep your key? I’ll come by later with a snack or something. You still like the fruit punch Powerade?”

“Yeah.”

“Saltines?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” I feel her hand flutter across my back. “I’ll be back in just a little bit. Do you have my number?”

“No, but—”

“Let me write it down, okay? Don’t move. I’ve got a sticky note in my purse. I’ll leave it on the nightstand with some extra water.”

I breathe slow and steady as I listen to her move about my room. I like it too much. Even though the sound and smell of her assaults my senses, I still love to hear and smell her in my space.

Somehow I manage to hold off being sick until she leaves. Then I strip off my clothes and get into the shower, hoping the warm water might help. No dice. I’m not surprised this happened; low stress and consistent sleep are key to keeping migraines away.

I dry off and stagger to my dresser, where I pull on the first pair of underwear my fingers come in contact with and rifle for some pants—the drawstring kind.

Back in bed, I hate myself for craving her. Of course she’s still hung up on me—but I should have more discipline. I love her too much to hurt her again.

And yet…I listen for the front door, even in half-sleep. When I hear it, I go warm with anticipation of her footsteps, which soon click along the hardwood floor.

I don’t trust myself to talk to her—not with this medicine fogging my brain—so I feign sleep. I feel her hand, light on my back, and then a moment later, feel the mattress indent. She climbs into the bed beside me. For the longest moment, I don’t feel her move…and then I feel her body curl toward mine.

Her fingers are in my hair, their motions feather-light and slow. My eyelids sag. Sometime later, I smell food, and then I feel her in the bed again as I drift helplessly through time.

I don’t know why she’s doing this. Her magic fingers tour my shoulders, back, and arms…scratching and stroking. At least once, I think I moan, and hear her soft smile-sound.

When I really come awake again, I hear sounds of…battle?

I crack my eyes open and find Am leaning back against my pillows, staring wide-eyed at her phone. My burgundy duvet is pulled up to her hips, and she’s got on some kind of giant, saggy t-shirt. At first I think it must be mine, but then I notice that it’s mint green with Greek letters on the front.

I blink a few times, testing out my pain level as I watch her. I’m pleased to find I feel a lot better. More so as I watch her mouth flicker from horror to smiles to surprise. I don’t know for sure, but based on the dialogue I’m hearing, I think she’s watching Game of Thrones. I’ve only ever read the books.

She jumps, and I realize she’s seen me watching her.

She laughs and mutes the show, her gaze growing more serious as she levels it at me. “I hope I didn’t wake you up. I thought I had the volume pretty low.”

“You did. Didn’t. Wake me up. Jesus.” I rub a hand over my warm face. “You didn’t wake me up,” I manage in a voice that sounds like gravel. I squint around the room, noting the light around the windows. “What time is it?”

“Ten.”

I frown, and Am reaches for my face, smoothing her long fingers over my hair. “It’s Tuesday, Dash.”

“It is?”

She smiles. “Yep.”

“How… What did you tell Imagine?”

“I told them we were both sick. Probable food poisoning.”

I sink back down against my pillow, put my arm over my face. Not because my head hurts much, but because I don’t know what to say to her—and I don’t trust myself.

I feel her settle beside me, lying down like I am, feel her little feet against my shins.

“You okay? Need something?”

She rubs her toes against my ankle, and I can’t help smiling on the other side of my arm as my cock twitches.

Amelia Frank. This girl is my poison and my cure. I’m not sure why it’s like that—why it’s her. The world is full of women, all of them but her within my reach. I guess we crave what we can’t have. That or this is just my fate: to want, to ache. And then, as if to argue—or confirm—I feel her foot creep up my calf.