Not the bad kind. The kind where the ceiling of his thoughts fell away and he was just a body in a room. No past. No future. No desperate clawing for attention. Just the sound of leather on skin and Marcus's voice counting strokes.

"You did well," Marcus said. Like it was a fact. Like it wasn't up for debate.

Cory wanted to argue. He wanted to say that quiet want felt like death, like boredom, like the proof that he was unlovable unless he was performing.

When Cory ran out of words, Marcus said, "That's not what I asked. I asked what you're looking for from me . Tonight. In one sentence."

"That wasn't a relapse," Marcus said. "That was an assault. You used a safeword. He ignored it. That's not on you."