Having

Disclaimer:

This story is a direct sequel to Wanting. I highly recommend reading the first part before diving into this one; it'll hit harder, and things will make a lot more sense.

I don't know what this night will mean tomorrow. But right now, in this room, with her--this feels like the most honest I've ever been.

I barely realize I've pulled her shirt off until I'm staring at the black lace hugging her chest. Christ, they're even bigger without the fabric. The bra cups strain slightly, and for a moment, I just look--taking in the way her breath hitches as my gaze lingers.

I don't rush to remove it but press my palm against one curve instead, testing the weight, the heat of her through the lace. Her nipple hardens under my touch, and a quiet gasp escapes her.

"Wow." The word slips out before I can stop it.

The sound fades, swallowed by the quiet. Now it's just the hitch of her breath, the hammer of my pulse, and the weight of everything we haven't said that lingers.

She arches her back, fingers reaching for the clasp, but I catch her wrist. "No, let me." My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.

Keeping one hand on her, I slide the other around to her back, fumbling for the clasp. The second it gives way, the lace falls open, and--

Fuck.

I don't just see her. I feel her. the way her skin flushes under my palms, the way her breath stutters when my fingers slide over her bare flesh for the first time. My thumbs graze her nipples, and she shudders, her back pressing into the mattress, a silent gasp caught between us.

They're impossibly soft, yielding under my touch like warm wax, yet taut enough to stiffen at the barest pressure. Every shudder of her body echoes into mine, her spine pressing deeper into the mattress as if trying to fuse with it.

Hot. So fucking hot.

I lean down, my mouth closing over one peak, and her fingers twist in my hair.

The taste of her skin floods in, salty with sweat, but it only draws me deeper. Nothing about it repels; it invites. Beckons. Her body shifts under me. A tiny wince. Maybe I went too hard.

I lift my head, searching her face. She's smiling.

"Too hard?" I ask, a nervous chuckle slipping out.

"No" She says softy. Then pulls me back in.

My hands roam, kneading her breasts as I return to her nipple with a new hunger. Her breath stutters out in fragments, broken and sharp, and it feeds something in me. I suck harder, deeper, driven by the fear that this moment might vanish if I don't hold on tight enough.

One of her hands rests over mine, the one still occupied with her other breast -- a soft nudge, a shared awareness. I've been so focused on one, I almost forgot the other.

"Let me," I murmur.

She lets go, and I take over. My left hand slides to one side, my mouth to the other. I don't rush. Not this time. I start slow, tracing around the nipple, close but not quite there. Not yet.

Edging. I read about it once. Teasing the nerves, delaying the reward. Making it count when it finally lands.

Her head lifts. "What are you doing?" Eyes locked on mine, a plea just beneath her voice.

"Trust me."

She lets her head fall back against the bed. "Oh God..." Whether aimed at me or her own rising frustration, I can't tell.

My tongue keeps circling, playing just shy of indulgence. Every twitch, every breath, fuels me. When she lifts her chest, trying to force contact, but I hold back just barely.

"Not yet," I whisper, grinning against her skin.

A groan escapes her lips. Half frustration, half desperation.

Then I give in.

My lips close over her nipple, and the reaction is instant her back arches, a cry tearing from her throat. She trembles beneath me, hips jerking, chest rising as if possessed.

I hold her, grounding her as she writhes, until her arms pull me upward into a kiss, frantic, deep, almost violent.

"Now," she gasps against my lips. "I can't wait anymore. Take off my pants."

As if possessed, I unbutton her pants, hands trembling but determined. Then I climb onto the bed, knees on either side of her hips, arms braced on either side of her head holding myself above her like a force about to descend.

She lies there, radiant. Hair sprawled like wild silk across the sheets, framing her face like petals in bloom. Her eyes dark, wide peer into me, not at me. They plead, ache, burn. And those lips... God, those lips. Slightly parted, wet, almost trembling.

I reach down and trace them with my fingertips, feeling the warmth of her breath tickle my skin. Then, without breaking her gaze, my hand slips lower -- wrapping around myself, guiding the tip of my cock to her entrance.

So close now.

Her heat pulses against me, and even without entering, I feel the slick invitation, the tension in her thighs, the way her breath hitches at the contact. That space between us crackles -- a held breath in the universe, a taut wire.

Still, I don't push forward.

Not yet.

I look into her eyes as I hover above her nervous, searching. Hers are just as unsure, flickering between fear and something deeper. I can't tell whose heartbeat I'm hearing mine, hers, or some shared rhythm drumming in the silence.

She's scared. So am I.

Three years of friendship hanging by a thread, about to snap with a single choice.

"Are you sure?" I ask, though I'm not sure who the question is really for.

She doesn't answer, not with words. Just a nod, slow and deliberate, as her arms slide around my neck.

"Okay. Here we go," I whisper, mostly to myself.

Guiding myself to her entrance, I push forward, just enough to feel her wrapped around me. Tight. Unbelievably tight.

Then something catches in my mind. I pause.

Eyes snap up to meet hers, searching.

She's already watching me, and slowly almost regretfully shakes her head.

It hits like a soft slap. That quiet no. Disappointment blooms low in my chest. I'd let myself believe... hoped, maybe, in some naive corner of my mind, that she'd never been here with anyone else. A fantasy I didn't know I'd built until it broke.

But I don't sit with it for long.

