Beyond the scare

After sex when we got back home to his place, I immediately took my birth control and then a morning-after pill. Vince quickly got dressed and headed to the store, returning with an absurd number of home pregnancy tests. When he brought them home, I thought there were enough to last an eternity and started using one every other day, well aware that implantation can take two to six weeks.

We continued to have sex often, but during that first week, I made sure to take a morning-after pill afterwards though I continued to take my birth control in the mornings. I knew that after a full week, the birth control would be effective, and we wouldn’t need backup protection. As the weeks slowly passed, the nagging uncertainty weighed on me. Although I didn't think I was having any of the similar symptoms of pregnancy like I had in the past, I was nauseous and couldn’t eat. I wasn't sure if it was just the stress or if I was, in fact, pregnant. We'd been home for three weeks at this point, and for a definite answer, I decided to get a blood test at the doctor's office.

The very next day, a nurse called. "You are not pregnant," she said, her voice clear and kind.

A wave of immense relief washed over me. I thanked her, my voice light with genuine gratitude, then went straight to find Vince.

When I told him, I saw a fleeting look of disappointment in his eyes—he's always wanted kids, a whole bustling house filled with them. But he knows I hate children, with the sole exception of my nieces and nephews. So, seeing the relief that lit up my expression, his own smile broadened. He pulled me into a tight hug, pressing a soft kiss to my hair. "That's fantastic, babe," he murmured. "I'm so happy you got the answer you were hoping for." His understanding of my strong feelings clearly overshadowed his own silent hopes.

To celebrate this relief, we chose our favorite place, Siam Orchid. From the outside, it presented a modest facade, tucked almost shyly between a bustling dry cleaner and a charming little bookstore. Its only real adornment was a simple, elegant sign: a stylized lotus flower etched in gold on dark, polished wood, hinting at the beauty within. Stepping inside was like entering another world entirely. The lighting was soft and warm, casting a gentle glow on the rich crimson walls. These walls, in turn, were adorned with exquisite golden tapestries, meticulously woven with intricate patterns depicting graceful figures from Thai history and serene ancient temples, creating an atmosphere of exotic luxury. The air was a delicate blend of comforting aromas—the bright zest of lemongrass, the creamy sweetness of coconut milk, and a faint, tantalizing whisper of something spicy—while soft, traditional Thai melodies drifted lazily from unseen speakers, effortlessly transporting us far from our everyday lives.

Our favorite server, Mai, a woman with a perpetually kind smile and eyes that crinkled at the corners when she laughed, approached our table. "What wonderful occasion brings you two in tonight?" she asked, her voice melodious, clearly trying to figure out if it was a birthday,  anniversary or other special celebration, as she handed us our menus.

I grinned, still bubbling with relief. "We're celebrating that I'm not pregnant. We did have a scare but we're thankful it didn't come to fruition."

Vince raised his eyebrow playfully. "A cause for celebration, indeed." He chuckled, his thumb gently caressing my thigh near my hip under the table - a familiar and comforting gesture.

We started with their perfectly crispy spring rolls, their delicate, golden-brown wrappers crackling satisfyingly with each bite.

"These are always perfect," I said, dipping one into the sweet chili sauce.

"Seriously, how do they get them so crispy without being greasy?" Vince nodded, already reaching for another.

"It's the magic touch, I guess. You know, I was actually thinking about that new true crime podcast today. Have you listened to the one about the cold case in Norway?" I shook my head, popping another spring roll into my mouth.

 "Not yet, but it's on my list. Tonight, though, my brain needs something lighter. I swear, the last three weeks of waiting felt like an eternity." Vince reached across the table, taking my hand. "I know, babe. It was rough for us – mostly you - but as long as you're happy, then I am as well. But it's over now. What do you think about that new Thai place on Elm Street? We should try it next week."

I squeezed his hand. "Maybe. This place just has my heart, though. And this Pad See Ew..."

For our main courses, I chose my usual: the rich and flavorful Pad See Ew with tender slices of chicken, its wide rice noodles perfectly caramelized and swimming in a savory sauce. Vince, ever the one for a challenge, opted for the Penang Curry with extra spice, his forehead already beading faintly with the pleasant anticipation of its fiery kick.

"Think you can handle it tonight?" I teased, a smirk playing on my lips.

"Only one way to find out," he retorted, his eyes sparkling.

We raised our tall glasses of Singha beer, the cold, crisp lager a welcome contrast to the spice, and clinked them together in a silent, shared toast to freedom and the exciting, open future stretching before us.

"To us," Vince murmured, his gaze warm.

"To not having to buy any more pregnancy tests," I added, taking a long sip. "And to you, always knowing exactly what I want without even asking."

Later that night, back in the familiar, quiet comfort of our bedroom, the celebration took a much more intimate turn. The lingering euphoria from the day, combined with the shared warmth of the celebratory dinner and the sheer relief that permeated the air, ignited a primal current between us. As soon as the door clicked shut, Vince's gaze locked onto mine, dark with a raw, potent hunger. He didn't pull me close for a gentle hug, but rather gripped my hips, pulling me hard against him. As his lips descended, demanding, devouring mine in a fierce, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of spice and beer and pure desire, his hands went to my skirt, hiking it up around my waist, bunching the fabric there. My fingers instantly tangled in his hair, pulling, urging him closer as the kiss deepened, becoming a breathless, insatiable consumption.

He backed me against the wall, his hand slipping under my shirt. He pulled my shirt up and over my head, tossing it aside. He looks a little surprised that I wasn’t wearing a bra. His fingers spread wide over my bare belly, then raked upward, tracing the curve of my ribs to my breast. He paused, his thumb circling my nipple. "Fuck, you're perfect," he rasped, his voice thick with unfulfilled desire. He squeezed gently, his thumb and forefinger teasing my hardened nipple, then leaned down, taking my aching peak into his mouth, drawing a sharp gasp from my lips. His other hand went to the button of my miniskirt, unzipping it with a quick, practiced motion. I reciprocated with equal intent, smoothly undoing his belt, our movements fluid, driven by an urgent need. My mini skirt, already bunched around my waist, was then pulled down and kicked aside. Clothing became an immediate nuisance, swiftly discarded in a frantic flurry, leaving us skin on skin.

The contact was electric, a jolt of pure sensation. He nuzzled into my neck, biting gently, trailing hot kisses down to my collarbone, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peaks of my breasts, sending shivers of pure lust through me. My hands roamed over his back, feeling the hard line of muscle, the warmth of his skin, digging my nails in just slightly as a wave of intense need washed over me. "You want this as much as I do?" he murmured, his voice a low growl, his breath hot against my ear. "Tell me what you crave, baby."

"Every inch of you," I gasped back, my voice raw, my hips already pressing against his. "I need you inside me, now. Don't wait. Please." He lifted me without a word, and carried me to the bed, dropping me onto the cool sheets with a controlled force that was both thrilling and utterly possessive.

The next moments blurred into a symphony of raw touch and uninhibited sound. His body was a heavy, welcomed weight on mine. We moved together, a primal rhythm building with each powerful thrust, each guttural groan. My hips rose to meet his, demanding more, faster.

"God, you feel incredible, so wet for me," he breathed, his voice ragged, as he drove into me with an insatiable hunger, cumming deep inside me.

I couldn't hold back, a sharp, ragged moan escaping my lips, quickly turning into a guttural scream as he buried himself deeper. The air grew thick with our shared gasps, the slap of skin, the desperate sounds of pure pleasure.

“Yes, Vince!" I pleaded, my nails scoring his shoulders, my body arching fiercely to meet every powerful stroke.

Each push, each pull, was deeper, more consuming, until the tension coiled impossibly tight, shattering in a blinding, explosive climax that left us both trembling, tangled in the sheets, utterly spent and completely satisfied.

And it didn't end there. As soon as our breathing steadied, the embers of desire reignited, pulling us back to each other. We shifted, limbs tangling, finding new angles, new pressures. His hand found my inner thigh, tracing a path that made me arch into him.

"You ready for more?" he whispered, his fingers dipping lower, making me gasp.

"More than ready," I managed, my voice breathless.

He answered by pinning my wrists above my head, his mouth claiming mine once more, a long, deep kiss that stole my breath.

"Tell me what you're begging for," he growled against my lips, his hips already starting to move against mine again.

“I want you to fill me, Vince," I panted, my body aching for him. "Don't ever stop."

We found each other again and again through the night, a relentless cycle of craving and satisfaction, our bodies becoming intimately familiar with every curve and hollow, every rise and fall, every gasp and raw scream, him cumming inside me each time. We explored every inch, every sensation, pushing boundaries, shifting positions, until our limbs ached and our voices were hoarse. The moon dipped below the horizon, and the first hint of dawn began to paint the sky, a faint grey light filtering through the blinds, before we finally collapsed, utterly depleted and completely satiated after a night consumed by raw, unbridled passion.

