When We Were Still Ours – Chapter 2
Gay Erotica, Romance, 18+
In the last installment…
R. Adrian Thorne ⏾⋆.˚
CHAPTER TWO: MEET ME ON THE CORNER OF 5TH & MAIN – AARON
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IT’S NOT THE SUNLIGHT that wakes me—it’s the weight of him. Tripp’s curled forward in the sheets, shoulders hunched, the line of his spine tense even in sleep. I’m behind him, half-awake, hard, my forehead pressed to the back of his neck. He smells like laundry soap and something darker underneath. Clean, but not untouched.
I shift closer. My hand moves without thinking, fingers skating low across his stomach. Just a suggestion. A silent offer.
He exhales through his nose, pulls the blanket tighter around his chest.
“I’m tired,” he mumbles.
I let my hand fall away.
It’s not a fight. It’s not even a surprise. But it lands the same way it always does: quiet and off-center.
Lately, whenever he has one of those late-night study marathons, he’s like this. Closed off. Low contact. Like his body’s still here, but the rest of him hasn’t caught up.
But now my cock is starting to ache, and if he isn’t going to be part of the solution, then I might have to take matters into my own hands. I step into the shower, already half-resigned and half-turned on by the familiar pattern of it all.
I reach down and wrap my hand around my cock, slow at first, just enough to take the edge off the ache that’s been building since I woke up pressed against him. The tension begins to ease, but not entirely. Not in the way it would if he’d met me halfway.
I brace my other hand against the tile of the shower wall, breath catching in my throat as heat coils low in my gut.
Usually I can get off with just my hand, no imagination required—but this morning, I let my mind drift. To Tripp. His warm, tight body. The way his ass curves and fits perfectly in my hands, like it was made for them. Like he was made for me.
There’s nothing quite like a morning orgasm—but it would’ve been better with Tripp. Always is. When he’s there for it.
After I get off, I towel off and head back into the bedroom. Tripp’s not there anymore—just the rumpled sheets and the lingering shape of him in the covers.
I throw on jeans and a hoodie, pad barefoot into the kitchen, and find him already at the table with a fully loaded bagel and a glass of orange juice. His laptop is open in front of him now—fingers hovering over the keyboard like he’s midway through defusing a bomb. That expression he wears—focused, a little tight in the jaw—I’ve learned not to interrupt it.
I pour myself coffee and lean against the counter, watching him. Whatever he’s staring at, I’m sure it has everything to do with one of his midterms. He’s focused, same as always. Intense, unreadable. I tell myself it’s just school—he’s always like this when he’s under pressure. I finish my coffee and wait him out. When he finally looks up, eyes still distant, I offer a soft landing. Something easy.
“Hey,” I say, “what if we went to that rare books place in the Old District? Just for an hour. Might be good to get out of the house.”
He gives me that look—the one that says he knows he’s turned down too many dates, that he doesn’t want to disappoint me but also doesn’t want to be the one to cancel. Like if I’m the one to let it go, it’ll feel less like rejection. Less like a pattern.
And I can’t say I’m not disappointed. Because I am. I love Tripp—I love how hard he works, how seriously he takes everything—but sometimes I wish he took us just as seriously. I’m not asking for everything. Just something. An hour. A gesture.
I don’t want to be the boyfriend who nags. I know this season of his life won’t last forever. But knowing him, what’s to stop it from turning into another grad program? Or two? What happens when ‘temporary’ becomes default?
So I let out a breath, force a smile, and say it in the same quiet voice I’ve used more times than I want to count: “Actually, on second thought, there’s some stuff I should catch up on too.”
I walk back to the living room, sink into the couch, and pull out my phone. Nothing says this doesn’t bother me like aimless doomscrolling. I can feel the distance stretch out between us, but I don’t say anything.
Tripp must notice. A beat later, he walks over, hovering awkwardly at the edge of the room.
“Babe, I’m sorry. It’s just—this test is really important.”
“I know,” I say automatically. “It’s okay. I understand.”
I don’t. Not really. And the more I try to make sense of it, the more it feels like I’m being convinced something’s fine when it isn’t.