Instead, I draw back slightly then thrust again, deeper this time. Still tight. Still heat all around me, pulling me in, challenging me to lose myself.

Then--I'm inside her.

"Oh God." The words slip out uninvited, raw and reverent.

She's warm. Wet. Tight. A velvet vise pulling me deeper, holding me like I belong there. They say if you jerk off too much, the real thing can feel like a letdown. Whoever said that has clearly never been inside someone who wanted them.

This... this is nothing like that.

This is a furnace, a flood, a grip so intense it feels like I'm being worshipped and punished at once.

I try to hold on. I've waited too long for this to end in one quick, clumsy moment.

But my body's stopped listening.

My hips move on instinct--fast, hungry, reverent. She gasps beneath me, her moans breaking into stuttered curses. Her eyes roll back, disappearing into that space where pleasure turns spiritual. Her grip on my neck loosens as her body arches into mine.

"It's coming--fuck--it's coming..."

She gasps, sharp and sudden, the sound rushing straight into my ear. Loud. Too loud. My eyes flick to the door, half-expecting the neighbors to come knocking.

A soft laugh escapes me.

"What?" she asks, breathless.

I glance back at her. "Nothing, it's just--" but the words fall apart in my mouth.

Beneath me, she's a vision -- drenched in sweat, hair plastered to her face in tangled streaks. A chaotic, beautiful mess. It short-circuits my brain.

I pull out, just a little.

"Shit," she gasps. "I'm sensitive... wait till--"

But her voice fades. I bottom out in a single thrust, and it's like something breaks loose inside me.

Reckless.

Primal.

I move like a man possessed, driven by instinct and need, pounding into her with a pace I can't control. Her body responds in waves -- arms tightening around my shoulders, legs curling around my hips, locking me in.

It's like I'm making up for three years in a single night.

She grunts with every thrust, trying to speak--maybe to tell me to slow down but the words dissolve into breathless noise.

The only sounds are ours. Flesh against flesh, wet and urgent. Her grunts, my breath, the rhythm of bodies colliding.

I grip her shoulders and drive in deeper, harder with sweat flicking off our skin. Her body ripples, shudders, clenches tight around me.

Her arms and legs wrap tighter, locking me in place. Like she doesn't want to let me go. Like she won't.

My arms give out and I collapse onto her, buried in heat and breath and sound. Then she clenches around me, spasming hard.

Again.

Her third orgasm.

It's too much.

My body follows hers like it was wired to. We jolt together not like lovers, but like circuits overloaded. Firing in rhythm. Struck by the same bolt.

And then, release.

I give everything.

For a moment, everything goes white. Like the world forgot itself.

I roll onto my back as she finally releases me, both of us catching our breath in silence.

"Wow," we say at the same time.

Laughter bursts out, effortless and raw, the kind that only follows something wild and real. Our eyes lock, and suddenly the room feels still again.

My hand drifts to her face, fingertips brushing lightly over her cheek. Part of me still unsure if this is all real. But if it's a dream, I want to carve every second of it into memory.

"So..." she starts, that mischievous grin spreading across her lips. "What was that back there?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Don't get me wrong I loved it. But for a second, it felt like you just... snapped."

"Yeah," I admit with a half-laugh. "I kind of did."

She tilts her head. Curious.

"It was your hair," I say, turning to face her. "It had fallen over your face your left eye was half-covered..."

Her brows pinch in confusion. Then it hits.

"Oh my God," she says, voice rising with realization. "You mean your type. That thing you always say--glasses, hair covering one eye--"

She bursts out laughing so hard she nearly rolls off the bed.

"So that's why you nearly ruined me? Because of a damn fetish?"

"What can I say," I shrug, grinning now. "You hit the cheat code."

"If I'd known it would unlock that, I'd have done it years ago," she says, settling onto her side, one hand tucked beneath her head. Her smile lingers, softer now. "You really are a freak."

"You love it," I say.

She doesn't argue.

Later, we shower. Separately.

Kind of funny -- after everything, being naked in front of each other still feels strange. Like our bodies had already had the conversation, and now our minds were just trying to catch up.

She showers after me. When she comes out, I'm already on the bed, dressed again in just my pants and a singlet wasn't sure of the protocol.

"So..." I start, hesitating. "Should I leave orrr...?"

I glance toward the door like I'm not hoping she says no.

"Um, no," she replies, brushing her hair back. "I mean, if you're cool with it... we could sleep together?"

"I'm cool with it," I say quickly, then catch myself. "I mean if you are too."

Her face drops in faux disbelief. "Elias."

"Sorry, sorry." Hands up in mock surrender. "Yes, I want to stay."

She grins, crossing the room to the bed.

"Do we talk about this now or tomorrow?" I ask, both of us lying on our backs, staring at the ceiling like it has answers.

"Tomorrow," she says, then rolls onto her side to face me, hands tucked under her cheek.

There's a pause.

"Can I spoon you?" I ask.

She raises one eyebrow, says nothing.

"You wanna spoon me?"

"Just... thought it might be nice?"

She squints at me. "You're like six feet tall. I'm not even sure that geometry works."

I laugh. "C'mon, I'll be gentle."

We try. Really. But it's a mess. My knees are too long. Her elbow ends up digging into my ribs somehow. It's like two puzzle pieces that almost fit, but not quite.

