Mr. Atomic Bomb

In the last installment of The Quarterback…

For Reasons Unknown

In the last installment of The Quarterback…

The House of ThorneR. Adrian Thorne

The sun comes in slow. Too slow. It crawls across the dorm room floor like it doesn’t want to be there, slipping over the edge of Malik’s bed and spilling across the rumpled sheets like proof. Proof that it happened. Proof that it wasn’t just a dream, or a fantasy, or one of those private, post-midnight thoughts we pretend we never had.

There were a lot of those thoughts. They came at inconvenient times — in locker rooms, watching him peel his jersey off like it was part of his skin. In the backseat of cars, when he’d fall asleep on long drives and his head would drift a little too close to my shoulder. Once, sophomore year, during a sleepover in our old apartment — he’d passed out shirtless, sprawled across my bed, and I remember staring at his collarbone in the dark, willing myself not to reach out. I told myself I could live with wanting him, as long as I never said it out loud. As long as I never did anything stupid.

We didn’t sleep together—not like that. But we slept. Together. His back to me. His breath steady. One arm dangling off the side of the bed like he was ready to run at any second.

And now?

Now he’s gone.

The room is still. The kind of still that feels like it’s trying not to wake you. A faint rustle comes from outside — the sound of someone dragging a laundry bag down the hall. Pipes groan behind the wall. Light cuts across my chest, catching the curve of my shoulder where the blanket slid down during the night. My skin’s tacky. I can still smell him on me.

There’s a ghost of steam in the mirror, like the room hasn’t decided whether to let go of last night or not. I shift slowly, my neck stiff from the angle I slept in, and reach for the hoodie on the back of the desk chair. It smells like me. Like us. I pull it on anyway.

The kitchen light is on. He’s there. Barefoot. Shirtless. Pouring coffee with his head down like it’s the only thing he can trust right now. The window’s cracked open and the curtain is fluttering just enough to remind me that the air’s changed.

He looks up when I enter, and his expression doesn’t shift.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

Flat. Neutral. Nothing like last night.

I move to the counter. Stand beside him. Not touching. Not close enough to startle. He doesn’t offer me coffee. Doesn’t ask how I slept. His hand wraps tight around the mug like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.

Only one mug. He always pours two. Even when we’re not talking much. Even when we’re just sharing space. It’s not like I expected anything — but that? That tells me everything.

The storm’s gone, but he’s still soaked in it.

“How long you been up?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Little while.”

“You eat?”

“Not hungry.”

He takes a sip and turns toward the window. His shoulders are tense, pulled in like he’s trying to disappear into himself. There’s a scar low on his ribcage I never noticed before — thin, white, and old. The kind you get from something stupid and boyish. It’s small, but I can’t stop staring at it. That feels like everything right now — things I didn’t notice until it was too late.

I wait. I wait long enough that the silence starts to ache.

“You okay?” I ask, finally.

He exhales, slow. Controlled. “I don’t know.”

It’s honest. I’ll give him that. I should be glad. Honesty’s rare with him. But instead, it just makes the space between us feel colder. Like he’s telling the truth not because he trusts me—but because he doesn’t know how to lie well enough to make this easier.

“But we’re still cool?” I press, careful.

He nods. But it’s too fast. Too easy. The kind of nod you give when you want someone to stop asking questions.

“Yeah. Course.”

He said that once last fall, when I caught him crying in the weight room after everyone else left. Told me he was just tired. Told me we were cool. And we were — for a while. Until we weren’t.

The words drop like dead weight. Outside, the wind rattles a loose screen. Not a storm—but the reminder of one. The kind of breeze that whistles through cracks you didn’t know were there until the pressure changed.

He runs a hand through his hair and avoids my gaze. And I can feel it. The retreat. The shift. He’s putting space between us in a way that has nothing to do with feet or inches. He’s pulling back into the version of himself that can forget.

I want to say something. To reach for him. To tell him last night didn’t break anything. That it didn’t ruin him. That I saw him — really saw him — and didn’t flinch.

But I don’t. Because I don’t know which part of him thinks it did.

He doesn’t look at me when he says it.

“I think maybe we should just forget it.”

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They land soft and lethal.

For a second, I think I misheard. I want to mishear. My breath stalls, like my body hasn’t decided how to react yet. I almost open my mouth to say something real — something stupid, maybe. But then I see the way he’s gripping that mug like it’s a shield. And I know what’s coming.

