In the last installment of The Quarterback…

Mr. Atomic Bomb

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.

The House of ThorneR. Adrian Thorne

The grass is dead in patches. Dry and sharp beneath my cleats, like it’s just as over this week as I am.

Coach blows the whistle again. I run the route like I’m chasing something. Or running from it. Maybe both.

The ball lands in my hands harder than it needs to, and I don’t cradle it—I clutch it. Like it might fall apart if I loosen my grip even a little.

I hear someone whistle from the sideline.

“That’s the fire we need!” Coach yells.

I don’t look at him. Don’t look at anyone.

Because it’s not fire. It’s grief.

It’s shame.

It’s everything I’ve been swallowing for seven straight days.

And I guess it makes for a great wideout.

Practice ends. I unstrap my helmet and keep walking. No fist bumps. No chatter. I’m soaked through, breathing hard, jaw tight.

Inside the locker room, everyone’s loud. Music’s playing off someone’s phone, showers hissing, pads dropping to the floor like thunder. It’s chaos, but the kind that makes sense. The kind I can disappear into.

Coach finds me just as I’m peeling off my gloves.

“Whatever’s gotten into you,” he says, patting my shoulder, “keep it up. You’ve been locked in all week.”

I nod. Give him the kind of tight-lipped smile that doesn’t touch my eyes.

“Thanks, Coach.”

He moves on. Doesn’t see the crack just beneath my ribs. The part of me still waiting for the next hit—and kind of hoping it comes.

Most of the guys clear out fast. Weekend plans, late lunch, someone’s girlfriend waiting in the parking lot. I sit on the bench and take my time unlacing my cleats.

And that’s when I feel it.

A glance.

Not the casual kind. The kind that sticks.

I don’t have to look to know who it is.

Malik’s across the room. Still in half his gear. Still pretending to be on his phone, like the screen’s going to explain something neither of us has figured out.

I see him look up.

Once.

Twice.

And that’s when I decide.

He doesn’t get to look at me.

Not anymore.

Not after the kitchen. Not after the way he made me feel like an accident he needed to forget.

So I don’t meet his eyes.

I grab my towel, stand up, and walk to the showers like he isn’t even there.

If he wants something from me now, he’s gonna have to say it.

And even then…

I’m not sure I’ll be ready to listen.

The locker room’s nearly empty now. Just the buzz of the showers dying down, the soft clink of hangers against metal.

I’ve almost made it out when I hear him.

“Jesse.”

I freeze. Briefly.

He waited. Of course he did. Waited until no one else could hear. Until it was safe to care.

I don’t turn around.

“Oh,” I say, voice flat. “Now you see me?”

And I walk out.

⸻

By the time he finds me, I’m halfway through my side of the room. Drawers pulled out, clothes folded, the duffel bag on my bed already straining at the zipper.

He walks in like he’s confused by the lighting. Or the air.

Like the truth hasn’t hit him yet.

“What are you doing?”

I don’t stop packing.

“I need space,” I say. “The kind that’s permanent.”

He stands there, blinking. “You’re switching rooms?”

I zip the bag. Slow. Intentional.

“I’m leaving.”

Silence.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?”

I turn now.

“I withdrew this morning. Academic leave. Mental health clause.”

He stares at me like I’ve just ripped the floor out from under him.

“No. No, you can’t just—Jesse, what the hell?”

“You think this is easy for me?”

“You didn’t even tell me—”

“No, Malik. You don’t get to be angry.”

He takes a step back like the words hit harder than he expected.

“You don’t get to pretend like you didn’t see this coming. You kissed me. You touched me. You looked at me like I meant something—and then you ran. And I still tried to be patient. I tried to give you time.”

“I needed time.”

“I gave it to you,” I snap. “But you didn’t use it. You let me sit in silence while you figured out how to forget me.”

He’s breathing hard now. Jaw clenched.

“That night didn’t mean nothing to me.”

“Then why did you make it feel like it did?”

He doesn’t answer.

I look down at the bag. My hands won’t stop shaking.

“I have feelings, Malik,” I say, softer now. “And you toyed with them like they were a phase you could move past. But I’m not a goddamn training wheel.”

He flinches.

“You don’t get to touch me and then pretend I’m invisible. You don’t get to look at me and not see me.”

Silence again. Heavy. Pressed between us like a second door.

Finally, he says, “I didn’t know what to do with how I felt.”