She exhales, defeated. "Okay, maybe we just sleep like normal humans."

I roll onto my back, giving her space again.

A few minutes pass in silence.

Then, without a word, she shifts. Her arm slides across my chest. Her head tucks under my chin. It's not perfect, hair in my mouth, her leg doing something weird with mine but it's real.

I wrap my arm around her, holding her there. Her eyes are closed now, breathing slowing.

Just before she drifts off, I feel her smile against my skin and sleep takes both of us.

I wake up to a sound. Familiar. Too familiar.

That's my ringtone.

Groggy, I fumble around the pile of clothes on the floor until I fish out my phone.

Oti.

Shit.

I swipe to answer.

"What!?" Louder than I meant, and sharper than I should've. I look back to Sloane to make sure that didn't wake her.

"Dude, where's my suit?"

My stomach drops.

The suit.

His suit.

The one he lent me for my presentation. I'd outgrown mine, and buying a new one for a one-time thing felt dumb. Oti offered his on the condition I dry clean it and get it back to him before his seminar.

I stare at the heap of clothing in silent dread.

"Uh... it's with me."

"No shit, where and when are you bringing it to me?"

"I... haven't dry cleaned it yet," I admit, wincing like I just stepped on glass.

"You haven't what?" His voice jumps a full octave. "What the hell am I supposed to wear -- your guilt?"

Oti and I have been friends a long time. We met during a group event back in my first year of school.

There was this group experiment we had to do, and somehow--I still don't know how--I got picked as the leader. I was a nervous wreck. I'd never been in charge of anything before, and now I was responsible for a dozen people. If I messed up, we all failed. And that failure would be on me.

A thousand thoughts ran through my mind.

What if I don't make a good impression?

What if I screw up the experiment?

What if they don't like me?

When it came time to conduct the practical, my hands wouldn't stop shaking. My voice cracked. I could feel the judgment coming from every direction.

Then Oti stepped forward.

He was the only one who did.

He walked up beside me and started assisting--calm, collected, unfazed. I remember he kept saying "sir" every time he spoke to me. "Pass this, sir." "Hold this, sir." He looked older than me, so at first I thought he was mocking me. But I didn't care. I just needed help and he gave it.

We got closer after that. Turned out we had a lot in common--anime, programming, the usual. We hit it off fast. And eventually, I found out the "sir" wasn't sarcasm; that's just how he talked. When we reminisce now, we always laugh about that. He dropped the "sir" eventually but not before it became an inside joke.

I smile as the memory washes over me.

Then I snap back to the present, brain lagging behind my hands as I start packing my clothes.

And then I stop to look over at Sloane.

She's still asleep. Peaceful. Her hair a little messy, her lips slightly parted, one hand resting under her cheek like a dream herself.

My heart does something weird.

Is this what love feels like? I whisper, barely audible.

I don't want to leave. I want to see her wake up. Eat breakfast together. Maybe fool around again. Talk about everything and nothing. Stay in this bubble a little longer.

But I can't.

I lean over and kiss her forehead gently, hoping she won't stir and hoping she does, at the same time.

Then I'm gone.

After dry cleaning the suit for Oti, I went home to freshen up and crash.

I hadn't slept that deeply in years. Maybe ever.

I chuckled to myself. I knew exactly why.

Once I was settled back in, I tried calling Sloane.

No answer.

Weird.

Tried again. Still nothing.

A pit started to form in my stomach. Something was off.

Third time. Still no answer.

Sloane never goes off the grid. She's a businesswoman -- glued to that phone like it's an extra limb.

That silence hit different.

My mind started doing what it always does. Overthinking.

"Did I mess something up?"

"Should I not have left? Was it because I didn't leave a note?"

With anyone else, I wouldn't panic. But this is Sloane we're talking about.

She's... unpredictable. A mystery wrapped in a riddle with a killer jawline. One minute she's all in, the next you're wondering if she remembers your name.

It's the reason I waited so long to confess anything. Her signals have signals, and they're all scrambled.

Not the healthiest dynamic, I know. But here I am.

Still, something didn't feel right. I knew I was being dramatic, but... what if something happened? What if she was hurt?

I had to check.

Her apartment hit me with a weird sense of déjà vu -- yesterday's moments still lingering in the air.

I knocked. No answer.

Knocked again. Still nothing.

I was about to leave when I heard it -- faint but unmistakable. Her ringtone.

Inside.

What the actual fuck?

She's ghosting me.

She's really ghosting me.

This... felt worse than anything I imagined.

"Hey, you looking for someone?"

I turned to my left. One of her neighbors was locking up. A girl. Looked vaguely familiar.

"Yeah. Sloane. Tried calling, no answer."

"Maybe she's sleeping or something?"

"Sloane doesn't sleep. Not this early. And her phone's ringing inside."

Her face shifted. "Shit. Sorry, man." She got it. Or at least... she got enough.

"Yeah. Thanks."

She walked past, and I stood there like an idiot a few more minutes before heading home.

But weirdly, I wasn't heartbroken. Not in the way I thought I'd be.

I left her a voicemail anyway. She deserved to hear it.

"Hey Sloane. I tried calling a few times. I guess you're not picking up. Listen... I know last night was sudden, but I want you to know -- even if you regretted it, I didn't.

Not just for the obvious reasons. Haha."

(I sigh.)