“Forget it.”

“Yeah,” he says, like he’s offering me a way out. Like this is mercy. Like if we both pretend hard enough, the memory won’t leave a mark.

“That’s what you want?”

He finally looks at me — and his face is unreadable. Blank, like someone wiped it clean. It’s the look he gives during press interviews when he doesn’t want the coaches to know what he’s actually thinking.

“I just… I don’t want things to get weird.”

“They’re already weird,” I say. “They were weird when you kissed me. They were weird when you came in my hand, Malik. That ship’s kind of sailed.”

He flinches — just barely — but it’s there. A single hitch in his breath. A flicker of shame in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, backing up a step. “I got that loud and clear.”

He sighs. Runs a hand down his face like he’s the one who’s exhausted.

“I mean it wasn’t planned, Jesse. I didn’t come looking for that. For you.”

And that?

That’s the part that hurts. More than I expected.

I think of the way his forehead pressed against mine in the dark. The way he whispered my name like it had weight. Like I wasn’t a mistake. I think of the night he waited outside the library for me in the rain, just to walk me back to our dorm even though he lived on the other side of campus. I think of every almost.

“Oh,” I say. “Well. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“Shit,” he mutters. “That came out wrong.”

“No,” I say, voice low now. “It didn’t.”

He steps forward. “Jesse—”

“I said it’s fine,” I cut in, sharper than I meant to. “You don’t want this to mean anything? It doesn’t. Easy.”

He swallows, throat bobbing.

And the worst part? He lets me say it. Lets me lie. Just stands there in the quiet, holding his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping his hands from shaking.

The wind picks up outside. Not a storm. Not anymore. But something’s still shifting. Still off-balance. And all I can do is watch him pretend like that’s normal.

I don’t wait for him to say anything else. I don’t want to hear another apology wrapped in confusion, or some half-assed explanation about what he meant or didn’t mean. So I walk. Out of the kitchen, down the hall, back into our room.

And I slam the door behind me.

The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot. Sharp. Final.

I press my back to the door. Close my eyes.

And just for a minute—

I go somewhere else.

Somewhere quiet.

Somewhere warm.

Somewhere we made it.

We’re lying on my bed, sheets tangled at our feet, the window open just enough to let in a breeze. He’s curled into me, chest to my back, one arm wrapped around my waist like I’m the only thing holding him steady. His breath is slow against the nape of my neck. I feel the shape of him — the weight, the warmth, the quiet.

He says my name like it’s something he wants to keep. Like a promise.

“Jesse…”

I turn toward him. His eyes find mine in the soft dark, and he’s already there — already open. His fingers slip into my hair, thumb resting just behind my ear. He looks at me like he’s not afraid anymore.

“I should’ve told you,” he whispers.

“Told me what?”

“That I wanted this. That I wanted you.”

I don’t say anything. I just reach for him. Pull him in.

Our foreheads touch. Our noses. Then his mouth. Barely there at first, then firmer — lips warm, slow, aching like he’s been waiting for this longer than he’s willing to admit.

His hand slides up under my shirt. Not rushed. Not searching. Just resting over my heart. His thumb brushes the skin there like he’s trying to calm it down. Like he knows what it means to feel this much and not have anywhere to put it. He kisses me again, deeper. My cock starts to throb in my pants. He reaches around and grabs my ass like he owns it. It’s a firm grasp. I let out a moan and my cock starts to ache in my pants.

I run my hands up and down his back, frantic, searching, pulling him closer to me. I can feel him through his pants. There’s no mistaking it, he’s hard as a rock. We grind up against each other, thrusting our hips into one another. I reach down between us, one or both of us is leaking and it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he's here with me. Our legs are now intertwined. He reaches around and slides his hand down the back of my pants. He grabs my bare ass and my breath catches.

I scramble to undo his belt buckle and unzip his pants. His cock springs free. I grab hold of it using his precum like lube. His moans match my own.

“Fuck Jesse––”

“Mmhm––,” I moan again.

We kiss until the quiet feels safe again. Until I believe it.

I don’t want it to end.

But it always does.

The room comes back in pieces —

The cold floor.

The empty air.

The silence he left behind.

My eyes open. My hoodie is still warm, but not from him.

