“When we first met you said you knew my type. Something about being the kind of guy that’s only interested in sex or some bullshit like that,” Tony grumbled, not looking at her. “You still think of me as that type. The type that wants to fuck everything that moves. Sometimes I just want to sit around and watch hoarders and have some snarky banter with you, okay?”
“Today I was thinking of you as the type who would reassure his girlfriend when she’d had a shit day,” Summer spat back, fingers digging into the cushions. “The type who would put his show on record because she wanted to— to fuck someone with a brain.” Her throat hurt, and there was a ringing in her ears. “Sometimes /I/ just want to believe that I’m a person worth being cared about.”
“You don’t show someone you care about them by fucking them, Summer.” Tony growled, moving his eyes back to the TV just to piss her off more. “And if you remember correctly I did sit here and reassure you. Or are we just not counting the time I listened to you complain about those bitches?” He crossed his arms and moved as far away from her as possible. “Are we just not counting that because you didn’t get what you wanted in the end?”
It hadn’t been enough, and she didn’t know why it hadn’t been enough. It wasn’t even because he said no to sex — waiting was familiar, was normal. His anger was painful. Was that why it wasn’t enough? Anger was rejection, was denial, was being unwanted.
Except he’d said she should come back. Could come back. It wasn’t go away forever.
But it /hurt/. The pain swelled up her throat and bent her spine into an arc backwards, sliding twitches through her muscles. Her legs trembled, and her arms, and she bit her tongue on a whimper.