"Honestly? I'm glad I told you how I felt. I'd rather lose you having said something than keep lying and pretending I was fine just being your friend.

Watching you flirt with other guys... while I stayed silent? That shit hurt.

But now -- for the first time in a long time -- I feel... free.

So no. I don't regret it."

I hit send, set the phone down, and lay back on my bed. A tear slipped down my face.

Then, sleep.

I didn't stay out for long.

Loud banging yanked me back awake.

"Who is it!?" I shouted, irritated.

No reply. Just more pounding.

"WHO IS IT?" I yelled again. Nothing. Just fists on wood.

"Oh for fuck's sake--" I stormed to the door and flung it open.

It was her.

Sloane.

Panting. Like she ran all the way here.

"Hi," she said, breathless.

I blinked. "H-hi. What are you doing here?"

"I got your voicemail." She's breathless--from running or from the weight of everything, I can't tell.

"It's not what you think. I had to run to the pharmacy to get, um..." Her voice falters. "Some stuff, and--"

That's where I stop hearing her. The rest blurs. Like static in my head. All I can focus on is the fact that she's here.

"Oh, what the hell," I said, pulling her into a kiss.

We lost track of time in each other's mouths.

When we finally came up for air, we were breathless. Eyes locked. Words unnecessary.

"Yeah?" I asked.

She nodded. Silently.

I stepped aside. She walked in.

I shut the door behind her.

We fell into the bed.

And into each other -- again.

It's quiet now. The kind of silence that feels full.

We're lying there, tangled up, the room heavy with everything we haven't said. Her head rests on my chest, and my hand moves mindlessly through her hair. I want to ask her a hundred things, but I also don't want to ruin this moment -- the calm after the storm.

She speaks first.

"I didn't mean to ignore you," she says, voice soft. "Like I was trying to say... I had to go to the pharmacy because we didn't use... protection last time. So I needed to get some stuff."

"I only just got back when I saw the missed calls and heard your voicemail."

Then she lifts her head and locks eyes with me.

"Did you really feel that way? Did I hurt you that much?"

"Yeah... actually." I pause, watching her face. "It wasn't always easy being around you."

She doesn't say anything, so I go on.

"You have to understand, it was hard for me. Seeing you every day, pretending like everything was fine when it wasn't. But yesterday--yesterday was different. I didn't want to keep living like that. I needed you to know."

I smile a little, almost embarrassed. "I didn't even plan it. It just happened. I used to imagine how I'd tell you, even practiced it, word for word. Wanted it to be perfect."

I cradle her face in my hands, looking into her eyes.

"And even though it didn't go like I planned... it was perfect."

I lean in and kiss her.

"Thank you," she whispers. Then she smiles. "Thank you for telling me."

I nod. "So what about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... did you feel the same way?"

She takes a breath. "Kind of. I didn't always--at first, I mean. It wasn't like I was looking for anything. But over time... we spent so much time together, and whenever I imagined being with someone, I couldn't picture it being anyone but you."

A beat.

"So," I say, "where do we go from here? We can't just keep... doing this. Not that I'm complaining." I laugh.

She laughs too.

"But I see something with you. I want this to be something real."

"I do too."

"So what do we do?"

She smirks. "You're the guy. Isn't that your job?"

"Huh. I guess it is. Alright. How about a proper date? Let me take you to dinner."

She raises an eyebrow. "That's how you ask a girl out? Not exactly sweeping me off my feet."

I grin. "I'm more of a slow burn."

She shakes her head, but she's smiling.

We settle into the silence that follows--comfortable, for once. Something new flickering between us. Something real.

We set a time. Make loose plans.

And for a while, everything feels right.

But the date doesn't go as planned.

Or the second one. We've been out twice now, and both times I feel us drifting. We sit across from each other, smiling, eating, making polite conversation. But it's off. It's like we ran out of things to say the moment we stopped pretending.

I stop at a café to clear my head and spot a couple a few feet away. They're laughing, hands brushing across the table, eyes fixed on each other like they've only just fallen in love. That's what I expected. That's what I wanted with her.

But maybe we were too good at being friends.

Instead of spending the rest of the evening lost in my own head, I decide to visit Oti.

I tell him about the dinner leaving out the romantic part. No one knows about us yet. Not even Oti. Which is funny, considering he's the reason I met Sloane in the first place.

Oti's been my friend for about as long as I've known her. He introduced me to a friend, and that friend introduced me to Sloane. We didn't exactly hit it off. Hell, we barely spoke.

She was quiet, reserved. People thought she was cold. Distant. I knew better. She reminded me of... me.

I've always been the kind of person people read wrong. Call me rude. Proud. Standoffish. Just because I didn't fit into their definition of "normal." Sloane got that. She was that.

So I thought, maybe we could be friends. And in time, maybe we'd be really good friends.

It took a while to get used to her and for her to get used to me. I could walk with people for miles without saying a word, and most would get uncomfortable after five minutes of silence. Not Sloane.

She understood.

She knew what it meant to just... be. To sit in silence that wasn't awkward. To walk without needing to fill every moment with noise. With her, I didn't have to explain myself. We didn't always know each other's thoughts, but we talked. Eventually. We learned each other's rhythms. We made it work.

"I don't know," I mutter. "It just felt... boring."

"Maybe you spent so long pining after her, the mystery's gone," I mumble. Oti hears me and pauses the game, turning toward me.