As I was wrapped in Vince's arms, he kissed me softly but passionately, then told me that he loves me. "I love you too," I whispered back, my voice thick with emotion. He pulled back slightly, his eyes shining. "This is something I've been waiting to hear you say for a long time!" he murmured. His mouth claimed mine in an open-mouthed kiss. He rolled me onto my back, spread my legs, mounted me and rode me until we both climaxed and he drained himself in me.

 

Permission and plans

The sun hadn’t fully risen when I woke the next morning, the apartment dim and still quiet. I heard Vince’s voice in the other room, low and serious. I stayed in bed, listening.

“…Yeah,” Vince was saying into the phone to Bob—my brother. “I know. I wouldn’t be asking if it didn’t matter. I just—look, I’m not doing it tomorrow, or anything. But someday. I want your blessing to ask her to marry me.”

He paused, and I could hear the nervous shift in his weight, the way he paced when something mattered.

“Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

Obviously, I couldn’t hear what Bob said, but Vince’s tone was pleased—almost relieved. I smiled quietly into the pillow, heart fluttering. He was thinking about forever.

Around 7 AM, as I drifted in and out of sleep, I heard Vince make another call—this time to his friend, who also happened to be my boss.

“Hey. Yeah, I wanted to catch you early. Deppgrl and I are going away—twelve or thirteen days. When she comes back, I want her to have a raise.”

He paused again.

“Yeah. She deserves it. She works her ass off and I don’t want her coming back to the same old nonsense.”

By the time he hung up, I had slipped back into sleep again.

When I finally woke around 9, Vince was already dressed and sipping coffee with a cocky smile.

“Morning, beautiful,” he said. “Hope you’re in the mood for palm trees and tequila.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Pack your bag,” he grinned. “We’re going to Puerto Vallarta.”

Packing was a giddy mess—me rushing around tossing bikinis, soft cotton dresses, lacy underwear, sandals, sunscreen, sunglasses into a bag while Vince kept slipping in extra bottles of SPF and smirking like he had plans for me. He stood behind me while I bent over the suitcase, his hand sliding along my hip to palm my ass.

“You really think we’ll need this much sunscreen?” I teased.

“Maybe not,” he murmured in my ear. “But I’m planning on touching every inch of you. Might as well make it safe.”

The flight was indulgent—first class, champagne, the seats fully reclined. He watched me with soft eyes and a wicked smile while I dozed, legs tangled over his. His fingers never stopped tracing lazy shapes into my thigh.

Once we landed, a private driver took us straight to a hidden bungalow wrapped in trees and dappled in sunlight. It was secluded, peaceful, and ice-cold inside—everything we needed to get lost in each other.

Every day, we walked down to the beach. Vince made sure I was shaded, hydrated, coated in sunscreen. He’d adjust my chair, make me sip water, and always—always—look at me like I was the only woman alive. His hands wandered when he rubbed in the lotion. His mouth wandered even more. And I let him.

And we fucked. Constantly.

The cabana on the beach was our sanctuary. Gauzy curtains surrounded the padded bed, filtering light and sound, but not nearly enough to muffle me. Or him.

One afternoon, I was still glistening with saltwater when Vince pulled me onto the lounge chair, knelt between my legs, and devoured my pussy with a groan like he hadn’t eaten in days. I came fast and loud. He groaned, then stood, yanked down his swim trunks, and thrust into me in one brutal stroke.

We were too far gone to care who heard us. My moans echoed. His grunts turned to gasps, then curses. He grabbed my hips and fucked me into the cushion, hard and filthy, until he was shaking and coming deep inside me with a strangled shout.

Nights were for candlelit dinners at rooftop restaurants—cascading bougainvillea, Spanish guitar, glowing lanterns. We laughed, drank too much, kissed like no one was watching. And then went back to the bungalow and tore into each other like animals.

That night, after dinner, I was lying naked on the bed, skin flushed, hair damp from a quick shower. Vince stood at the edge, eyes devouring me. He traced the tan lines across my chest with his mouth, then moved lower, teasing my nipples until I was gasping and trembling beneath him.

“God, I love the way you respond to me,” he whispered against my skin.

He kissed me hard, then slid between my thighs—mounting me, taking me in one long, deep thrust.

I cried out, wrapping my legs around his waist as he rocked into me with raw urgency. His hands braced beside my head. My nails raked down his back.

“You like this?” he grunted. “You want me to ride you just like this?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

We moved together wildly. His thrusts grew harder, deeper. The bed shook. My moans turned to screams. Vince’s grunts turned ragged, until he was shouting, breaking apart inside me with a hoarse cry.

I came seconds after—spasming, trembling, sobbing his name like a prayer. We didn’t stop. We couldn’t. We fucked through the night, through sweat and laughter and whispered filth. On the bed, on the couch, on the floor, in the shower, on the patio.

He mounted me again in the morning. Took me in the shower that afternoon. Bent me over the sink, pinned me to the door, fucked me slow, fucked me fast. We lost count.

It was gluttonous, messy, beautiful.

We fucked our way through Puerto Vallarta.

When we returned—sun-kissed, dazed, and sore—I unpacked at Vince’s place, humming quietly. Then I saw it.

My birth control pack.

Still full. Still here. Sitting neatly beside the sink.

I picked it up, my pulse immediately spiking.

Thirteen days. Gone. Unprotected.

He hadn’t pulled out. Not once.

Tears welled before I could stop them. My hands trembled. I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the packet, chest tightening.

Vince walked in just as I broke.

“Hey—what happened?” he asked, instantly alert.

I looked up at him, blinking hard. “I… I forgot. I was so excited to go, I didn’t even realize I never packed my birth control. Vince—I was ovulating.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then came closer, crouched down, his expression serious but calm.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Whatever happens, I’m here. I’ll support whatever you decide. No pressure. No bullshit. You’re not alone.”

As he said it, I couldn’t help noticing—his cock was hard. So hard it was pressing against the seam of his shorts.

I stared at his cock and then back at him. “Take your clothes off.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Take them off. Now. I want you to ride me.”

His eyes darkened immediately. “Jesus Christ, baby…”

I stripped while he did, and then we collided. He pushed me back onto the bed and mounted me roughly, sliding inside my swollen pussy in one fluid thrust like he belonged there.

We fucked hard, everywhere. For hours.

On the bed. Against the dresser. In the hallway. On the stairs.

His hands in my hair, my mouth on his throat, our bodies crashing together with wild, desperate heat.

He rode me like it was the last time. Like it was the only time. Like it meant everything.

And it did.

Because it might’ve meant more than either of us was ready to admit.

Family ties and tension

The brunch spot was too sunny, too cheery for what I knew was coming. Vince’s sister, Jordan, was ten minutes late, which was somehow both predictable and strategic. When she finally arrived, she swept into the café like she owned the damn place, her eyes locking on me like I’d spilled red wine on her white carpet.

“Vince,” she greeted him barely looking at me. “Deppgrl.”

“Jordan," I said with a saccharine smile. "Nice of you to join us. I thought maybe you were avoiding brunch like you avoid your remaining brother any time he and I are together!"

Her mouth twitched, but she ignored the jab and sat. “So this is… back on again?”

I opened my mouth, but Vince beat me to it. “We’re not doing this.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Doing what? I’m just asking. With her track record—”

“Don’t act like you’re concerned,” I snapped. “You stopped talking to Vince because I was in his life. That’s not protecting him. That’s running.”

“Excuse me?” she said, voice rising.

“You heard me. You’ve been MIA on and off for years. Now you show up just to take digs?”

Jordan looked at Vince for support, but he didn’t flinch. “She’s right.”

“Vince—”

“No,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You want to come at her, but let’s talk about why you’re really pissed. Your husband left you for one of his students a few years after she graduated, and it reminded you too much of what you think this is. But it’s not. You projected all your hurt and your bitterness on her—and me. That’s not fair.”

Jordan’s face flushed, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup. “That’s not what happened.”

“Yes, it is,” Vince said. “You think I don’t remember how you cut and ran every time things got hard? You ran from your husband when he fucked up. You ran from me when I didn’t make the choices you wanted. You ran from your own life. Don’t try and blame Deppgrl for that.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

I leaned back in my chair, sipping my coffee. “You know, for someone who claims to care so much about her brother, you sure stayed away a long time. Must’ve been exhausting carrying around that much judgment. Maybe you should try therapy?”

Jordan stood up quickly, her chair scraping against the tile. “Text me some time,” she muttered.

Vince didn’t say a word until she was out of sight.

He sighed and looked at me. “She’s… still my sister.”

I nodded slowly. “She is. But I’m not accepting your apology on her behalf. The only person who should be apologizing is her—and we both know that’s never going to happen.”

“Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” he asked, voice low.