“And I don’t have anything left to give you while you figure it out.”

“That’s not fair,” he says. Resolute.

“You don’t think that’s fair?” I ask, voice sharp, incredulous.

He throws up his hands. “It’s not! You’ve always known who you are, Jesse. You’ve had time to figure it out. Time to try things and live in it. Me? I’m walking a tightrope every damn day.”

“You think I haven’t?” I snap. “You think knowing makes it easy?”

“You knew,” he says, pointing like that’s the whole answer. “Guys, girls—you’ve known. I didn’t. I still don’t.”

“So I was supposed to wait while you decided if I was a mistake or a memory?”

“No,” he says. But it’s shaky. “I don’t—I didn’t think you were a mistake.”

“You treated me like one.”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

And then he says, quietly, desperately:

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Why?” I ask, stepping closer. “Because you want another late-night moment? Another chance to not talk about it after?”

“No,” he says, eyes shining. “Because I’m scared that once you go, I won’t be able to figure this out without you.”

I freeze.

That honesty?

That wrecks me more than the silence ever could.

But I don’t let it show. Not yet.

“Then maybe that’s the problem,” I say. “You shouldn’t need me to figure you out.”

“I’m trying.”

“And I’m tired.”

That’s the truth.

More than angry. More than heartbroken.

I’m exhausted from holding space for someone who doesn’t know if they want to stay.

“I’m trying,” Malik says again, louder this time. “But I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to want you without it feeling like I’m breaking something.”

I stare at him.

“You already broke it.”

He blinks, stunned.

“You didn’t just hurt me, Malik. You shattered whatever version of you I thought was brave enough to face this. To face me.”

His face twists, and for a second I think he might yell. Instead, his voice goes quiet—tighter, sharper.

“Do you think this is easy for me? To want you and not understand why?”

My chest caves inward.

“I don’t need you to understand it,” I say. “I needed you to own it.”

He shakes his head, pacing now. Like he’s trying to outrun the conversation even while he’s inside of it.

“You want me to be what? Proud? Of what I don’t even have words for yet? You think I can flip a switch and be all the things you already are?”

“No,” I say, barely holding steady. “But I thought you could try without hurting me in the process.”

“I was trying!”

“No, Malik. You were sampling.”

His mouth goes still. His shoulders stiffen.

“You were figuring yourself out in real time, with my body,” I say. “With my heart. You wanted the parts that felt good without taking responsibility for what they meant.”

He opens his mouth to protest. I don’t let him.

“You kissed me like I was yours, then avoided me like I was a mistake. You came to me when it was dark and disappeared when the light came up.”

“That’s not fair—”

“It’s exactly fair.”

I pause. Swallow. Feel the heat press behind my eyes.

“I let you in, Malik,” I say, softer now. “I let you see me. I trusted you with something I don’t just give out.”

His hands curl at his sides.

“I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“Then you shouldn’t have asked for it.”

He looks at me like I’ve gutted him.

Good.

Because that’s what this is. This isn’t flirtation. This isn’t tension.

It’s the fallout.

The truth they buried under sweat and sex and denial.

And now? It’s all out.

And neither of us is ready for what that means.

Malik’s shoulders square. His jaw sets.

And for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t flinch.

“You done?” he asks, voice flat.

I cross my arms. “For now.”

He steps forward.

“You wanna be mad at me, fine. You wanna be hurt, pissed, call me a coward—I’ll wear all of it. But don’t stand there and act like I did this to you by myself.”

I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You didn’t exactly slam on the brakes, Jesse,” he says. “You kissed me back. You touched me back. You stood there with your hand on my chest like you were waiting for me to say something I didn’t even know how to feel yet.”

I shake my head, mouth opening—but he barrels through.

“You think I wasn’t scared?” he snaps. “You think I wasn’t confused as hell? I’ve never been with a guy. I’ve never looked at one like that. And then there was you. And you—”

He stops. Breathes hard.

“You knew how fragile I was. And you still let it happen.”

That cuts.

Because it’s not wrong.

“I didn’t make you do anything.”

“No,” he says. “But you didn’t stop it either.”

That silence hits harder than any scream could have.

He steps back, chest heaving.

“You think I was playing with you,” he says, softer now. “But I wasn’t. I was fucking breaking and I didn’t know what to do with it. And yeah—I should’ve handled it better. But don’t act like you weren’t right there with me.”

I don’t say anything.