"You good, man?"

"Yeah, it's just... Sloane."

"The dinner? Pretty sure you two have had loads of those."

"It's different now. Why do we suddenly have nothing to talk about?"

He thinks for a moment.

"Maybe the magic's worn off?"

Then something changes in his face, he's not buying his own theory.

"No... that's not it. I've seen you around her. That doesn't just vanish. I've watched you fall for her for years. And I've watched her with you."

He pauses. Then:

"Maybe the problem isn't what you're doing... it's what you should be doing."

I stare at him. "That's vague as hell."

"Just hear me out. You said something has changed. Maybe it's time you change what you do too."

It hits me. Hard.

"Oh... that actually makes sense," I say, leaning back in my chair. "I mean, we used to do all these things--random hangouts, stupid games, late-night walks--and we did them a lot. But now that things have changed... yeah, it should be different. Special, even. Thanks, man. You know, I don't give you enough credit. You're not as dumb as you look."

"Shut the fuck up," he mutters, and we both laugh as we dive back into our game.

I hang out for a few more rounds, then head out. As I'm walking home, I pass by the local bakery--the kind that calls itself "artisan" but actually earns the title. I stop. Just stand there for a bit, staring at the shop window.

She used to love this place. We'd been here a few times back then. She'd always comment on how the smell alone could cure a bad day.

That's when it hits me.

I'd spent so much time trying to get to this point--trying to fix things, trying to figure out how I felt--I never really thought about what came next. It's not like we've run out of things to say... but there's nothing new. We've told each other everything already. Every story, every joke, every dumb childhood memory.

This doesn't need to be a first date. It needs to be something else.

We've already done the usual. Now it's time to make new things--together.

I step inside the bakery and grab a few things. Nothing too heavy--we'd already eaten earlier. Freshly baked bread, some olives. Then I swing by another store for fruit juice. Something simple, something us.

I call a cab and head to her apartment.

When she opens the door, she's changed. Not just her clothes though those are different too, soft and casual but something else. She looks like a portrait. A quiet kind of beautiful.

"Hey," she says. "I've been meaning to call you. We need to talk."

Her voice is calm, but I can hear it--disappointment. Not in me, not really. Just in how everything went. The dinner, the tension, the unspoken awkwardness. She's not happy. I'm not either.

I smile.

"No problem," I say. "But first let's go on a real date."

She laughs. "We just got back from one."

"Yeah, but not like this. I figured it out. The problem isn't us it's how we're doing it. Come with me."

She blinks, surprised but I can see it in her face. She gets it.

She goes back in to grab a jacket without another word.

And just like that, we're off.

I took her on a picnic. Evening felt right. Nothing about us had ever been conventional, so why should our first real date be any different? But it wasn't just the timing that made it special. It was the location.

Back in our final year of school, we'd come to this company to apply for an internship. On our way out, we passed this open field--wide, quiet, golden under the sun and she'd said, almost absentmindedly, "This would be a really good place for a date."

Then, after a beat, she added with a smirk, "Elias, if you ever get a girl, this would be nice."

Classic Sloane. A mixed-signal missile fired straight into my chest.

I didn't forget.

I called ahead and begged, really and got a reluctant yes from a security guard I knew. We had ninety minutes before his shift ended. That was enough.

We stopped to pick up a few things. No flowers, no candles. Just sandwiches, fruit, juice. She didn't dress up. I didn't want her to. Seeing her like that in the soft clothes she probably wears when no one's watching felt like watching her exhale for the first time in weeks. It felt right in a way I couldn't put into words.

As the light faded, the stars came out like they were trying to impress us.

We sat in silence for a while after eating, just soaking it in. Then I turned to her, cupped her face with my left hand, and pulled her close not kissing her yet, just close enough to feel her breath, to smell her skin, to lose myself in the way her hair brushed against my fingertips.

I slid my hand to her waist and pulled her the rest of the way in.

When our lips finally met, it wasn't fireworks or movie soundtrack swells. It was something better. Something quiet and true.

And in that moment, I knew--there wasn't another mouth in the world I wanted to taste.

We walked hand in hand, as we did. There was a certain skip to her step, something light, almost playful.

Sloane had never believed in PDA. Always said it was cringe. I agreed, mostly just to agree with her. Truth was, I didn't mind it. Not if it was with her.

"I'm glad we went out again," she said. "I was starting to think we'd made a mistake."

"Yeah," I replied. "Me too."

I turned to look at her. Her eyes--those damn eyes--still had the same quiet pull they always had. Like they knew too much but weren't in a rush to say it.

I stared a little too long.

She caught it, of course. And smiled.

Not the polite kind. Not the forced kind.

The real kind. The one that made it all worth it.

We get to her apartment, She goes to the kitchen.

I stay in the living area. I see details about her room. Details I didn't get to be aware of last time because we were busy. Her room is beautiful, cute, sophisticated. Not in the girly way but in a Sloane kind of way.

Her room is painted in a deep, purplish pink not the bubblegum kind that screams 'girlhood,' but something richer. Mature. The kind of color that quietly says, I'm not a girl. I'm a woman. I chuckle at the thought--I'm in a woman's room.

There's a pattern on one wall--delicate, scattered, like constellations. No... not stars. Butterflies? Or maybe butterfly-shaped stars. Tiny and whimsical, weaving a trail across the room and looping back around. Beautiful. And... cute.