I smiled faintly. “Actually… yeah. I want a sequel. To the signed first edition you got me. Doesn’t have to be anything rare—just a far newer edition is more than fine. And no, you don’t get to try to buy your love anytime your sister pisses us off.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Later that day, before dinner, Vince took me to an antique bookstore tucked in the corner of an old block downtown. It smelled like dust, binding glue, and buried treasure. The hardwood floors creaked under every step, and the shelves leaned slightly from the weight of forgotten classics. Vince found the third edition of the sequel—worn but well cared for, a small tear in the dust jacket, but still beautiful. He handed it to me like it was precious.

“It’s not signed,” he said, “but it still tells the story.”

I kissed him in the aisle, holding the book between us. “Better than good,” I whispered. “It’s ours.”

That evening, he took me to our favorite Peruvian diner—a cozy little spot with warm yellow lighting, rustic wooden tables, and colorful woven tapestries adorning the walls. The scent of garlic, cumin, and lime hit us the moment we stepped inside. The hostess gave Vince a once-over and a smile that lingered a second too long, but he only had eyes for me. Our server, a charming man with a dimple and a little too much enthusiasm, seemed amused by our energy—his subtle flirtation aimed in my direction—but I barely registered it. I was too focused on Vince.

We ordered lomo saltado—tender strips of beef, onions, tomatoes, and peppers stir-fried to perfection and served over crispy fries with white rice. The aji verde sauce had just the right amount of kick, and the passionfruit juice we shared was ice cold and tangy. For dessert, arroz con leche: creamy, sweet, sprinkled with cinnamon, and a drizzle of caramel that made Vince nearly moan softly after each bite.

After dinner, we walked off the meal, fingers laced, before heading back to his place. We curled up on his couch with an old black-and-white film flickering in the background. I laid my head in his lap, warm and safe, my body soft with wine and food and comfort.

He thought I was asleep when I heard him whisper it.

“I love you.”

I didn’t open my eyes. I just smiled.

 

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.

Out of reach

I was halfway through folding towels when I heard the doorbell. Just one quick chime—polite, almost hesitant. I paused, brow furrowing. I wasn’t expecting anyone.

My mind was wandering as I walked barefoot across the hardwood and pulled open the door.

There was Vince.

He stood there like he hadn’t made up his mind about staying, his body angled slightly away, like he might walk off before I even said hello. But his eyes gave him away—they always did. That look—earnest, a little nervous—met mine like he wasn’t sure how this would go.

In his hands was a plain brown paper bag, creased and folded neatly at the top, like he’d taken real care of it.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than usual.

“Hi,” I answered, surprised but not in a bad way - I'd just left his place a number of hours ago. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I, uh… I brought you something.”

I blinked, then stepped aside and opened the door wider. “You want to come in?”

He hesitated—just for a beat—and then stepped inside. As he did, he kicked off his dirty boots using his feet without a word, leaving them near the door like it was second nature. He smelled faintly of sawdust, soap—and sandalwood. I always loved how he managed to smell so great.

I took the bag from him gently, already feeling the weight of it—solid, familiar. The kind of weight that could only be a hardcover book. My chest tightened.

I sat on the arm of the couch and unfolded the paper carefully. My breath caught the second I saw the cover.

It was the book. The one I had talked about with a wistful, self-mocking tone—too expensive, too rare, always just out of reach. A signed first edition, one I’d once spotted at a collector’s table with a six-digit price tag and laughed it off as something meant for someone else. Someone with a different kind of life.

But now it was here. In my lap. Real.

“Vince…” I whispered, already flipping to the inside cover.

The signature was there—fluid and dark, etched with intention. My fingers hovered over the ink, reverent. This wasn’t just a book. It was a reminder that someone had been listening. Really listening.

“You said it was always out of reach due to the cost,” he said, voice low. “Thought maybe it didn’t have to be.”

I looked up at him.

He wasn’t smiling - he didn’t look proud of himself. He just looked honest; quiet. Like this meant something to him, too.

“You remembered,” I said, blinking back the sudden warmth pressing at the back of my throat.

“Of course I did.”

I stood slowly, the book still in my hands. I stepped toward him, close enough to smell faint traces of sawdust, soap, and sandalwood, and without overthinking it, I leaned in and kissed him.

Not with desperation, not with heat. Just gratitude, clear and full. My lips brushed his with intention—a silent thank-you wrapped in breath.

But when I pulled back, something lingered. He didn’t move, didn’t step away. His hands were still at his sides, but his eyes had shifted—darker now, searching mine like he wasn’t sure what had just changed, only that something had.

And I felt it too. The thrum under my skin. The slow drag of awareness threading between us.

“I didn’t do it to win points,” he said quietly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know,” I replied. “But I still wanted to thank you.”

That was the moment something tipped. He took one step closer, then another, until my back grazed the edge of the couch and the space between us evaporated. His hand lifted, hesitant at first, then more certain as he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, letting his knuckles trail lightly down my jaw.

His fingers paused just under my chin. I tilted my face toward his without needing to be asked.

The next kiss was different—deeper, hungrier, the kind that held everything we hadn’t said. His hands slid to my waist, firm and warm, and I felt the slow exhale he released against my mouth.

I let the book fall gently to the couch beside us as I gripped the front of his shirt, grounding myself. His body was warm and solid. Familiar in the way a song you haven’t heard in years can still feel like home.

When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathing harder, our foreheads nearly touching.

“I should probably go,” he murmured, but he didn’t step back.

“You should,” I said, though neither of us moved.

Another pause stretched between us, thick with everything unresolved. His thumb brushed the hem of my shirt, just over my hip. Slow. Questioning.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I don’t want you to go yet.”

That was all he needed.

His lips found mine again, and this time I didn’t hold back. I kissed him like I remembered him. Like I missed him. Like I was letting myself admit that some part of me still wanted him.

He lifted me slightly, just enough to sit me fully on the couch, and he leaned in between my knees, hands resting on my thighs. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t reckless. It was deliberate. His mouth moved with purpose, his fingers trailing just under the hem of my shorts, grazing skin like a slow burn.

When he leaned in again, he kissed me hard—hot and open-mouthed, his hands sliding up and under my shirt until his thumbs brushed the underside of my breasts. I gasped, hips shifting. He slid my shirt up and off, and when his lips closed around my nipple, I whimpered.

It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. Possessive. Hot suction, flicks of tongue, grazes of teeth that made me arch, pant, writhe under him. He sucked harder, rougher, until my nipple ached and I gasped his name. His fingers dug into my hips as he devoured me like he’d been starved.

We stripped the rest of the way when we got to my room.

Upstairs, the late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the unmade bed. We were all hands, all mouth. No hesitation now. Just need. We kissed like we couldn’t stop, biting at lips, tugging at skin, pressing chest to chest until we were both gasping.

He spun me onto the bed, crawled over me, and settled between my thighs. My legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him flush. He thrust against me once, twice and we both moaned at the friction.

“God, I missed this,” he rasped.

“Then take it,” I whispered.

Clothes gone, breath ragged, he slid inside me with one long, deep stroke that made us both cry out.

It was wild, searing. He gripped my hips, drove into me like he needed to erase every day we’d spent apart. His mouth found my neck, my breast, sucked hard at my nipple again while he pounded into me until the bed shook.

I was gasping, clawing at his back, lifting my hips to meet every thrust.

“Harder,” I begged.

He delivered. Merciless, glorious, relentless. I shattered with a cry, clenching around him. He groaned, didn’t pause, just flipped me over, dragging me up to my knees, pulling my hips back before driving in again.

He fucked me like he meant it. Like he loved me. One hand fisted in my hair, the other on my hip, holding me there while he filled me deep and dirty—no condom, no barrier. I was still on antibiotics.

He had me in every position he knew drove me wild—drove me pregnant. Bent over the bed. Legs over his shoulders. Straddling him, riding hard. On my side with one leg hitched up. Hands pressed to the wall. Bruised knees on the floor. He twisted and tugged at my nipples, rough and unrelenting, sending pulses of heat straight to my core.

“Fuck,” he grunted. “You feel so damn good. So wet—taking all of me.”

I moaned into the pillow, pushed back against him, matching every thrust with my own.

We didn’t stop until we were wrecked. Sweat-slick, breathless, and he filled my pussy with a deep groan, hips jerking as he spilled everything inside me.

Afterward, we stayed tangled in the sheets, the silence thick but not uncomfortable. His hand found my hip again, thumb tracing slow circles that grounded me. The only sound was our breathing. The world outside that room didn’t exist.

Eventually, I felt him shift beside me, turning slightly so he could look at me. I met his gaze, already sensing the question forming before he said it.

“So,” Vince began, voice low but steady, “what are we now?”

My breath caught.