Because now I’m the one who feels gutted.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing in a tight line.

“You wanna leave? Fine. Leave. But don’t pretend this is noble. Don’t dress it up like healing or boundaries or self-respect.”

He turns to me, eyes sharp.

“This is running. And it’s a new low.”

My breath catches.

Because that? That’s the hit I didn’t see coming.

And it lands.

Hard.

I don’t say anything for a while.

Just stand there.

Taking it.

The burn in my throat makes it hard to swallow.

And then—quietly, carefully—I say:

“I’ll send for the rest of my stuff.”

Malik’s jaw flexes. But he doesn’t move.

I grab my duffel, swing it over one shoulder. Drag the suitcase handle up with a loud click.

My hand’s on the doorknob when he moves.

Fast.

He plants himself between me and the door, one arm braced against it like a wall.

Like hell he’s going to let me leave it like this.

“Move,” I say, calm but shaking underneath.

“No.”

“Malik—”

“You don’t get to say your piece and walk out like I’m not standing here trying to fix it.”

“I don’t want you to fix it.”

“Too damn bad.”

I look up at him.

We’re too close. Breathing the same angry, hurt air. The kind of space where a whisper would be louder than a scream.

His chest rises and falls like he’s trying to hold something in—pride, grief, me. I don’t know.

“I’m not letting you walk out that door thinking I don’t care.”

“You should’ve thought about that a week ago.”

“I did. Every day. Every night.”

His voice cracks—just slightly.

“I haven’t slept since that night.”

“Neither have I,” I say. “But you didn’t show up. You didn’t say a word. You let the silence answer for you.”

“I was scared, Jesse.”

“And I was here.”

He looks at me. Really looks.

Like he finally sees the toll of it.

The toll of loving someone who only held you when the lights were off.

The toll of being someone else’s maybe.

We stand there.

Breathless.

Tense.

Two people clinging to the last shred of distance between them.

There’s a beat.

Just long enough to wonder if this is how it ends.

And then Malik moves.

He pushes off the door and into me—hard, fast, like his body got tired of waiting for his mouth to catch up.

And then we’re kissing.

No, not kissing.

Crashing.

It’s messy. Open. Primal. His mouth finds mine like a challenge, like he’s trying to rewrite every word we just screamed into something softer. Something real.

His hands are in my hair. My hoodie. My jaw. Mine are gripping the front of his shirt like I need something to hang on to or I’ll fly off the goddamn planet.

He groans into my mouth—low and wrecked.

And I feel it. In my ribs. My spine. My fucking knees.

All of it.

Every bit of anger. Every kiss we didn’t have. Every word he didn’t say. It’s here, pressed between us like a live wire.

He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away. Our foreheads touch. His breath stumbles against mine.

“I hate that I hurt you,” he says, voice shredded.

“You did,” I whisper.

“I know.”

We’re still breathing each other in. Still clutching. His breath is still hot on my lips. His forehead pressed to mine.

Neither of us moves.

And then—like we both reach for the same spark—he kisses me again.

Slower this time. Deeper. Less about fury, more about feeling.

It still isn’t gentle. But it’s honest. And god, it feels good to stop pretending.

I grab the sides of his shirt and pull him closer. He groans again, hands on my waist now. My back hits the door and I don’t care. I’d let it slam into me if it meant I could keep him right here.

We’re lost in it.

In the heat. The ache. The quiet miracle of finally letting this happen.

And then—

The door flies open.

“Yo—what the hell’s going on? I heard shouting—”

We break apart like we’ve been electrocuted.

Standing there in the doorway is Marcus, our pledge chair, blinking like he’s stepped into the wrong timeline.

Malik backs up. I’m still catching my breath. My heart is pounding.

No one says a word.

The silence is deafening.

Marcus stands in the doorway, backpack still slung over one shoulder, eyes wide.

Me and Malik?

Still breathing heavy. Still standing too close. Still not saying a damn thing.

I expect Malik to move. To flinch. To make a joke or dive into some half-baked excuse about a fight or a prank or literally anything but what we were just doing.

But he doesn’t.

He straightens.

Turns toward Marcus.

And says, with perfect clarity—

“What? You’ve never seen two guys kiss?”

My head snaps toward him.

Malik.

My whole chest tightens. Not from fear—for me. But for him.

Because this? This is him stepping out onto the ledge with no safety net.

Marcus just stands there.

Blinking.

Processing.