There are four paintings hanging on the wall. Not your generic prints or cliché quotes. Real paintings. Each one bold, expressive, almost pulsing with emotion. You could stare at them for a while and still find something new.

In the far-left corner, there's a desk, sleek, a little scratched up, clearly used. Above it, two narrow shelves stacked with books. Titles jammed in every direction but still organized. I walk over slowly, fingertips brushing the spines. No dust. She reads them or maybe just keeps a tidy space. Probably both.

She approaches from the kitchen and walk past me towards the bathroom.

"You have a really cute room," I say as I take in the rest of the apartment.

She glances over her shoulder, a half-smile playing on her lips. "What?"

"You have a really cute room," I repeat, louder this time, like I'm making sure she hears it.

She raises an eyebrow, amused. "No, I heard you. I just wasn't sure you heard it."

"Why?" I ask, smiling now. I'm smiling a lot today.

She shrugs slightly, turning back to the bathroom. "It's just... that's not something I ever thought you'd say"

I don't reply. I just smile and step toward her.

I hold her face gently between my hands, looking down at her at the person who knows me better than anyone else. Then I lean in and kiss her.

She returns it without hesitation, her arms sliding around my torso, pulling me closer.

Between kisses, she murmurs against my lips, "Do you want to shower with me?"

"Yes," I whisper.

It's like a switch flips. A silent green light.

We start tugging at each other's clothes, urgency blooming between us. Shirts, pants--everything hits the floor in seconds. It's as if my "yes" fired the starting pistol, and we were already halfway to the finish line.

We make our way to the bathroom, still in our underwear me in my briefs, her in just panties. No bra. I blink, surprised I hadn't noticed until now.

I kneel before her, fingers brushing her hips as I ease her panties down. She rests her hand on my shoulder for balance, stepping out slowly, never breaking eye contact.

Once they're off, I don't move away. My hands settle on her hips and then lower, pulling her toward me. I've wanted this since the last time.

She leans back against the sink as I lower my mouth to her.

Her breath catches then comes in soft, stuttering gasps, fingers threading through my hair as she melts into the moment.

Setting her on the sink, I step back and run my thumb slowly across her labia.

"You ready for me to taste you?"

She doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.

She just stares at me--hungry, daring and presses both palms down on my shoulder. A firm push sends me to my knees.

Fine by me. I take my time.

I slide her thighs apart, planting soft kisses along the inside of one. Her skin is warm, her muscles twitch under my lips. I glance up she's watching me, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths.

I kiss higher. She gasps when my lips brush the soft crease between her thigh and hip. I feel her fingers grip the edge of the sink behind her, knuckles white.

Still not there yet.

I move to the other thigh. Same path, same treatment. Slower this time. I flick my tongue across her skin, savoring her taste like it's the only thing keeping me alive.

She lets out a sharp breath through her nose, half a whimper, half frustration. Her legs widen instinctively.

That's when I let my breath fall warm over her.

She's soaked. I can see the way she pulses with every heartbeat showing in the slick swell between her folds. It's like her body's calling me, begging me in its own language.

I answer.

I run the flat of my tongue up her slit--slow, thick, steady. From bottom to top. She gasps, knees locking against my shoulders.

"F-fuck," she breathes.

I smirk against her and do it again. Slower this time. She tastes like fire and sweetness, like sweat and lightning.

I take my time exploring her with my tongue, soft licks, gentle teasing, parting her lips with slow precision. Every movement is deliberate. I want her trembling. I want her desperate.

And she is.

Her hands drop to my head, threading through my hair, tugging with each flick of my tongue. Her hips try to chase the rhythm, but I pin her in place. She whines--high, breathless.

Then I focus on her clit.

At first, I just graze it--barely a flick. Just a taste. Her thighs twitch. I circle it slowly with the tip of my tongue, then press in with firmer pressure.

Her head falls back with a loud moan.

"Oh my God--don't stop--please--"

Her hips roll against my mouth, seeking more friction, more speed, but I hold her steady and give her what I want to give.

She's not in control anymore. I am.

I alternate pace, fast flutters, slow sucks, sudden stops just to make her beg with her body. Every sound from her lips is better than the last. I could live off the way she moans.

She's shaking now. Her whole body vibrating like a wire pulled too tight.

When I slide one finger inside her, she gasps and clutches my head like she might tear my hair out.

I curl my finger upward just enough to stroke that spot and her moan turns into a sob.

Her thighs try to close, but I wedge myself deeper. Another finger joins the first. Her heat wraps around me, slick and pulsing.

"You're gonna make me come," she says--half panic, half warning.

I don't stop. I suck her clit hard, fingers thrusting deep, curling just right.

"Shit--shit--don't stop, don't fucking stop--"

She breaks.

Her back arches, heels pressing into the edge of the sink. Her mouth opens in a silent scream before the sound rips out of her. Her whole body spasms, hips jerking, thighs clamping around my head and she falls apart in my hands.

I slow down but don't stop. I draw the orgasm out with gentle licks between her trembles, fingers easing out as her body quivers around nothing.

She's gasping now. Chest heaving. Lips parted. Face flushed and dazed.

I kiss the inside of her thigh again. Then the other.

When I look up, her eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. A mess of sweat, hair, and aftershock.

"I can't feel my legs," she whispers, dazed.