He searched my face, like he was trying to read between the lines, trying to hear the answer in the silence. “I just need to know... are we back together? Or was this just...?”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

But I knew what he meant. And I knew I owed him something real.

“We are,” I said. “We are back together.”

His eyes searched mine, not sure if he’d heard right.

“Not just because of the book,” I continued. “Because of what you showed me in the last seven days. You treated me the way I deserve to be treated. You didn’t just say the right things—you showed me. Again and again.”

The breath he let out was shaky, but full of relief. And I knew then—he wasn’t out of reach. Not anymore.

I hadn’t taken the morning after pill yet but yet I got up to do so. He, at this point, knows and accepts that I don’t want kids.

Long weekend with Vince

Early that morning, while I was still lying in my own bed, sore and dizzy from sleep, Vince called.

"Come back," he said, voice low and soft. "Spend the rest of the week with me. I’ll take care of you."

My stomach fluttered.

"I have work—"

"Call out - them you’re sick. You are — I ruined you."

I laughed, breathless, already pulling up my work app. "You’re not wrong."

I called out of work for the rest of the week. And I went to his place to spend days and nights tangled up in sheets, warmth, and each other.

That week was seven days of nothing but him.

We didn’t leave the bedroom except to shower, rest, and go out for dinner. And even then, the restaurants were upscale and romantic—dim candlelight flickering across white linens, soft jazz playing in the background, the clink of glasses and silverware fading behind thick velvet curtains. Each place felt intimate, like the world had shrunk down to just the two of us. The servers were attentive, the food exquisite—oysters, seared duck, filet mignon, perfect wine pairings.

He opened every door, pulled out every chair, ordered dessert to share even when we were full. Every night, he took me somewhere new. And every night, I wore something that barely counted as a dress—so low-cut my breasts threatened to spill with each breath, so short that even walking turned heads because my “lady bits” were barely covered. The fabric clung to me, teased at every curve. Men stared. Vince stared harder.

"Every man in this room wants you," he murmured one night, leaning in close, his breath warm against my ear before kissing me. "But they’ll never know how you taste. That’s all mine."

His hands were always on me. At the restaurant, in the backseat of the car we’d hired—every moment alone was charged. But it was back at his place where the sparks turned into fire.

He pulled me close the moment we stepped inside. We kissed like we’d been starved for each other. We fucked against the wall, rough and hungry. On the kitchen counter, laughing between gasps. On the couch, tangled together. In the hallway. In the shower. And always, always, in his bed.

He tangled his fingers in my hair, held my gaze as he thrust into me with intensity. He kissed me like he needed me. He traced every inch of my skin, memorizing the way I moaned, the way I called out his name.

He worshipped my body. His mouth on my breasts sent shivers through me, his tongue teasing until I arched into him. He kissed down my stomach, took his time between my thighs. "So sweet," he murmured, voice rough with reverence. "I’ll never get enough."

He kissed down my neck, across my ribs, up my thighs, every touch a promise of more. Praise and need tangled in his breath: "You take me so well," "You’re perfect," "Let me hear you."

We moved together in the mornings, slow and sleepy. We found each other again after breakfast, needy and raw. We came back to each other throughout the afternoon and well past midnight.

There were no rules. No holding back. Just wave after wave of heat. We fucked everywhere and often. He came inside me every time. No condoms. Still on antibiotics for my bronchitis, I took a morning-after pill each day without hesitation.

“You’re wrecking me,” I whispered one night, legs trembling, voice hoarse.

He kissed the corner of my mouth. “You love it.”

And I did. I missed this…I missed him.

By the end of the week, my body was tender in the best ways. My thighs carried the memory of his grip. My breasts ached with the echo of his mouth. My voice was rough from moaning his name.

I lost count of how many times we fucked over the week that I was there. The days blurred into each other, a dream of sensation and heat. And every night, he wrapped around me like I was something he never wanted to lose; he always held me tight against his chest.

It wasn’t love on my side because all I felt was pleasure and lust. But on his side? He still loved me.

And I gave in, again and again, until I forgot what it felt like to not be his.

On the last day—the one we’d agreed would be the end—I woke early. Around 3:30/3:45 in the morning. His bedroom was dim and quiet, the city just beginning to stir outside.

I packed my things slowly, carefully, without making a sound. I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t send a text. But I did leave his spare house key—the one he kept trying to give me—on the nightstand by his bed.

Then I slipped out the door and went home.

No panties? No mercy.

Last night, Vince truly surprised me.

He didn’t just ask me to come over. He took me to dinner—like, actually took me out. Not takeout on his couch or a taco truck on the way to his place. This was a reservation at an upscale Mexican restaurant that somehow managed to feel both elevated and intimate. We even had a car service arranged—he said it was because we both knew we’d be drinking, and he didn’t want either of us to worry about driving.

From the outside, the place looked like nothing—just a narrow entrance with a low-hung sign and a flickering lantern. But inside? It was magic.

The place opened into soft terracotta walls, moody candlelight, and high-backed leather booths stitched in deep mahogany. Each table had hand-painted tiles set in the center—little mosaic vignettes of saints, lovers, and wild horses. A wall of succulents framed the bar like a living painting, and above us, strands of papel picado hung in soft, purposeful arcs—colorful, but not kitschy. Even the music, soft guitar layered over low drumbeats, felt sensual without trying.

Vince looked good. Unfairly good. Black button-down rolled at the sleeves, the top two buttons undone just enough to make me forget how to blink. His jeans were ironed—ironed. He smelled like cedar and heat. When the hostess greeted us, her smile lasted a beat too long while she faced him, but then his hand slipped to the small of my back—low enough to send a message—and I melted. When she noticed this, she lost her smile.

I wore a short, black wrap dress—and nothing underneath. No panties. No bra. My breasts are perky and full enough that I can get away with it, even at 40DD. The dress plunged so low that if I leaned the wrong way, my breasts might’ve spilled out entirely, and it was so short that picking something off the floor would’ve shown everything. It barely covered my nipples, ass, and pussy. The breeze against my skin, the way his eyes traveled my body when I got in the car—it all added to the anticipation. Vince’s eyes widened when he saw me. “That dress is… wow. You look incredible,” he said, his voice was more gravely and lustier than usual. “It’s flattering as hell.”

We ordered birria tacos, black beans and rice, and a bottle of red wine. I asked for a margarita with no tajín on the rim. I know some people swear by it, but in my opinion, tajín belongs only on watermelon. I had a little of the wine too—smooth, heavy, perfect.

The food was perfect—tender and rich, with a kind of bold messiness that made you stop caring about appearances. The conversation flowed like it always did with Vince—easy, teasing, threaded with that low, familiar tension. His knee brushed mine under the table more than once, and every time I smiled, he watched my lips like he was trying to remember exactly how they tasted.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice low, eyes locked on mine.

“Mmm,” I said, licking a bit of salsa from my thumb. “Trying to decide if the tacos or you are hotter.”

He leaned in, his smirk crooked and full of promise. “Careful. You keep looking at me like that, and we’re not making it to dessert.”

I tilted my head, voice a murmur. “Who said I came here for dessert?”

That did it.

He kissed me right there—slow and hot, like a secret. My hand caught his shirt, and his fingers brushed the inside of my thigh under the tablecloth. It lasted just long enough to steal my breath.

He didn’t reply but we didn’t linger much longer.

The car picked us up outside the restaurant, and we didn’t speak much on the ride back—just traded glances that grew darker with every mile.

By the time we got back to his place, the air between us was tight with tension. He didn’t turn on the lights though a hallway light was on. As soon as the door shut behind us, he was on me—his mouth urgent, his hands already tugging at my dress. I was against the wall, then lifted off the ground like I weighed nothing, carried straight into the kitchen.

He set me on the counter, the cold stone shocking against the back of my thighs. My skirt was already bunched around my hips. His eyes were dark, jaw tight.

“Tell me what you want,” he growled.

“You,” I whispered, pulling him close. “No condom. I want to feel you.”

His breath hitched. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, voice thick with need. “Every inch.”

He kissed me again—deeper—and then with one forceful thrust, he was inside me. Bare. Thick. Deep.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hips grinding into mine. “You feel unreal.”

He fucked me like he meant to leave his name on my soul. Hard, relentless, like we’d waited too long and couldn’t afford to hold back anymore. My fingers clutched his shoulders, my legs wrapped around his waist. Moans spilled from my lips, ragged and sharp, only broken by the deep, breathless groans he let out as he thrust deeper.

He didn’t stop until I was a trembling mess, wrung out and soaked in sweat. I screamed his name as I came, my whole body quaking beneath him. He came inside me with a growl, deep and unfiltered—and didn’t soften.

He carried me to the kitchen table next, still hard and hungry, and bent me over it. His fingers gripped my hips as he drove into me again, filling me completely. My moans turned to cries, then screams, as the pressure built and burst again. He didn’t stop—not when I came again, not when he did.