Then, slowly, he lifts a brow. “What is this, a brothel?”

We both freeze.

He looks between us. “Seriously. Keep it down. Some of us are trying to study.”

He starts to turn, then pauses—points to the door.

“Oh, and locking it wouldn’t kill you.”

He shuts it behind him.

That’s it.

No lecture. No disgust. No freakout.

Just a sarcastic jab and a shut door.

I blink. Twice.

Malik lets out a breath like he’s been holding it since the moment Marcus walked in.

We stare at each other.

Stunned.

Speechless.

Something else.

And then—he laughs.

Just once. A small, stunned sound.

And so do I.

Because maybe the world didn’t end.

We’re still staring at the closed door when Malik turns to me.

His face is flushed. From the kiss. The adrenaline. From being seen.

He gestures to the bed.

“Sit with me?”

I nod.

We don’t speak as we drop down to the mattress, shoulders barely touching, both of us still catching up to what just happened.

After a beat, he says, “I’ve never done that before.”

“Kissed a guy?” I ask, voice light but tight in my chest.

He shakes his head. “Stood my ground. Let someone see me.”

I can’t look at him yet. I’m too afraid I’ll cry again.

He goes on. “I spent so much time thinking this made me weak. Confused. Wrong. And now I just… I don’t know. I feel lighter.”

I exhale slowly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” He looks at me. “Just don’t leave.”

I finally turn to him. “I was never leaving to hurt you. I just didn’t think you wanted me to stay.”

“I didn’t think I deserved it,” he says. “But I’m starting to think maybe I do.”

That does it. The breath that catches in my throat. The part of me that wanted him even when he was unreachable.

I lean in. He does too.

And this kiss?

This one is different.

It’s not frantic. It’s full.

His hand slides up my back, slow and steady. Mine finds his thigh. His skin is warm beneath my palm, pulsing.

We fall back against the pillows, mouths never parting, the world slipping away.

Clothes come off with less urgency, more reverence. Every inch revealed feels like a confession. Every touch, an answer.

He kisses me slow, like he’s memorizing me. Like he wants to write his name across every part of me with his mouth.

And I let him.

My fingers explore the lines of his chest, the slope of his back, the way he trembles when I bite his lip just a little.

We don’t rush.

We linger.

There’s heat between us now that has nothing to do with anger. Nothing to do with grief. Just want. Real and sharp and blinding.

I trail my lips along his jaw, slow and deliberate, and he shudders beneath me—hands tightening on my back like he’s afraid I’ll stop.

I kiss down his neck, his chest, tasting the salt of skin that’s waited too long for this kind of touch.

When I reach his stomach, his breath stumbles.

“Jesse—” he whispers.

But it’s not hesitation. It’s awe.

I look up at him once, eyes locked.

“Let me.”

He nods. Wordless.

I wrap my fingers around him first. Slow. Intentional.

He’s thick and heavy in my hand, already twitching at the base, leaking just enough to make my grip slick. His breath hitches—audible, sharp—and I glance up to watch his face.

He’s already falling apart.

Good.

I stroke him once, all the way to the tip, thumb circling the head just enough to make his hips twitch.

“You okay?” I ask, low.

He nods fast. Breathless. “Yeah. Jesus.”

I lean in and let my lips brush the head of his cock.

He groans.

Just that.

One touch, and his body reacts like I lit a fuse.

I open my mouth and take him in—slow, inch by inch, letting the weight of him settle on my tongue.

His head drops back against the pillow with a soft thud.

I hum, just to feel the vibration ripple through him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, Jesse—”

He’s trying to be still, to hold back, but his hips are betraying him. They lift every time I hollow my cheeks and drag my tongue along the underside of his shaft.

I pull back with a slick pop, letting my hand take over while I speak.

“You’ve had this from girls before,” I say, wrapping my fingers around the base again. “But this?”

I pump him once, firm, watching the way his abs tighten.

“This is different.”

He moans like he’s agreeing with me.

“You know why?” I ask, stroking him again, a little faster now.

“Why?” he gasps.

“Because I want to do this. Not because it’s expected. Not because it’s part of a routine. I want your cock in my mouth. I like how it feels. I love how it tastes.”

He groans again. His hand finds the back of my neck like he’s grounding himself.

“And I know how to read your body,” I whisper. “I know what every sound means. What every twitch tells me.”

