6. NO MORE GOOD DAYS

The room felt too big without him in it.

The air conditioner hummed low from the corner, spitting out air that was too cold against skin still warm from him. The sheets clung to my thighs, holding the shape of where we’d been pressed together, and I couldn’t bring myself to straighten them out.

I lay back, staring at the ceiling. The shadows shifted with every passing headlight from the street below, sliding in thin bars across the walls. The clock on the nightstand ticked over to 12:43 a.m., the green numbers sharp against the dark.

Sleep didn’t even pretend to come. My pulse still thrummed in my neck—not from arousal anymore, but from the hollow space he’d left in his wake. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw his face in that moment before he left. The weight in his eyes. The unspoken something he hadn’t said.

I rolled onto my side, grabbing my phone. Grindr was still open from earlier, the yellow icon glaring in the dim light. Messages waited—guys with eager grins and shirtless selfies—but my thumb hovered without answering. Not tonight. I wasn’t looking for release; I was looking for something I knew damn well they couldn’t give me.

The TV remote was on the nightstand. I clicked it on just to drown the quiet. Some late-night crime show flickered across the screen, all sterile morgues and detectives speaking in low, grave tones. I let the voices fill the space but didn’t watch, the images blurring at the edges of my vision.

I thought about getting up, about walking the halls, maybe even stepping outside for air, but the thought of being out there—where I might see him again—was unbearable. I stayed in the bed, on top of the covers now, staring at the faint imprint his hand had left on my pillowcase.

It was almost two before the exhaustion finally dragged me under, and even then, it was the kind of sleep that left me restless. I dreamed in fragments: the press of his palm at my back, the ring catching the light, the sound of the door clicking shut.

I woke up with Maddox still lodged somewhere in the middle of my chest.

Not just his face—though that haunted me—but the echo of his voice, the heat from the space between us, the almost. My pillow still smelled faintly of his cologne, that sharp, clean scent that clung like it knew I wouldn’t want to wash it out.

For a few long minutes, I lay there staring at the ceiling, letting the light from the half-open curtains stripe my skin in pale gold. My body was restless in that way that wasn’t about energy, but about wanting—needing—something to take the edge off.

I didn’t want to think about last night. I didn’t want to not think about it either.

So I reached for my phone. Grindr was already open from the night before, a grid of torsos and grins and thirsty bios. My thumb slid over a familiar pattern—the ones who looked like they could fuck me stupid, the ones who’d get on their knees without asking why.

Then I found him.

Mid-twenties, tan skin, full lips slightly parted in a way that looked like invitation. The bulge in his shorts in the profile pic wasn’t subtle. His bio was even less so: No talking. Just your cock.

That was exactly the language I needed.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at my door.

He stepped inside like we’d already done this before—lean, toned, his t-shirt stretching across his chest, his basketball shorts riding low enough to tease the band of his underwear. He smelled of soap and something citrusy, a scent that was sharp enough to wake me up all over again.

We didn’t bother with small talk. That was the point.

I sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread, and nodded toward the floor.

“On your knees,” I said.

He dropped instantly, the carpet muffling the sound. His hands slid up my thighs, firm and warm, fingertips digging in like he was marking territory. Even through the thick fabric of my sweats, his breath burned against me. My cock was already heavy, already pressing hard against the fabric, and when he mouthed over it—slow, deliberate—the heat went straight to the base of my spine.

I didn’t rush him. I let him tease, let him trace the outline with his tongue, feeling each flick through the layers until the ache in me was unbearable. My hand found the back of his neck, threading into his hair, and I tugged just enough to make him look up at me before I freed myself from my sweats.

The first pass of his mouth over my cock made me hiss. Hot, wet, and tight—his tongue sweeping along the underside before sealing his lips around me. He knew what he was doing. Kept it slow enough to make my stomach clench, deep enough to hit that spot that made my vision tilt for half a second.

I held his gaze when he took me further, my breath getting rougher as the head pushed against the back of his throat. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he swallowed my cock whole, all eight and half inches, and the sensation ripped a groan from my chest before I could stop it.

The room was nothing but heat and sound—the wet pull of his mouth, the sharp inhale through my teeth, the low hum in his throat that I felt more than I heard. My thighs tensed under his palms. I guided him, setting the pace, letting the coil inside me wind tighter and tighter.

Then, without prompting, he swallowed me whole, down to the base of my cock. I was seeing stars. Not that I was huge or anything, but few guys could do that without gagging and this guy–no gag reflex. I placed my hand on the back of his neck, held him there. His tongue swirled wildly around my cock. I thrusted my hips in quick succession, and he took it like a champ.

When it hit, it hit hard—my breath breaking, hips jerking forward as my load spilled into him. My body spasmed uncontrollably as he milked every drop of cum out of me. My balls felt empty. His mouth stayed on me the whole time, swallowing everything, one hand sliding up to press against my stomach like he was holding me there.

I let go of his hair slowly, my fingers tingling, the edge still buzzing through me. He pulled back, lips wet, eyes flicking up in that way that said you’re welcome.

And for a second, I thought maybe—just maybe—it had worked. That clean, dizzy drop into nothingness I’d been chasing.

But the quiet came too fast, and with it, the edges of the anxiety slid right back in. Maddox’s face was still there, right behind my eyes.

The guy left with a simple, “See you around,” and the door shut softly behind him.

I sat there on the bed, the air conditioner humming, the taste of citrus still clinging faintly in the air—and I realized I’d just tried to fuck someone out of my head and failed. I needed a shower.

The water hit me in a hard, even stream, hot enough to sting for a second before settling into that perfect, muscle-loosening temperature. Steam wrapped around me, blurring the glass, blurring the rest of the room into nothing but sound and sensation.

I tilted my head back and let it run over my face, down my neck, tracing over my shoulders in rivulets that clung before dripping away. My palms pressed flat against the tile, water sliding over my arms, highlighting the definition there. People had said things all weekend—“You really filled out,” “Damn, you look good,” “Did you always have arms like that?”—but I’d never stopped to really look.

I ran my hands down over my chest, fingertips catching on the faint trail of hair that darkened as it reached my stomach. My skin was slick, my own touch different under the heat—almost new. My abs flexed under the movement, the water outlining every ridge before sliding lower.

My hand brushed over my cock, heavy and relaxed in the heat. The touch alone sent a shiver up my spine, not because I was hard—not yet—but because it pulled me straight back to last night. Maddox, standing in my room, close enough that I could feel his breath.

I’d never seen him naked, but my mind filled in the negative space like it was second nature. Broad chest under my palms. The smooth taper of his waist. The weight of him in my hand. It wasn’t fantasy for fantasy’s sake—it was what had always lived in the margins, in the parts of our story that were cut away before they could be printed.

The truth often lives there. In the pause before the kiss that doesn’t happen. In the press of a knee under a desk. In the shadow where a photograph ends.

I closed my eyes, letting the water pour over me, and realized how much of my life with Maddox existed like this—a silhouette I’d been tracing for twenty years. Everything I could touch was memory. Everything I couldn’t was possibility.

I squeezed my eyes tighter, feeling my chest rise and fall in the steam. My cock stirred against my palm, heavier now, responding to thoughts I probably had no business indulging. My hand lingered a moment longer before I let it fall away, rinsing shampoo from my hair instead, forcing myself back to the present.