When he finally brought me to his bedroom, I was already wrecked—and he still wasn’t done. We lost count of how many times we had sex. It had to be more than six times. Maybe nine. Maybe more?

The room echoed with moans, breathless whimpers, gasps, and screams of release. His body never let mine go. He kissed every inch of me between thrusts, bit my breast hard enough to bruise, sucked until I cried out. I came so many times I lost track, and he matched me nearly every time—grunting, swearing, praising, until we were both soaked and shaking.

Finally—finally—he collapsed beside me, his face buried in my neck, one arm wrapped tightly around my waist. He didn’t let go.

He pulled the covers over our bodies and tugged me into his chest, still breathing hard, one hand tangled in my hair. I rested my cheek against his shoulder and let the weight of the night fall over us like fog.

“I love you,” he whispered thinking that I was asleep. “I always have and I always will, baby.”

I didn’t mean to fall asleep. But wrapped in the heat of him, raw and wrecked and held… I gave in.

I drifted off in his arms, body aching, lips swollen, still full of everything he’d poured into me.

When I woke, it was just after 4 a.m.

The room was dark except for the faint blue glow of his microwave clock down the hall. I shifted, stiff and sore and dazed. Vince was asleep beside me, sprawled out and boneless, one arm still resting where I’d been.

I watched him for a moment, my chest full of something I didn’t know how to name. Maybe lust??

Then I moved—quietly, collecting my scattered clothes from the floor like pieces of evidence. My purse was in the dining room.  My dress was by the door. My stilettos were tipped over by the wall by the kitchen table.

I dressed without a sound, smoothed my dress, ran fingers through my tangled hair, and slipped out before he could wake up.

Not exactly a walk of shame…more like a drive.

My thighs stuck to the seat. My mouth tasted like wine and him. My mascara was half-gone. And I could still feel him—on my skin, between my legs, inside me.

No whispered goodbye. No text. Just me, alone in the dark, the ghost of his hands still all over me.

When I got home, I undressed in the quiet half-dark of my bedroom. That’s when I saw them—bruises on my thighs, exactly where his fingers had spread my legs open again and again. Darker ones mottled my breasts where his mouth had bitten and sucked. My body looked as wrecked as I felt.

I swallowed two Advil with water, then took a morning-after pill. I’d been on antibiotics for a recent infection, and I wasn’t about to risk anything—especially not with how much he came inside me. I hate how antibiotics decrease the effectiveness of birth control

Vince didn’t just take me out to dinner. He consumed me.

And I left with nothing but a body full of proof. And guilt.

I choose me

There comes a moment when enough is enough. I’ve spent too long bending, waiting, and compromising—thinking that loyalty meant staying silent or accepting less than I deserve. But not anymore. I’m done playing small. I’m done sacrificing my peace for someone else’s excuses.

Friendship isn’t about scheduled times to talk nor silent weekends. It’s about consistency, honesty, and mutual respect. Real friends reach out because they want to and within "respectful" hours of the day (ie not past 9/10 pm and 8 am), not because they’re checking a box or avoiding conflict. And I refuse to be someone’s secret, hidden away because of insecurity or jealousy—especially when those reasons are used as an excuse to keep me quiet and unseen.

So, I sent him a message. I explained that I’ve reached my limit—that I see where he stands. I told him I know he’s choosing his girlfriend over a friendship. I am no longer willing to be the backup plan, the secret, or the one who waits in the wings for crumbs of attention. I told him I’m tired of being the person who’s always there but never truly seen.

And enough is enough. I am reclaiming my worth. I am choosing myself to put my needs and my happiness first. I’m not here to be tolerated or kept in the shadows. I refuse to dim my light for anyone who doesn’t see my value.

Walking away was not easy, but it was necessary. This isn’t about anger; it’s about power. It’s about knowing that I deserve genuine, open, honest connection—something I refuse to settle for anymore. I’m done waiting for someone else’s insecurity to dictate my worth. I am a force, a queen, and I am proud to choose myself—because I know my value, and I refuse to accept anything less.

Ending this “friendship” is painful. It hurts to walk away from someone I trusted, someone I cared about. But I know, when I go to bed tonight, I will sleep peacefully. I will rest knowing I did what was right. I am a valuable person—someone who deserves love, honesty, and respect. The right people want to spend their time with me. I am not meant to be a secret, nor someone to be kept hidden. I am enough—always have been, always will be.

The courage to be real

By Wednesday night, I was back at church for midweek service. Marcus was there, of course, and as soon as he spotted me, he started toward me with that eager look that made me brace myself.

Thankfully, Mia—my church bestie and a gift from above—stepped in like a pro. She intercepted Marcus with a bright smile and a question about his family, dragging him into a conversation just long enough for me to duck away.

Linda caught me not far from the sanctuary and ushered me into her office, closing the door behind us.

“I got your email,” she said gently, settling into the chair across from mine. “But I just wanted to ask—why wasn’t Marcus a good match?”

I kept my tone calm. “He’s great. For someone else. But the conversations with him felt… forced. The whole thing felt like a setup, and not the good kind.”

Linda sighed, folding her hands in her lap. “Dan and I were just hoping to help Marcus. He’s been struggling with…well, his identity. He says he’s bisexual, but we’re trying to help him realize he’s actually straight.”

I blinked, heart sinking. “Wait. You’re trying to change his sexuality?”

She hesitated. “Not change, exactly. Just guide him.”

I leaned forward, my voice sharpening. “Linda, no. That’s not okay. It’s incredibly damaging. There is no ‘guiding’ someone into heterosexuality. That’s not love; that’s coercion. And let me be clear—it’s not just harmful to Marcus. It’s harmful to the entire LGBTQIA+ community.”

She started to speak, but I held up a hand.

“I’m bisexual too,” I said firmly. “I’ve been with both men and women. I happen to prefer men, but that doesn’t make me straight. It just means I have a preference. Like vanilla over chocolate. But sexual orientation isn’t a preference you choose. It’s who you are. Period.”

She looked stunned, speechless.

“And trying to force someone to pick their sexual orientation? That’s psychologically abusive. Full stop. Being gay hasn’t been classified as a mental illness since the 1970s and it NEVER was a mental illness- thankfully, it was removed from the DSM. The DSM is medical manual that outlines what is and isn’t a mental illness. This isn’t just about religion. This is about basic human dignity and science.”

Her hands clenched in her lap, her expression shaken.

“You know what else? Kids sent to conversion therapy camps are far more likely to commit suicide or run away when they are forced to ‘change.’ Why? Because being rejected by the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally breaks something inside you. It tells you you’re wrong for existing and you’re not worthy of being loved.”

I didn’t soften. “That’s what you and Dan are doing to Marcus, whether you realize it or not. If you love him, you’ll accept him as he is—not as who you wish he’d be.”

She swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t realize…”

“I hope you’ll think about it. Really think. Because love without respect is not love—it’s control. And it’s not Christlike.”

I stood up. “God doesn’t always make sense. But I like to believe He—or She—gives us what we can handle – and doesn’t make mistakes. And sometimes, what we need to learn from, too.”

Linda looked up at me. “I’ll talk to Pastor Dan. I’ll share what you said.”

“Good. And you can tell him this too—what the LGBTQIA+ community needs most from Christianity is love and respect. Even if Christians disagree with them, they still deserve to be treated with dignity, compassion, and kindness. Just as much as the widows, the orphans, the poor, the homeless, the sick, the outcasts—everyone Jesus tells us to help.”

Table for two

The Italian restaurant was thankfully closer to my house than the church, tucked between a consignment boutique and a record shop with a cracked Elvis poster in the window. When I arrived, Marcus was waiting just inside the entrance, leaning against the host stand like he’d never doubted I’d show.

“Glad you made it,” he said, straightening up. “I told them I’d wait to be seated.”

“Appreciate that.” I offered a half-smile as we followed the host to a table near the window.

Outside, a group of women in sundresses walked past, laughing and flipping their hair. I love sundresses—they're easy to maneuver for a quick sex session, simple and unassuming. My face neutral.

We sat, menus between us, the silence stretching a beat longer than it should have.

“So,” Marcus said, his voice wry. “Do you always go on dates arranged by your pastor?”

I snorted. “First time. You always go on dates set up by your brother?”

“Also a first. I think Dan owes both of us a drink.”

The server came by to take our orders. I suggested the rigatoni arrabbiata for Marcus, and he added a glass of red wine. I went for the mushroom and chicken gnocchi with a glass of rosé.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Dan mentioned you’re one of his smartest congregants. And that you don’t take crap from anyone.”

“That sounds like Dan,” I said, amused. “Did he also tell you that I have trust issues and a black belt in kick assery?”

Marcus grinned. “Not in those exact words.”