I grin. "Then I did it right."

She doesn't argue.

As I rise to my feet, she pulls me in, resting her head against my chest. Still trembling. Still catching her breath.

Cradle her there, I let her recover, no rush, no demands. Just heat between us and the echo of her moans still hanging in the air like smoke.

Slowly, I release her from my arms and help her down. As I help her down, her legs give out. Catching her before she reaches the ground and lowering her to the bathroom floor, her back resting against the cool tile.

A few breaths later, she looks up, eyes glazed, lips parted and then she notices the bulge straining against my briefs. Her smile returns. She reaches up and hooks a finger into the waistband, tugging it down with a slow, teasing pull.

My length springs free, and she's so close it brushes her cheek on the way out.

She lets out a soft laugh, then wraps one hand around the base, the other sweeping hair from her face. Her eyes never leave mine as she presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the tip.

Her thumb traces the underside with a featherlight touch, slow, exploratory, like she's trying to memorize every ridge, every vein. I shudder not just from the sensation, but from her calm, deliberate focus. Like she knows exactly what she's doing, and she's savoring every second of it.

Then she leans in again not to take me in fully, not yet. Just another kiss. Then another. Each one softer than the last. Torture in its most exquisite form.

I groan, barely audible, like the air's too thick to breathe properly. My hand rests on the back of her head not to guide her, just to anchor myself. My thighs tense. She notices. She always does.

Her lips part, and she exhales--warm and slow--right over me. I feel it more than I hear it, like a whisper of heat teasing every nerve.

Then her tongue flicks. One long, deliberate drag from base to tip. My hips twitch, and I barely stop myself from thrusting forward.

Still, she doesn't rush. She takes me into her mouth slowly--inch by inch--like she's tasting time itself. She pulls back, leaving just the tip between her lips, then rolls her tongue over it in lazy, maddening circles.

I look down at her--flushed cheeks, steady gaze, lips wrapped around me and it's unreal. She's not just going down on me. She's communing with me.

Her free hand rises, cupping my balls with a reverence that borders on sacred, fingers brushing in soft spirals like she's playing some secret instrument designed to unravel me.

And it's working.

I press my head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut then snapping open again. I don't want to miss this. Not the way she moves. Not the way her tongue glides. Not the patience she brings to it, like we've got forever.

And in this moment, maybe we do.

Each time she goes down, she takes a little more--deeper, smoother--her mouth syncing perfectly with her hands. She breathes through her nose, steady and unhurried. She's not looking for praise. She's just in control.

And the control is driving me insane.

My abs tighten as she glides back up, lips sealing around the head again. She sucks slow, steady--with her tongue swirling in calculated strokes. It's not just oral. It's worship. Like I'm the only thing in the world right now.

And maybe I am.

I'm close. Too close. She feels it. Sensing the change, she removes her hand from my balls and plants both hands firmly on my shaft and then picks up the pace.

Faster. Deeper. Controlled chaos.

I gasp, struggling to speak. "I'm gonna--"

I try to pull her head back, but she slides her hands around to my hips and pulls me in deeper instead. Her throat takes me fully.

I lose it.

With a choked grunt, I come, hard. Release pours out of me, and she swallows every bit without flinching, mouth still wrapped around me like I belong there.

And in that moment, I do.

She releases me from her mouth with one last swirl of her tongue, then lets go of me completely--hands and all. I exhale, shaky and lightheaded, like I've been holding my breath through the whole thing.

I help her to her feet, her body slick against mine. She turns silently, leans over the sink and spits what she could of my release into the basin. She rinses quickly, then pivots back to face me and kisses me.

Hard.

There's no hesitation just hunger. Our mouths crash together like we've both been holding back too long, her tongue still tasting like me. I pull her in closer, my hands running down her damp back as her chest presses against mine.

Eventually, we step under the warm spray of the shower. No words just soap and touch. She lathers me slowly, her hands deliberate. I do the same to her, palms running over her chest, fingers teasing her nipples until they stiffen beneath the water. She hums softly, almost absentmindedly, as she reaches between us and wraps her hand around me again.

I'm still soft, but that doesn't last.

She doesn't speak, just glances down, notes the change in me, and smirks. Then she turns away, walks toward the wall, and pulls me by the base of my shaft, like a leash. A gentle tug but firm enough to say follow.

She braces one hand against the slick tile, the other guiding me behind her. Then, without a word, she bends at the hips, arching her back as she lines me up. Her hips shift backward -- slowly, deliberately -- and she sinks down onto me with a breathless sigh.

I groan -- low and guttural -- as I feel her warmth envelope me, tight and perfect. Her second hand joins the wall and she begins to move, hips rolling, bouncing herself back onto me with wet, rhythmic slaps that echo off the walls.

At first, I let her lead. Her pace, her rhythm. I hold her by the waist, thumbs pressing into her slick skin as I steady myself.

But after a few thrusts, instinct takes over.

Just as I'm about to drive in harder, she glances back over her shoulder -- eyes half-lidded, mouth parted.

"Elias," she breathes, barely audible over the water.

"Hard."

That's all it takes.

I grab her hips and slam into her with a force that makes her gasp and arch even deeper. Our bodies collide in a wet, relentless rhythm, the sound of skin against skin louder than the running water. Her hands brace against the wall as I pound into her, faster, harder, each thrust pushing her forward slightly before I drag her back onto me again.