“Are you feeling sick or anything?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, “I’m actually gonna head out for a bit. Give you some space to study.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah,” I say, standing up and grabbing my keys, “I kinda do. I can’t stay cooped up in here all day.”
He nods, and offers something that’s meant to feel like a promise.
“Maybe we can get takeout tonight.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Sure.”
But I’m not sure at all. Not about tonight. Not about anything really.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the Old District. There’s really nothing old about it—just the curated illusion of age. The buildings have all been renovated with that faux-historic charm: dark wood facades, paned windows, wrought-iron lamps that flicker with LED bulbs. The roads are cobblestone, the storefronts look like a Mayberry postcard, and the only thing that breaks the illusion is the Starbucks they jammed in beside Ink & Quill—the bookstore on the corner of 5th and Main that actually does feel like it belongs here.
I step inside, and the space shifts. No life-size posters. No themed end caps or bright seasonal displays. Just shelves—tall, close, heavy with books that look like they’ve been touched, not marketed. The lighting is low, warm. It smells like paper and wood polish. Like somewhere that remembers how to be quiet.
It actually feels old here. Not curated. Not forced. Just… still.
I exhale, slower than I meant to, and start to wander. Eventually, my steps take me to the back corner near a tall bay window where the shelves hold the slim volumes, the bound collections, the poets whose names are always whispered with a mix of awe and reverence.
I trace a finger along the spines. Leather, linen, faded gold leaf. This is where they keep the visionaries. The ones who saw the divine in flesh and the sacred in ruin. The ones Tripp wrote a whole paper about once, senior year.
I remember helping him edit it—catching comma splices while he explained metaphysics like it was gossip. He lit up about this stuff. He doesn’t talk like that anymore.
I tilt my head, scanning the shelf for a name I already know will be there. I spot the slim spine of a worn clothbound edition and pull it gently from the shelf. The pages are soft at the edges, the kind that carry decades. I flip through them slowly, aimlessly.
“To see a world in a grain of sand,” I read aloud under my breath, “and a heaven in a wildflower…”
“Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,” says a voice just off to my left, “and eternity in an hour. William Blake.”
I turn. A guy—tall, mid-twenties, a little scruffy but well-kept—leans casually against the neighboring shelf, a thick, beat-up hardcover tucked under one arm, his forearm obscuring the title. He smiles like he wasn’t eavesdropping so much as joining something sacred.
“You’re a fan of his work,” I say, still holding the book open between us.
“Yeah,” he says, holding up the Aquinas like a punchline, “him and a few others.”
I glance down at the spine. Summa Theologica.
“‘To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary,’” I say, quoting without needing to think. “‘To one without it, no explanation is possible.’”
That makes him smile for real—warmer this time, less practiced.
“Didn’t expect to get hit with Aquinas before noon,” he says. “That’s a first.”
He extends a hand. “I’m Casey.”
“Aaron,” I say, shaking it. His grip is warm. Easy.
And maybe it’s nothing. Just a shared moment in a bookstore. But it feels like more. There’s something unspoken there—undeniable and immediate, the kind of thing you notice before you can name it.
A spark.
I feel it. And I know he does too.
When my phone chimes, I glance down and see not only a text from Tripp, but the time—almost 4 p.m. Somehow, I’ve spent six hours in a bookstore with a stranger, and it feels like thirty minutes. Like time bent around the moment and refused to interrupt it.
“Casey—I’m so sorry, I really have to go. I didn’t mean to lose track of time.”
He straightens a little, smile still in place but more reserved now. “Of course. But… would you want to do this again sometime?”
I’m supposed to say no. I’m supposed to say I have a boyfriend. I’m supposed to keep this moment clean, contained, forgettable.
But I don’t.
“Sure,” I say. “I’d like that.”
And even as I say it, I know—I’ve already gone further than I meant to.
Casey doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at me, really looks, like he’s filing something away.
“I had a great time talking to you,” he says. “More than I expected to, honestly.”
There’s a pause—soft, charged—and then he nods once, almost to himself. “The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone.”
He doesn’t explain the quote. He doesn’t have to.
“Blake?” I ask.
He grins. “Told you I grew up on him.”
Then he gives me one last look—something brief but steady—and walks toward the door, disappearing into the glow of the shopfront like he was never meant to stay long.
