When we’ve both finished cumming, we stay there for a long time. Pressed together against the back panel of the confessional, breathing the same heated air. His forehead rests against the back of my skull.
Eventually, he pulls out. I feel him tuck himself back in and zip up. Then his hands find my hips and he tugs my underwear and jeans back up, buttoning them for me tenderly.
I turn around in the narrow space. Face to face. Chest to chest. His forehead drops against mine. I can feel his heartbeat through his sweater. It’s fast. Faster than mine, maybe.
“You said my name,” he says quietly.
I think about lying. The habit is so ingrained that the deflection forms automatically: It was just a name, don’t flatter yourself, it slipped out. But the lie won’t come. Not here, not in this cramp
