Sweeter this time

Vince and I slowly made room for each other again at our homes; a drawer in our dressers and a drawer in our bathrooms. I tossed out the crap I’d bought for Randy—face wash, toothbrush, razor—and left the drawer empty.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Vince said, glancing toward the trash.

“I know,” I replied, shutting the drawer. “Did it anyway.”

We weren’t exactly who we were before the last split—but we were better. We weren’t bringing up exes or leaving conversations half-finished. Things were clearer this time. More honest. Steadier.

Most nights, we stayed in. Vince loved making dinner for us as he said it relaxed him and I loved watching him do it, even if it meant me stealing bites before the food hit the table. Once or twice a week, he still took me out to eat. Not the flashy kind of dates he planned the week I stayed with him after calling out sick. (Yes, I still had my job afterward – it turned out that my boss had gone to college with Vince about four hundred years ago.)

“You’re lucky he still thinks I’m charming,” Vince I had joked.

“You’re lucky I didn’t blow your cover,” I shot back.

“You did blow something.”

“Keep chopping, Casanova.”

We started leaving each other notes around the house – on the pillows, inside books, stuck to the bathroom mirror.

You’re the best part of my day.

I miss you even when you’re next to me.

I’d choose you in every lifetime.

They were sweet, sometimes flirty, always sincere. A quiet string of love letters passed in the margins of our days.

We took turns seeing each other’s friends. One weekend we were drinking with his people at a bar near his condo. The next, I was pulling him along to brunch with mine, who spent the whole time trading stories about me he hadn’t heard yet.

“She was wild in college,” one of my girlfriends laughed. “She had a rotation of like… two or three guys at a time.”

Vince raised an eyebrow, amused. I just sipped my mimosa, nonchalant.

“I was super careful, Vince,” I said. “We were always tested frequently and we always used condoms.”

Later that day, when it was just the two of us at a quiet corner table at a cafe, his hand found its way up my skirt.

“I don’t care about your past,” he murmured against my ear. “I’m just glad your ho phase is over.”

Every so often, we hosted both groups of friends at the same time—board games and drinks, cookouts, movie nights that ended up in chaotic pile-ups of blankets, beer, and wine bottles. We always seemed to know who had hooked up with who, even if no one ever said it outright. Everyone kept it mostly light, mostly fun.

At one of those gatherings, while everyone was laughing too loud in the kitchen, Vince slid behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed me—slow and deep, like we were the only two people in the room.

One of his friends laughed. “Jesus. Get married already.”

I pulled back just enough to catch my breath, smirked, and tossed back, “Maybe!”

It got a cheer. I rolled my eyes.

Later that night, when it was just the two of us again and the house was quiet except for the low hum of the dishwasher, Vince turned to me as we folded up blankets on the couch.

“Would you?” he asked casually.

“Would I what?”

“Marry me.”

I paused, watching his face.

“Now?”

He shook his head. “No. I mean… someday.”

I let that sit between us for a moment.

“I wouldn’t know. Not yet,” I said. “But maybe. In the future.”

He nodded like that was enough. Like it was okay to not have the answer yet.

Since he bought me the signed first edition of one of my favorite books, I had a habit of thanking him in very certain ways. Usually, I dropped to my knees in front of him. My hands undid his buckle and slid his pants down with practiced ease. I took him into my mouth slow and sure, eyes locked on his as I hollowed my cheeks around him. His back hit the nearest surface—door, wall, table—his breath catching as I teased and tasted him, drawing out every sound he made.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his fingers threading into my hair. “You—God, don’t stop.”

My tongue moved with purpose, slow at first, then faster as his hips bucked. He tried to control it, tried to stay still, but it always unraveled in the end.

“You’re gonna make me—shit, I can’t—”

He came hard, chest heaving, moaning my name like a prayer.

Other times, I thanked him by spreading my legs for him—already naked and wanting. On the couch or on the bed, he’d push me back, lifting my shirt or skimming his hands down my thighs, taking his time with every inch of exposed skin. His mouth closed around one nipple, sucking hard until I arched, gasping. His fingers found the other, tugging, rolling, making me writhe.

“Harder,” I breathed.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “You want it rough tonight?”

“Yes. Don’t hold back.”

He didn’t.

He kissed his way down my stomach, between my thighs, then slid inside me—slow at first, teasing, until I was begging, legs trembling.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, pinning my wrists above my head. “Say my name.”

“Vince,” I moaned, body clenching around him.

“Louder.”

“*Vince - don’t stop – please -”

He drove deeper, faster, until my moans turned into broken cries and I shattered around him, nails dragging down his back. The headboard banged against the wall, a steady rhythm to our chaos. Anytime we had sex on the bed—at either house—that headboard always slammed the wall. Even after respective neighbors told us we kept them up all night, it never stopped.

“You’re mine,” he growled, hips still slamming into me. “All fucking mine.”

He came with a gasp and a curse, collapsing on top of me, breathless and sweaty.

Afterward, wrapped in sweat and blankets, limbs tangled, he kissed my forehead.

“No more games?” he whispered.

“No more games,” I promised, breathless.

And we meant it. Maybe not forever just yet. But maybe.

On the weekends, we slipped away for little adventures—quiet bed-and-breakfasts in the mountains, breezy coastal towns with good oysters and better views, tucked-away cabins where the only plans were slow mornings and each other. We never said we needed it. We just knew. And we always came home closer.