I take him again—deeper this time. His thighs tense around me. I feel him try not to thrust, but I don’t stop him. I want him to lose control.

I slide one hand lower—behind him—just lightly grazing the sensitive skin beneath his balls.

That does it.

He jerks, gasps, hips stuttering.

“Jesse—I’m gonna—I can’t—”

I suck harder. Let him hit the back of my throat. I want him to feel what it’s like when someone knows what they’re doing—really knows.

He explodes in my mouth seconds later.

Hot. Salty. Sudden.

I take it all.

His moans turn into half-choked whimpers as he spills into me, shuddering through every pulse of it. His hand is still in my hair, not pulling, just holding.

When I finally pull off, I lick the tip one more time for good measure, and his whole body jerks.

I crawl back up beside him, grinning.

“Best?” I ask.

He stares at the ceiling like he’s seen God.

Then looks at me.

“I don’t even think I came like that the first time I had sex.”

I lean down and kiss him, slow and deep, and he doesn’t hesitate—he kisses me like he means it.

And then he rolls me onto my back.

His hands move across my chest, slow but not hesitant. Like he’s mapping out the terrain he’s been dreaming of but never dared to touch.

“You good?” he asks, voice rough but steady.

“Better than good.”

He smiles, that smirk I’ve only ever seen after a touchdown. But this one’s for me.

“Your turn,” he says.

And then he kisses down my chest—mouth hot and open, tongue dragging a wet trail past my sternum, over my stomach. He lingers at my hips, hands tracing the V there like he’s never seen anything so fucking perfect.

“You really like this,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret that just clicked.

“I like you liking this,” I manage.

He chuckles. “Yeah?”

Then he lowers his mouth to me—and I forget how to speak.

He doesn’t take me all at once. Just the tip. Just enough for his lips to wrap around it, wet and warm and so new it feels electric.

He watches me. Eyes locked on mine. I swear I nearly come right there.

He moans—he moans—with my cock in his mouth. The vibration makes me grab the sheets.

“Jesus—Malik—”

He starts to move. Not perfect. But eager. Determined. And God, that matters more than technique. He wants to learn me. He listens to every gasp, every shift of my hips, every stutter in my breath like he’s studying for a final exam in how to make me fall apart.

When he pulls off to stroke me with his hand, his mouth swollen and wet, he says, “Tell me what you like.”

“Everything,” I gasp. “Fuck—Malik, everything.”

He goes down again. Deeper this time. More confident. My hips lift off the bed and he doesn’t flinch—he groans and takes it.

And that’s when I lose it.

I warn him. I try.

But he just sucks harder, strokes faster, until I’m spilling into his mouth with a ragged cry and one hand fisted in the sheets.

He swallows. All of it.

And when he crawls back up, his lips are glossy, his pupils blown wide.

He kisses me.

I taste myself on his tongue.

And then we’re grabbing at each other—frantic, sweaty, tangled limbs and desperate mouths and not nearly finished.

Because now we’re even.

And now?

We want more.

I guide him to my entrance, slow and careful, and Malik watches me like he’s trying to memorize every frame.

He’s lying back against the pillows, eyes dark, mouth parted, breath coming heavy. His hands are planted on my hips, thumbs rubbing small circles, grounding himself—grounding me.

I lower myself onto him in one smooth glide.

And he groans. Not like he’s in pain—like he’s experiencing something that resets his whole damn nervous system.

“Fuuuck, Jesse…”

I’m so full I can hardly breathe, but I manage a grin.

“Still good?”

He laughs—breathy and awed. “Better than anything.”

I start to move. Hips rolling slow, controlled. No rush. No finish line.

He holds me steady, his grip tightening as I find a rhythm. His eyes never leave mine.

“God, you feel…” He can’t finish the sentence. Just lets his head fall back, jaw slack, chest rising fast.

“Talk to me,” I say, leaning down to press a kiss to his collarbone.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs. “So warm. It’s like… I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

I ride him harder.

He lets me. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t chase the edge. He’s in it—breathing through the pressure, adjusting his hips when I adjust mine. Meeting every move with just enough thrust to keep the friction deep, steady, maddening.

My hands find his chest—slick with sweat—and I watch the muscles ripple beneath my touch.

“You’re holding back,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice wrecked but sure. “Because I don’t want this to end.”

His hands leave my waist and trail up my back, one landing between my shoulder blades, the other in my hair.

“I wanna make you come first,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “I want to feel you fall apart while I’m still inside you.”