The food came quickly, hot and fragrant. We talked between bites—about music, travel, and how odd it felt to be set up by someone with a pulpit. I found myself laughing more than I expected. He didn’t press too hard, didn’t offer up his entire life story in one sitting. There was space to breathe, and I didn’t feel compelled to share mine either.

As we finished eating, the server came over and asked, “Would you like me to wrap that up for you?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

A few minutes later, the server returned. “Would you like to try our dessert special? We have chocolate and pistachio gelato today.”

Marcus shrugged. “I’ll have the pistachio.”

“Chocolate for me,” I said.

The server nodded and brought out the gelato a few minutes later.

Marcus offered me a bite. I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m allergic to nuts.”

He nodded, not offended. “Good call.”

Marcus lifted his glass in a toast. “To divine matchmaking.”

I clinked mine against his. “And strategic sundress placement.”

He chuckled, then tilted his head. “Excuse me?”

I smirked, sipping slowly. “Nothing. Just a warm day.”

He laughed again, the sound low and easy. “You’re full of surprises.”

After dessert, Marcus asked, “Want to take a walk around the park for a bit? It’s close by.”

I nodded. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

We left together and walked through the park for about forty-five minutes, talking about everything and nothing. Eventually, the conversation began to falter, the awkward pauses stretching longer. I reached for an excuse. “I should probably get back to my dogs.”

He smiled, understanding. We headed back to our cars.

As I turned to leave, Marcus stepped closer and kissed me on the cheek. The kiss was unexpectedly slobbery, and I was extremely grossed out. I forced a smile.

“Thanks for today,” he said.

“Yeah, thanks,” I replied, already backing away.

When I got home, I reached out to Pastor Dan and Linda via email, thanking them for setting me up with Marcus but explaining it wouldn’t work out however I expressed my gratitude of them trying. On paper, Marcus was great, but in person, he wasn’t the right fit for me—though he would be for others. After sending the email, I washed my face multiple times and then took care of the dogs.

 

Done bleeding

Sunday morning light spilled through the stained-glass windows, casting the pews in rose, green, and gold. The sanctuary wrapped around me like an old quilt—worn, warm, familiar. I slid into my usual seat just as the music started. The first strum of guitar, the hum of keys, the rise of voices—soft at first, then steady—filled the room like breath.

Lyrics lit up the overhead screens, but I barely glanced. My lips moved from memory. My body was present. My mind wasn’t.

I kept drifting back to Thursday night’s Bible study—everyone folding up and putting chairs away after it concluded, the scent of burnt coffee lingering in the air. Mia had leaned in, her voice low, careful. “Cole chose to attend St. Mark’s across town,” she said. “Said he wanted to give you space—from him.”

I nodded like it didn’t matter, but the words stuck. My history with Cole didn’t end clean—it was a splinter still lodged deep.

When I finally told Cole at the diner how much he’d broken me, it felt like surfacing after years underwater. My voice shook and my hands trembled, but I said it. And something inside me shifted. I stopped waiting to be rescued. I stopped explaining myself. I chose me and I didn’t look back.

The music swelled and the voices of the worship team crescendoed, tugging me back into the present—the rhythm of hands clapping in time and voices rising in unison. I blinked, staring at the screen. That same question crept in again: Did I do the right thing?

After the service, the congregation flowed into the foyer—chattering, hugging, laughing. I lingered by the coffee table, holding a cup I hadn’t touched. Mia found me again, her expression a little hesitant.

“If you ever want to talk to Cole—or want me to pass something along—I can. I just want peace between you two.”

I looked at her. Something prickled at the base of my neck.

“Mia,” I said, voice cold but firm, “would you go back to an ex who cheated on you? Would you want people pushing you to patch it up just because it used to be good?”

Her eyes widened. “No,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Exactly.” I exhaled. “I hope he finds what he’s looking for at St. Mark’s. But I’m done walking circles around the same pain, hoping it’ll hurt less next time.”

She nodded, squeezed my hand and slipped into the crowd. I stood there, watching people sip coffee, flip through bulletins, and make small talk. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something give. Not weightless—but lighter.

Maybe this was healing—not the kind you get from a sermon, but the kind that comes from hard truths and clear lines. I don’t come to church every week to chase God or faith. I come to be around people. To feel like I belong somewhere.

I finally took a sip. That’s when Pastor Dan and his wife, Linda, walked up.

“Hey,” Dan said warmly. “Noticed Cole wasn’t here today. He said he’d be when we spoke on the phone Tuesday—mentioned you two were close?”

I met his eyes—kind, sure, but searching. How much truth did I owe them?

“Cole and I go way back,” I said evenly. “He chose to practice his faith at St. Mark’s. Probably for the best—for both of us.”

Linda reached out, resting her hand gently on my arm. “We love seeing you every week.”

I nodded. They smiled and melted back into the crowd, but I stood still. The coffee in my cup was lukewarm. My heart was steady. Maybe healing isn’t about fixing every cracked edge. Maybe it’s about seeing things clearly, letting go of what’s not yours, and choosing to move forward anyway.

The sun had climbed higher. I stepped off the curb and into the light.

“Hey!” Dan called behind me. I turned.

He jogged up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Actually—one more thing. My younger brother’s visiting from out of town. He’s single. Ridiculously attractive—don’t tell him I said that—and just as allergic to small talk as you are.”

I blinked. “Your brother?”

Dan grinned. “Technically. Same parents. Same genes. God’s sense of humor.”

He gestured toward the steps. A man stood beside Linda—broad-shouldered, olive-skinned, in a navy Henley and jeans. Relaxed, casual. The mountain of curls, the jawline, the quiet confidence... very Italian. He turned like he felt eyes on him and smiled. Slow and warm.

Suddenly I saw it—the shared bone structure. Where Dan was pale like me, Marcus wore their Italian heritage more clearly, like my own cousins and siblings. It wasn’t hard to spot the mix.

I looked back at Dan. “You two don’t even look related.”

Dan laughed, already motioning me forward. “That’s genetics for you. And divine humor.”

Before I could say no, he was waving me toward the steps. “Come on. You’ve got to meet Marcus.”

As we walked up, Marcus turned fully to face me. That smile deepened.

“Hi,” he said, voice low and smooth. “So, you’re the reason Dan’s been pacing and muttering all morning.”

I raised an eyebrow, brushing fingers with his as we shook hands. “Oh really?”

Dan clapped Marcus’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

He vanished back inside, leaving us alone in the sun.

Marcus tilted his head. “You hungry?”

I hesitated, then smiled. “Always.”

“There’s a spot nearby. Best Italian food in town. My treat.”

“Sounds good.”

“We can walk or drive—your call.”

“I’ll meet you there,” I said. “Gotta swing home and let the dogs out. I’ll be five minutes behind you.”

 

Midweek Medusa

The midweek night service hadn’t started yet when I walked in—and the moment I did, the entire sanctuary froze. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. The older men stiffened, like someone had poured vinegar down their throats. Bitter. A few glanced toward the exits, unsure if they wanted to be there anymore. The younger ones didn’t even pretend not to stare. One tilted his head like he was looking at a painting that used to hang straight, and now something was... different.

The women? Arms crossed. Expressionless but curious. Not mean. Not warm. Just watching, like they weren’t sure which box to put me in now.

I felt like friggin’ Medusa.

In this town, a new pair of earrings can spark gossip. When you shift your energy—when your walk gets lighter and your posture says I’ve come back to myself? That gets you socially quarantined until further notice.

And then came the screech.

“Mmmhm. Nope. NOPE. Girl, stop the presses! WHAT did you do?! Are you trying to make the rest of us look like we crawled out of a laundry basket?”

Mia. My wild, loud, unfiltered ride-or-die, barreled through the pews like a shot of espresso with legs. Her arms were already open before she reached me, but she stopped short just to give me a once-over, hands on hips.

“Hold up. Are those cheekbones? Since when do you have cheekbones? And is that confidence I see? Honey, you are serving main character energy and I am here for it.”

I burst out laughing—full-on, exhale-from-the-belly laughter. It felt so damn good.

“Someone had to shake things up,” I grinned.

Mia winked. “Well, you shook it, stirred it, and poured it over ice. Look at these people, can’t even handle it. I’m gonna need you to walk by me twice more so I can soak up some of that glow.”

Just like that, the spell broke. People softened. Someone came up and complimented my nail color. A woman looked me over and said my haircut was like the eighth world wonder. It sounded almost like an apology. Or at least a quiet offering.

Then the pastor and his wife made their way over. He shook my hand, calm and steady, with that kind of pressure that says, You’re seen. You belong. His wife wrapped me in a hug, warm and grounding. She felt like home. They didn’t do performative kindness. They knew people in the community. Not just faces, but patterns. Not just names, but grief. And joy. And change. They even knew the name of the dog of your great aunt four times removed from twenty years ago. And the best part is, they met you exactly where you were.

