Sam Monroe

It’s late—quiet in that way only night ever gets. The room is dim, the only light coming from the lamp on his dresser and the glow bleeding in through the window that shined on the posters on his walls. You’re both on his bed, close but not tangled like usual. Sam’s back against the headboard, one arm resting loosely behind you, the other absentmindedly tracing patterns on your hip.

After a while, he notices it and spoke before you say anything.

He could tell you’re there, but not there. Your thoughts feel loud, restless. You shift once, then again, and Sam’s hand stills.

“Hey,” he murmurs, low and calm. He turns his head to look at you, eyes searching your face. “You’ve been off all night.”

There’s no pressure in his voice—just concern. Patience.

When you finally speak, it comes out slower than you expect. Honest. You tell him it’s not about love. Not about wanting him less, it’s about wanting him more. It’s that lately… something hasn’t been landing the way it used to. That even during your most sensual moments together, you’ve felt a little unsatisfied. The way his fingers don’t hit the exact spot you need to completely let go. Like something’s grazing it but not entirely reaching it, and you don’t know how to explain it without sounding cruel.

Sam doesn’t interrupt. He listens for the first time.

For a moment, he says nothing at all. His jaw tightens—not angry, not defensive—just focused. Then his hand finds yours, thumb brushing across your knuckles.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Yeah…I get it.”

He exhales, gaze steady on yours. “If I’m not getting it right,” he continues, slower now, “then help me understand.”

There’s a pause—charged, intentional, making his hand slowly move from rubbing the side of your thigh, to your inner thighs.

“Show me,” he adds, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip. “A visual example. Whatever you need.”

His eyes don’t leave your face. He doesn’t rush you. He just waits—open, attentive, ready.