He didn’t take me home.

After the parking garage he simply started the engine again, pulled out into the quiet night streets, and drove in the opposite direction from my apartment. I didn’t ask where we were going. I already knew. The silence between us was thick and charged; every so often his hand left the wheel to rest high on my thigh, thumb stroking absently over the damp fabric of my scrub pants where his come was still slowly leaking out of me.

Twenty minutes later he parked in the underground garage of a sleek, modern building. We rode the elevator in silence. The second his apartment door closed...