I was still catching my breath, still letting the atmosphere settle around me, when I saw him.

Cole Maddox.

Four  years older than me. Taller than I remembered. Mostly gray now—the kind of gray that made him look settled, not old. Like he’d stopped fighting something and just... let it be. He had that same slow walk. Hands in his coat pockets. Like he was trying not to disturb anything around him. He caught my eye and made his way over.

“Deppgrl,” he said, pulling the old nickname out of nowhere like it still had a heartbeat. Like we hadn’t gone years without using it.

I lifted an eyebrow. “Still calling me that, huh?”

He shrugged. “Some things stick.”

We didn’t say much after that. The worship team started mic checks. Cole found a seat a few rows ahead of me, and even though I kept my focus forward, I could feel his gaze from time to time. Curious. Maybe even regretful.

After service, I was slipping on my coat when he approached again.

“You got time?” he asked. “There’s a diner down the road. They’ve got real pie—not the frozen kind.”

I hesitated. I knew that he wanted to explain himself years too late. And I also didn’t want to go to the same diner that Randy and I went to often. Still, I nodded.

“Yeah. Okay.”

We walked in silence. Just a few hundred feet in the cool air. The kind of chill that wakes you up instead of dragging you down. The night felt crisp, like it was trying to remind me I was alive.

When we got to the diner, we found a booth near the back. The waitress greeted us with a distracted smile and asked what we wanted to drink.

“Coffee,” we both said.

She came back with two mugs and a little metal basket of creamers, setting them down gently.

Cole tried for small talk. “So, what kind of pie is your favorite?”

The waitress jumped in, brightening. “Apple. It’s the most popular one we have. We can never bake enough!”

I nodded. “We’ll take two slices.”

“With ice cream?” she asked.

“Yes,” Cole said, answering for both of us.

“And absolutely smothered in whipped cream,” I added, flashing a grin.

She grinned and disappeared toward the kitchen.

When the pie came a few minutes later, it was warm, thick with cinnamon and soft apple slices under a golden crust. The ice cream and whipped cream were already starting to melt, puddling into the flaky edges. It smelled like something real. Like fall. Like my favorite grandma’s house year-round. Like something that had been earned.

We ate in silence for a few bites. Not awkward, just... heavy, like the air before a storm.

Cole finally broke it. “It’s always been you.”

I set my fork down, meeting his gaze. He leaned forward, hands wrapped around his mug like he needed something to hold onto.

“I thought I could move on by moving fast,” he said. “And I did. Got married. Twice. Both times I convinced myself I was in love—especially the first. But I wasn’t. I just slept with her and mistook the guilt for something deeper. And when your name came up from mutual friends, it... it wrecked me. Every time.”

I took a breath. “That night that there was the party  at the quad, I went looking for you. Needed air—a break from studying. Maybe just a glimpse of you before exams. Five minutes later, I saw you in her dorm room, screwing her. Just like you did with me a few hours before. And you told her you loved her. Just like you told me.”

He blinked, caught off guard. I wasn’t done.

“You didn’t get scared, Cole. You got sloppy. You wanted to feel good without consequence. And I was the consequence. I carried that humiliation for years, while you went and burned through marriages like they were learning experiences.”

His face paled. His shoulders dropped, knowing he was unable to defend himself.

“I failed that exam,” he said quietly. “Had to retake the whole course. You passed. Kept going.”

I shook my head slowly, voice low. “I passed, yeah. But you don’t get to rewrite that history. I didn’t come here to hear how bad you felt. I came because I wanted pie. And I wanted to say it to your face: I deserved better.”

He had no comeback. None.

I slid out of the booth, buttoned my coat, and didn’t wait for him to follow.

Just before I reached the door, he called out my legal name. Not the nickname. Not what anyone calls me now. The name that still echoed through my childhood and only ever came out when something mattered.

I didn’t turn around.

I got in my car, drove home, and let the sobs hit before I even took my shoes off. The ugly kind. The raw, can’t-catch-your-breath kind. I called Beaux, my therapist.

As the phone rang for the third time, I realized it was 2 a.m.

“Hey. What’s going on?” he answered, voice low and groggy but steady.

“I’m sorry,” I managed through broken sobs. “Please apologize to your husband for me—”

“He’s not here. Yoga retreat,” Beaux said gently. “You’re safe. Just talk to me.”

“I shouldn’t have called this late. I’m sorry. I just—I didn’t know who else to call.”

“You called the right person,” he said. “Breathe. You’re okay. What happened?”

I curled up on the floor with the phone pressed to my ear like it might ground me.

“It’s Cole. From college. He was at the service tonight. We went for pie after. He said all these things... things I wanted to hear years ago. Things I thought I needed to hear now. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t stay.”

“What did you do?” he asked gently.

“I left him at the booth. I told him I couldn’t do this. And he called out my legal name as I walked away.” My voice cracked. “He hasn’t said my name like that in over two decades.”

Beaux paused, just long enough for me to breathe in again.

“I told him what I saw that night. The night of the party…the night he—” My voice broke completely. “The night I caught him with her. And I told him tonight that he told her he loved her after screwing me. Just like he told me a few hours prior that night.”

“That’s a wound you’ve carried alone for too long.”

I wiped my face with my sleeve. “And I still feel awful. I thought it would feel empowering to walk away. But all I feel is gutted.”

“Because it was empowering. But it also hurt. Both can be true.”

“You spoke your truth tonight,” he said. “And you didn’t abandon yourself to keep someone else comfortable. That’s growth. That’s power.”

“But why does it feel like hell?”

“Because you loved him. And because he didn’t deserve the softness you carried for him back then. And tonight, you honored that younger version of you by not letting history repeat itself.”

I let out a shaky breath.

“Beaux...”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Always. And hey—if you want, I can walk the block over from my house and meet you at your place. Just to sit for a while.” My heart stuttered at the offer. He meant it kindly, without agenda. But I shook my head, even if he couldn’t see it.

“No. That’s okay. I’m alright now.”

He didn’t push. “Okay. I just wanted you to know you weren’t alone.”

I stayed curled on the floor with the phone until the quiet settled into me. Until my body stopped trembling and I could think straight.

He stayed on the phone until my breathing slowed. Until the tremor in my chest faded into something gentler. And when I finally said goodnight, I did so knowing I hadn’t gone back. I hadn’t settled.

I had chosen myself.

Again.

Clean slate

By Monday, I was back at work — half days only. Just enough to knock out what needed doing before slipping out like a woman who had better things to do.

Because I did.

My house needed to feel like mine again.

Sure, I’d cleaned between Matteo and Vince. But “wiped down” and “cleansed” aren’t the same thing. So I went in — gloves on, music up, ruthless. By Wednesday, the place smelled like lemon, sandalwood, and a candle with a bougie name I couldn’t pronounce but had adopted like a stray cat. She was mine now.

Next: me.

The haircut wasn’t some dramatic meltdown moment. It was a declaration. I booked it online, picked a stylist with rave reviews and no patience for small talk, and showed up early. She met me at the front with a grin and hot pink nails sharp enough to slice through any fabric.

“What are we doing today?” she asked as I dropped into the chair.

I tossed my pale blonde hair over my shoulder. “I want it gone. All of it. Cut it to here.” I pointed just above my shoulders.

Her brows arched. “You sure?”

“Dead sure.”

She smiled wide, gum snapping. “Because this energy? You’re giving clean break, bitch rising, boss lady energy, and I am so here for it.”

I laughed — not the polite kind. The deep, belly kind that had been stuck under my ribs for weeks.

“No trims,” she said, turning me toward the mirror. “We’re cutting this story off.”

She didn’t ask what triggered it. Didn’t give me some half-hearted “are you okay” look. Just washed my hair with reverence, combed it like a ritual, and lifted the scissors like she was about to knight me.

Seven inches hit the floor.

No curling iron. No layers. Just a hot blow-dry and a sharper frame staring back at me. I looked like a woman who didn’t wait for permission — or apologies.

“You look like the woman people call when their lives fall apart and they want better,” she said.

I left her a fat tip.

Next stop: the nail salon. No soft pinks. No neutrals. No playing small. I picked a blood-red polish so bold it probably violated building codes. The kind of red that makes men sweat and women smirk. It didn’t whisper. It roared. And it said one thing: Try me.

Friday was the massage. Ninety full minutes of silence, steam, and a woman with thumbs blessed by angels and ancient gods. No talking. No distractions. Just pressure and peace. When I walked out, my body felt like it belonged to me again.

That night, Kay FaceTimed me. I answered towel-wrapped, hair damp, tequila on the rocks, legs tucked under me like a painting titled “Don’t Even Ask.”

She blinked, then grinned. “Damn. You look like a woman who just dropped the weight of an entire man.”

“Three,” I said, deadpan, swirling my tequila like I was judging a liquor contest.