Fuck.

I clench around him and he groans, head tilting back like he’s trying to survive it.

I ride harder.

Faster.

But still slow enough to feel everything.

The heat.

The slide.

The way his cock drags across that spot that makes me see stars.

He reaches between us and wraps his hand around me—starts stroking me in sync with the rhythm of our hips. My whole body jerks.

“Oh my God, Malik—”

“You close?” he asks, breathless.

I nod, gripping his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

And he doesn’t.

He keeps thrusting up into me, slow and deep, stroking me with the kind of focus that should be criminal.

I break first.

I cry out—his name, not just some word—and come hard, all over his hand and both our stomachs. My whole body shakes.

He watches me the entire time. Still moving. Still hard.

I’m still catching my breath when his hands clamp down on my hips—and then flip me, one smooth motion, strong and seamless.

I gasp as my back hits the mattress and he covers me, his chest pressed to mine, cock still buried inside me, harder than ever.

His eyes are wild.

Hungry.

Something in him has snapped—not with fear, but with certainty.

“You still good?” he asks, panting.

“I want you to fuck me,” I breathe. “Really fuck me.”

That’s all he needs.

He pulls out just enough to drive back in—hard, deep, smooth—and I moan, full-body, shameless.

He sets a rhythm—controlled but forceful. Every thrust hits deep, making my whole body arch.

I wrap my legs around him. He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head, forehead pressed to mine, every breath between us shared.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans. “You take me so fucking well.”

“Keep going,” I whisper. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

He can’t.

He buries himself again and again, hips slapping, skin slick, teeth clenched like he’s trying to hold back the end of the world.

But his body is relentless.

His abs flex with every thrust. My hands are free now—raking down his back, clutching his shoulders, fingers digging into muscle like it’s the only thing tethering me to the planet.

“I’m close,” he pants, voice shaking.

I reach up and brush his jaw. “Come inside me. I want you to. I want to feel you.”

That’s it.

His pace stutters.

He thrusts twice—deeper than before—and then he’s gone.

His whole body seizes. He groans my name, hips locked to mine as he empties inside me in long, hard pulses.

His arms tremble. He nearly collapses. But I hold him there—wrapped up in sweat and heat and breathless silence.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

We just breathe.

His head drops to my shoulder. His hand finds mine, fingers interlaced on the sheet between us.

No words.

Just weight.

Warmth.

Us.

EPILOGUE

The room is quiet now.

Not silent—our breathing still fills the space—but quiet in that way where nothing needs to be said yet. The air is thick with heat, with sweat, with something sacred neither of us dares name.

Malik is still inside me.

His forehead rests on my shoulder, his chest flush against mine, rising and falling with each deep inhale like he’s anchoring himself to me.

Eventually, he shifts. Slips out, slow and careful, his fingers brushing my thigh to soothe the absence he leaves behind. I wince, but not from pain—from the sudden missing of him.

He looks up at me, his face soft. “You okay?”

I nod, then whisper, “Are you?”

He lets out a laugh—not cocky. Tired. Honest.

“I think you broke me in the best possible way.”

He stands, walks naked across the room to grab a towel. He doesn’t hide himself. Doesn’t reach for a pair of shorts or turn his back. He wipes us both down with slow, deliberate care, then tosses the towel aside and climbs back into bed with a groan like his body’s finally caught up to the truth.

We settle on our sides, facing each other.

“I can’t feel my legs,” he says.

I grin. “High praise.”

He nods, then his expression shifts, softens.

“Do you think…” he starts, then trails off. “Do you think I’m still me?”

I reach for his hand between us.

“No,” I say. “You’re better.”

He swallows hard. His thumb traces over mine, slow and rhythmic.

“I was scared,” he admits. “Not of being with a guy. Just… what it might change. What people would see.”

“And now?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Now all I see is you.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

So I just inch closer, press our foreheads together, and let the silence carry the rest.

A few minutes later, he’s nearly asleep—his arm slung over my waist, his breath warm against my chest. But before he slips under completely, he murmurs, barely audible:

“I didn’t just want to fuck you, you know.”

I still.

His thumb brushes my ribs.

“I wanted to be with you. Even before I knew what that meant.”

I kiss the top of his head.

And when I finally close my eyes, I know two things for certain:

One—this was never just a hookup.

And two—he’s not running anymore.

Not from me.

And finally, not from himself.

THE END.