That wasn’t last night. That was just the version I needed. The version where he stayed. Where he didn’t flinch. Where he let himself be held.

Where he let himself hold me back.

For a second, I just stand there, stunned by my own noise. My heart stutters in my chest, and then it starts to pound. I press my back to the door and slide down until I’m on the floor, knees pulled up, hoodie still clinging to last night’s heat. My palms are damp. My breath comes fast, shallow.

I try to breathe slower. I try to be still.

But my chest is tight. Too tight. And the stillness makes it worse.

The room spins in slow circles, like it’s been tilted on some invisible axis and no one bothered to tell me. I stare at the bed. The sheets are still messy from last night. One pillow hangs off the edge. The towel we never picked up is still draped over the desk chair, limp and half-dried — like we thought we’d come back for it. Like we thought we’d have time.

Something curls in my stomach. Cold. Slow. Shame, maybe. Or the start of it.

Because I let myself believe. I let myself want.

He doesn’t want me. Not really. Not outside of a shadowed shower or a dark laundry room or the lie we both let ourselves believe for a few stolen hours.

He wants the safety of me. The silence of me. Not the truth. Not the complication.

I lean forward, pressing my forehead to my knees. It’s too much. My arms fold in over my head, instinctual. Defensive. Like I’m waiting for a blow that’s already landed.

My vision blurs before I even realize I’m crying. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet, heavy tears that slip past my defenses and hit my hoodie like rain. I bury my face in my arms and try not to make a sound. Try not to exist.

But the sob that breaks loose is raw and full-bodied and real. And once it starts, I can’t stop it. It tears its way out of me, all breath and broken pieces. I shake, fists clenching in the sleeves of my hoodie like I’m trying to hold myself together by the seams.

I curl into myself tighter, like if I’m small enough, still enough, maybe it won’t hurt so bad.

I keep hearing his voice.

“I didn’t come looking for that. For you.”

Over and over. Like thunder that won’t move on.

I don’t know how long I sit like that. Curled up against the door, hoodie bunched around my fists, heartbeat pounding behind my eyes like it’s trying to escape.

It’s not just the hurt anymore. It’s the noise in my head. The voice that says I pushed too hard. That I read it wrong. That I made him do it.

That voice’s an old one. Familiar. Claws always ready.

You knew better. You made it weird. He doesn’t want you. He was just curious. And you ruined it.

Mr. Deveroux’s voice flashes in, too. From junior year. After I missed a tackle. “You play like you’re scared of your own body.” Everyone laughed. Even Malik.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That it was just football. But it wasn’t.

It never is.

My hands are shaking now. Not just trembling — shaking.

I press my forehead harder into my knees, like I can squeeze the thoughts back into the box I keep them in. The one marked Not Now. Not Here.

But it’s too late. The lid’s off. Everything’s leaking out.

I see him everywhere. Flashes.

Malik in the mirror. Malik in the dark. Malik laughing in the common room with my hoodie on, the sleeves too long for his arms. Malik letting me trace his jawline with the side of my thumb like he wanted to be memorized.

Malik coming apart in my hand like I was a secret he didn’t mean to tell.

And now?

He wants to pretend it never happened. Pretend I never happened.

The tears come again. Hot. Furious.

And under the sadness, something new starts to rise. Something sharp. Something alive.

Anger.

Not just at him. At me.

Because I knew. I fucking knew. From the first time he looked at me too long in the locker room. From the moment he hugged me too tightly, held on too long. From the second he let me feel all of him and then ran from the truth.

I knew what this was.

And I let it happen anyway.

I wipe my face on my sleeve — smear and salt and skin all in one. My mouth tastes bitter. My chest aches. Like my body’s trying to make space for something it can’t hold anymore.

I stand up too fast and stumble — grab the edge of the desk, knock over a cup of pens. They scatter across the floor, plastic on tile, like they’re trying to get away from me too.

I want to scream. To throw something. To break something.

But I don’t.

Because if I start, I won’t stop.

So I just stand there. Breathing too hard. Too loud. My fingers twitch at my sides.

From the hallway, there’s laughter. A door opens, then shuts. The beep of someone’s microwave. A ringtone.

Normal life. Moving on.

He’s probably rinsing out his mug right now. Washing the morning off his hands like it never happened.

And me?

I’m still here.

Alone.

In the wreckage of a storm only I seem to be living through.