Twenty minutes later, I’m back at the apartment. The light’s changed. The air feels different.
Tripp’s still at the kitchen table, his laptop open and headphones in. He glances up when I walk in, pulling one bud out.
“Hey,” he says. “You find anything good?”
I hesitate just long enough to notice it. “Nah,” I say, kicking off my shoes. “Nothing really stood out. Thought I’d go back next week, maybe when it’s less crowded.”
He nods and looks back at his screen. “You were gone a while.”
“Yeah,” I say, heading to the sink, “just kind of… lost track of time.”
He hums, already back to whatever he was working on.
“I’m gonna shower,” I add, already walking toward the bathroom. “Clear my head a little.”
“Okay,” he says without looking up.
And that’s it. Like nothing happened. Like nothing’s changed.
The water is already steaming when I step into the shower. I brace my hands on the tile, let it run hot over the back of my neck, and try not to think—but my mind doesn’t listen.
Six hours. That’s how long I was gone. Six hours in a bookstore. With a stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger. With someone who quoted Blake and carried Aquinas under his arm like it mattered. With someone who listened.
I replay the moment I said yes. Sure. I’d like that. It didn’t feel like a lie. It felt like something I meant. And that might be worse.
I scrub my hands over my face, water rushing down my back. The guilt isn’t sharp—it’s slow. Heavy. It doesn’t feel like cheating. Not yet. But it feels like a door opened I can’t unsee.
And Tripp—he’s just outside, headphones in, probably still buried in stats or campaign finance models, trusting me.
That’s the part that catches in my chest.
He trusts me.
And then—arms around my waist.
Warm. Firm. A hard chest pressing up behind me, the lines of his body fitting into mine with easy confidence. Solid muscle. Familiar weight. I feel the ridge of his cock, hard and insistent, press up against the curve of my ass—unmistakable, unhurried, like he knows exactly how close to get without asking permission.
My breath stutters. Tripp?
But when I turn, it’s not Tripp standing in the steam.
It’s Casey.
He’s naked.
He looks different naked. More real. More dangerous. His eyes are darker up close, lit with something raw and wanting—like he’s been starving for this exact moment, and I’m the answer. I reach down and grab both of his ass cheeks, fingers digging in as I pull him closer. He lets me. Leans into it. The heat between us tightens, sharp and wordless, and I don’t know who moved first—but now we’re breathing the same air.
He reaches down, his hand finding my already hard cock, wrapping around it with unhurried purpose. His grip is firm but controlled, the rhythm slow, deliberate—like he wants me to feel every inch of the decision. Like this isn’t a rush, but a claim. My hips twitch, breath catching as the heat coils tighter, sharper. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t smile. Just watches me fall apart in his hands.
“You like that?” he asks, low and steady, his breath warm against my ear.
“Yeah,” I breathe, barely able to form the word. It escapes like a confession, like something I’ve been holding back for longer than I meant to.
“I want you,” he says, voice low and rough like it’s been buried in his throat for hours.
The words hit somewhere deeper than lust. My cock pulses, heavy with need, aching now with the sharp edge of it. I want to take him—right here, right now—against the tile, under the heat, with the water pouring over our skin. Even if Tripp is two rooms away. Even if the door’s unlocked. Even if I’ll hate myself later.
Because in this moment, all I can feel is him.
“Aaron,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Aaron.” Louder this time, closer.
My eyelids flutter open. Water is still cascading down the back of my neck. Steam fills the corners of the shower. And Tripp is just outside the stall.
“What?” I ask, blinking hard, trying to pull myself back into the moment. There’s a slight smile in my voice, but it doesn’t reach anything else.
“You daydreaming in there or planning to fall asleep standing up?”
It takes me a second too long to answer.
“I—no. I’m good. Just… lost track of time.”
But I’m not good. My body’s still buzzing. I glance down and I’m still hard. And it’s not because of my boyfriend.
And that realization—that I can’t pretend otherwise—lands hard, low in my gut.
I shut off the water with a shaky hand.
Whatever that was, it wasn’t just a dream.
And that scares the hell out of me.
TO BE CONTINUED…
