Shower

You do not look at her again. You swing your legs out of bed, leave the cooling mess of cum exactly where it landed across your stomach and the sheets, and walk straight past her toward the bathroom.

“If it bothers you that much,” you say over your shoulder, voice flat, “the least you could do is clean it up.”

The shower starts hot. You step under the spray and let it run over you, washing away the evidence from your skin while the rest stays behind on the bed. Natasha’s voice follows you for a moment, still sharp, still disgusted, but you ignore every word. The water drowns her out soon enough.