Her jaw dropped. “You’re not even denying it?”

I raised a brow.

We caught up. Her toddler was teething (again), and her husband — bless his aimless, well-meaning heart — had bought the wrong wine. Again. Even though she’d texted the name. Twice.

“He brought home the bottle with the cartoon owl on it. I sent him a photo of the label. How do you mess that up?”

“Because men think the cork is just decoration,” I muttered, sipping.

She pointed at the screen. “Exactly!”

Eventually, she leaned back with that look. The one that saw right through me since high school. “You okay?”

“I’m... re-centering.”

“Mmmhmm. That’s cute,” she said. “Try again.”

I tilted my head. “Excuse me?”

She didn’t blink. “You weren’t re-centering. You were coping. You only call Matteo or Vince when your emotional earthquake hits 7.0. You don’t reach for them when you're grounded. You reach when you're cracked wide open. Trust me, Deppgrl, you were cracked open.”

I narrowed my eyes, silent.

She shrugged. “You needed to feel wanted.”

“I was,” I said. “Greedily.”

Kay raised a brow. “That’s not a sin—unless you ask the God...”

I snorted. “I already know I’m going to hell in thigh-highs.”

“Same,” she said, clinking an invisible glass through the screen. “And God still loves us.”

Then she asked what I knew was coming.

“What about Randy?”

My face hardened. “I don’t want him.”

“But?”

“But what he did…” I sucked my teeth. “Bringing his snooping kids over like this was still their little clubhouse? Letting them walk around like I was still ‘Miss Whatever’ to them? Like I hadn’t cried in that goddamn kitchen just weeks ago?”

Kay raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

“He never once asked how I felt about kids. Not once. Just assumed I’d love his. Assumed I’d want to play stepmom. Assumed I’d pick up where we left off like I hadn’t spent the last year gluing myself back together.”

I paused, heart tightening.

“I love your kid. That’s different.”

Kay’s voice softened. “Yeah. I know you do and you’re his favorite aunt. It is different.”

We let the silence breathe a moment before she added, “You want control.”

I tilted my head. “And is that a crime now?”

“Nope,” she said. “It’s your superpower. You like how you do things. You’re set in your ways — in the best way. You’re focused. Centered. You know what you want. That doesn’t make you cold. That makes you clear.”

I looked down at my nails. Blood red. Sharp. Unapologetic.

“I’m not going back.”

“Good.”

“I’m not ashamed of Matteo or Vince,” I added. “It wasn’t about them. It was about me. I wanted to be touched. Worshipped, even. But not claimed. Not absorbed into someone else’s version of ‘ours.’”

Kay nodded slowly. “You were in control.”

“For once,” I said. “And it felt damn good.”

We smiled at each other across the screen. I heard her front door open.

After we hung up, I stayed on the couch, glass empty, heart quieter. The windows showed me a new reflection — hair lighter, jaw sharper, eyes calmer.

I wasn’t fully healed. But I wasn’t flailing anymore. I was choosing. And for tonight? That was enough. Because no matter what?

I will always be a fucking queen.

Hollow Relief

I didn’t want to think about Randy anymore.

Not the soft way he kissed my neck when we were tangled on the couch. Not the smirk in his voice when he teased me over takeout. Not the way he left without saying what needed to be said.

So, I texted Matteo and gave him the basics.
Me: Want to help me forget?
Matteo: Just say the word. Also — FYI, recent STI panel: all negative. Will send it over.

The screenshot came through seconds later. Clean. Considerate. Disarming in its directness.
Some part of me relaxed. Some part of me felt sick. I couldn’t decide if this was healing or self-destruction. Maybe it was both.

He arrived in under an hour.

There was no pretense. We kissed at the door — slow at first, until I yanked him closer, fingers knotted in his shirt. I needed to be touched without tenderness. Needed to be wanted without meaning.

We didn’t even make it to the bedroom.
He pressed me up against the dining room wall, kissing me like he meant to leave marks. Our clothes hit the floor in quick, careless bursts. He rolled on a condom without ceremony, lifted me onto the table, and slid inside me in one deep thrust that punched the air from my lungs.

I gasped, legs locking around his waist.
He fucked me like he didn’t owe me anything — fast, full, unrelenting — and I gave it right back, moaning into his neck, nails digging into his shoulder blades to anchor myself to something real.

The windows were open. I hadn’t noticed.

What I didn’t know — not then — was that Randy had pulled up outside. That he’d heard the rhythm of skin on skin, the sharp sound of my voice as I called out Matteo’s name.

He didn’t ring the bell. Later, I’d find out he left without a word.

But I didn’t care. Not then.
Matteo kept moving inside me, breath ragged, fingers bruising my hips. The table shook beneath us. I came with my head thrown back and my mouth wide open — not quiet, not shy. As if I wanted someone to hear.

That night, we didn’t stop. He took me on the living room floor. Bent me over the stairs. Finally, he dragged me into bed and collapsed beside me like we’d been doing this for years. Which, in a way, we had.

---

Day Two

We woke tangled and sore. I didn’t pretend to feel rested. My thighs ached, my lips were raw, and I welcomed every inch of it.

He made coffee. I changed the sheets. There were no apologies — just an understanding we didn’t bother to say out loud.

That afternoon, we ended up in the shower. He pressed me against the slick tile and took me from behind, slow and hungry, one hand gripping my hip while the other spread across my stomach like a claim.
He kissed my spine. Bit my shoulder. Whispered filth in my ear that made my knees buckle.

Still a condom. Still careful. Still wild enough to make me feel anything but numb.

That night, he kissed every inch of me like a prayer we hadn’t spoken. I let him — even when my voice cracked and I told him not to say a word.

He didn’t.
He just stayed.

---

Day Three

By morning, the air had changed.
I knew it was our last day.

He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.

He made me eggs. I watched him move around the kitchen like he belonged there. It almost hurt.

We had sex again — twice. Once in the laundry room, bodies flushed, frantic, the spin cycle thudding behind us. And then again in bed, softer but no less intense, his mouth between my legs before I pulled him up to finish inside me.

My fingers twisted in his hair, holding him there, like I didn’t want to let go.

And I didn’t.
But I did.

When he left, he kissed my forehead and murmured,
“You’re still in there, babe. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
Then he was gone.

---

I showered. Washed the towels. Started laundry. Ate leftover toast standing over the sink.

Then I stared at my phone until the screen went dark.

I didn’t want silence.

Me: If I asked you to do something impulsive and probably unhealthy, would you?
Vince: 100% yes. Also just got tested — clean and clear. Screenshot incoming.

He sent it. I didn’t flinch.
Me: Door’s unlocked.

---

Vince Arrives

He knocked anyway. Always a gentleman but in the wrong ways.

He looked me over like he wasn’t sure what he was walking into. I didn’t explain. I grabbed him by the collar and kissed him hard enough to hurt.

His hands gripped my ass, pulling me against his already-hard dick. By the time we made it to the couch, his pants were half-off. He sheathed himself in a condom, then shoved inside me in one rough stroke that made my head fall back.

Vin didn’t do soft. He did dirty. He fucked me like he was trying to erase someone else’s name from my mouth.

And I let him.

He flipped me over, grabbed my hair, held me down.
Asked if I missed him. If I wanted more.

I said yes to everything even though we both knew I didn’t mean it.

And through the cracked living room window — again — Randy heard it all.

He didn’t knock this time either. He just left.

---

Four Days with Vin

We didn’t stop.
It was a fever dream of limbs, sweat, and bruised lips. Kitchen counters. Hallway walls. The guest room floor. Always protected. Always intense.

It wasn’t tender. It was raw and physical and broken and perfect.

In the in-betweens, we watched dumb shows. Mocked commercials. Drank wine.
He asked if I was okay once — just once — and when I didn’t answer, he pulled me into his chest and let me fall asleep there.

On the third day, he made dinner.
On the fourth, he kissed my temple, smirked like he knew exactly what this was, and left without looking back.

He wasn’t the one I was running from.
Or to.
And he knew it.

---

An hour later, Randy’s name lit up my phone.

Randy:
I stopped by the other day. Thought I’d apologize in person. Swung by again today. You were otherwise occupied. Both days. Guess I’ll try again some other time.

I stared at it for a full minute. Then replied.

Me:
Don’t come by unless you’re invited. You’re not allowed on my property otherwise.

His reply came fast.

Randy:
I understand.

But then another message.

Randy:
Emma and Max miss you.

I exhaled through my nose. Low blow.

Me:
Don’t try to guilt me. I didn’t do anything wrong.

His typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Came back.

Randy:
You’re right. But I heard you… and it wasn’t the same guy.

I didn’t flinch.

Me:
I can do what — and who — I want. When I want.

A pause. Then a reaction.
👍

That was the end of it.

For now.