My hips keep crashing into her, grunts echoing off the tiled walls. Each thrust is loud, wet, and deliberate, her ass slapping back against me in sync, hands braced tight against the wall.

But it doesn't last forever.

Eventually, my thighs start to burn and my pace falters. I settle into shorter, deeper strokes -- more controlled now, but just as intense. She matches me perfectly, pushing back into every thrust, riding the rhythm like we're connected at the spine.

I feel the pressure building, tight, electric, close. I pick up the pace again, hips slamming into her harder, rougher. She tries to keep up, but I feel her hand slip against the wet tile.

Before she collapses into the wall, I grab her waist and pull her back into me, holding her steady.

Then I slip out and she gasps from the sudden emptiness.

She lets out a soft, frustrated moan, trying to guide me back in, but I stop her. I take a step back, just enough to let her turn around and her eyes meet mine, dark and dazed, lips parted in confusion and heat.

Without a word, I step forward.

I press her back against the wall, wet tile slick against her skin and pin her there with my body. Her gasp is instant, her thighs parting almost instinctively as I lift one of them, hooking it around my hip.

She reaches under, trying to guide me back in, but I stop her.

With my hand guiding myself, I push back inside her, slow but firm and we both groan, our foreheads nearly touching.

"Fuck," she breathes, eyes fluttering.

My hand rests just under her ass, supporting her, the other gripping her wrist and pinning it lightly above her head against the wall. She wraps her arms around my neck for balance, but it's more than that it's grounding.

I start moving with deep strokes, deliberate, the wet sounds of us echoing between the walls. Her back arches off the tile, but I press her back against it again, chest to chest, lips brushing her neck.

"Elias," she pants.

That one word burns through me.

I slam into her -- rhythm shifting from steady to relentless. Her moans grow louder, breath hitching with every thrust. The shower rains down on both of us, hot and constant, but it's background noise now.

Her hands clutch at my shoulders, her nails scraping as she rides the edge. And I'm right there with her.

I growl into her neck, and just a few more hard, brutal thrusts later, I lose control. I bury myself in her and let go, hips bucking, jaw clenched as I release deep inside her.

She whimpers into my ear, her whole body trembling against the wall.

We hold there, pressed together, gasping, not speaking.

Eventually, I loosen my grip and ease her back to her feet. She leans into me, chest rising and falling in shaky rhythm. I press a soft kiss to her forehead. Her fingers trail down my spine.

We wash, still mostly silent -- that heavy, dazed silence after something that felt more like an earthquake than sex.

As we leave the bathroom, I finally speak. "Okay... wow. I've never done that before."

She laughs, weakly. "Me neither. Jesus."

Then, a mock-punch to the chest. "You could've broken my back, you know."

"Yeah, but... what a way to go," I grin. "The paramedics would've had to put me in a towel before rolling me out."

She bursts out laughing. "We'd be trending for all the wrong reasons."

We keep laughing as we collapse onto the bed. And later that night, still warm from the shower and the afterglow, we find each other again. Slower. Softer. Like the storm finally passed.

Light filters in through the curtains -- soft and golden, like the world knows it needs to tread carefully.

For the first time in a long time, I don't wake up alone.

For the first time, I wake up with her.

Sloane.

Her back's to me, one bare shoulder peeking out from beneath the sheet, hair a mess of dark waves against the pillow. My arm's around her waist, still draped there like it never moved. Like I never moved. Like part of me knew not to let her go.

She's breathing slow. Even. Still asleep.

I don't move. I just watch her.

It's strange, this stillness -- how quiet the world feels when you have everything you want right next to you. Usually I wake up with my brain already doing laps, trying to decipher the activities from the previous day, overthinking every moment I share with sloane. But now? My mind's still. Quiet, for once. Like she brought silence with her and left it as a gift on my pillow.

She shifts slightly, her body instinctively curling back into mine -- a soft, unconscious nudge that hits me harder than last night's orgasm. I tighten my arm just a little, pulling her in, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck.

She hums. Not quite awake. But not asleep anymore either.

I whisper, "Morning."

She doesn't answer. Just slides her hand over mine, fingers curling lazily between mine, and holds it against her stomach.

Minutes pass like that, no rush, no need to speak. The kind of peace you don't find often. The kind you don't realize you've been starving for until it shows up and fills every space inside you.

Eventually, she stirs fully. Blinks a few times, then turns slowly to face me. Her eyes are soft, half-lidded, lashes tangled from sleep. No makeup. No guard. Just her.

"Hey," she says, voice low and raspy. The kind of voice that comes from dreams.

"Hey," I echo.

We lie there, facing each other. No kisses. No groping. Just eyes and silence and a kind of gravity I've never felt before. Like if I speak too loud, it might all vanish.

"You didn't leave this time," she says, barely more than a whisper.

"No," I reply. "Didn't want to."

A long pause. Then she smiles not her playful one, not the smirk or the sarcastic twitch she throws out like armor but a real one. Small. Vulnerable.

"I like waking up like this," she says, eyes closing briefly.

"Me too."

Another pause. Then, without thinking, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She catches my wrist and holds it there, against her cheek.

We don't say what this means.

We don't label it.

We don't ruin it with questions.

We just stay like that -- two people in a bed, wrapped in sunlight, skin, and something heavier than lust.

And for now, that's enough.