I lay on my bed half dressed, Tristan on top of me, kissing me, stroking me, whispering over and over that he loved me.

I don’t know if he was drunk, or upset, and in that moment, I didn’t care, which I think makes me awful, but I didn’t care about that either. I had Tristan, he was saying the things I’d always wanted him to. He went to unlace himself, and I stopped him.

“It’s alright, love,” he said.

“No,” I whispered, “I love you, but not that, not like this, not when she,” he nodded and rolled off of me. “Besides which, I’m not ready.” He nodded.

“Alright,” he mumbled, and we kissed again.

“Tell me again,” I whispered.

“I love you,” he said. We kissed deeply. “I love you.” He drew back and placed his hands on my hips. I spread my legs, and there was a…