I’m sitting here watching my gf pack for a beach trip I’m paying for my gf and her ex. [cuck]

My gf is tossing tiny bikinis, lacy thongs, and barely-there dresses into the suitcase I bought her, giggling and swaying her hips, twirling a red string bikini around her finger before flicking it at me to fold. I grab it, fold it neat, and tuck it into the pile while she keeps going.

They hadn’t talked for years, her ex was just a name she’d drop sometimes, a shrug and a smirk. But a few months back, they reconnected, and now it’s like they’re magnets. She’ll text him right in front of me, grinning at her phone, eyes glued to the screen, only looking up when she needs something—my card, a charger, a nod to keep me busy. Yesterday, she handed me her phone to plug in, and his name popped up: “Can’t wait to see you, babe.” I plugged it in, handed it back.

I hauled their bags to the car earlier; hers and his, both ready for the cab I booked. My gf’s bag was light, his was heavier, I could barely lift, packed with who-knows-what. I offered to carry it anyway, nodding when he said, “Yeah, thanks, man,” without a glance my way. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with that careless swagger that makes me feel small in every way. Next to him, I’m nothing—just the guy holding the bags, trailing behind. I respect him a lot, though I can’t explain it.

Last time they saw each other, it wrecked me. We were in her hometown, and I thought I’d be part of it, but then he showed up. They clicked like no time had passed, laughing over inside jokes I didn’t get, their voices blending while I stood there holding her purse. At some bar, he slung his arm around my gf’s shoulders, pulling her close, and she leaned into him, her smile brighter than I’d seen in months. I watched, silent, as they reminisced about old times—nights I wasn’t part of, stories where I don’t exist. Later, I drove them back to our place, hands on the wheel, eyes down while they murmured in the backseat, her giggles cutting through my discomfort. They vanished into the bedroom without a word. I stayed on the couch, ears straining for every sound, too scared to move, too hooked to leave.

Now he’s here again, in our home, ready to leave for a vacation with my girlfriend that I'm sponsoring. I’m secretly hoping he’s not packing condoms. It’s this messed-up part of me that wants my gf to come back full of him, some raw proof she’s his. The thought twists my gut, makes my breath catch, but I can’t shake it. I picture her strolling back in, tanned and messy-haired, that smug little smile as she tells me how he took her every night, no barriers, just them. My stomach’s in knots, knowing he’ll have my gf all to himself.

She’s zipping the suitcase now, chatting about the beach how warm it’ll be, how they might not even leave the room with all the fun they’ll have. I’ll be here while they’re gone, refreshing my phone for a scrap of news, jumping at every ping, heart racing when her name pops up. Maybe she’ll send a photo—her in that bikini, him behind her, grinning like he’s king. Maybe she won’t bother, too wrapped up in him to remember me.

I don’t know why I do this—why I respect him, why I fund it, why I let her tease me into this corner. Their history pulls them together, years apart erased in a heartbeat, and I’m just the shadow trailing behind, too weak to step away…