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There's a light coming from beyond the window that Roger can't place.
Twelve years. He curls his fingers into his palms and watches the light flicker across them, like a firefly caught in a net. Sitting on the edge of the bed, with his forearms on his knees. Head low, thoughts heavy. Twelve years of a life he's made for himself. Ready to break.
The woman lying half asleep behind him stirs gently, a pull of covers over her naked body, tugging the fabric trapped under his. Roger blinks down at his hands, traces each knuckle in the glow of the light. He tries not to think of it, but the guilt still lingers—on his sweat-glazed skin, in his tangled hair, the eyes that had gazed upon her with such fervor, the lips that had torn her apart. Everything trembling as she'd done, when his tongue found its mark between her legs, and his lust ran rampant in her arms. Twelve years alone and he can still make a woman come. But she's not a woman. Not as far as he tells himself.
Christ, what kind of person am I? The question is pointless; he's always known who he is, how he can never resist temptation. Not when he was married, and not now. Fifty-two years old, and he still hasn't learned.
The girl whimpers and slowly sits up. "Roger?"
It sounds strange sometimes, coming from her. There was a time when she would only call him Mr. Berkman, back when he saw her everyday in class, talked and smiled with her, and never had these kinds of thoughts until they'd gone out for coffee after graduation, and had somehow ended up rolling around in his bed for hours. And it didn't stop. Two weeks became four, one month spun into another. She's only eighteen; she should be prepping for college in the fall, not letting herself be fucked by a man old enough to be her father. And Roger should know better. He should know well enough to quash the warmth that swells in his chest whenever she touches him.
The light goes out, leaving nothing but darkness. Roger feels her fingers brush his shoulder, and then her arms curl around him. "Come back to bed," she says, in that soft, sweet voice he can still hear echoing through aisles of desks. "I miss you."
He smiles faintly, and turns to press a kiss to her silhouette. "I will, Tanya. Why don't you warm it up for me?"
Tanya's lips meet his cheek, and as she slides away and back under the covers, Roger feels those sad words claw at the tip of his tongue:
I love you.
A message saved for another time.