Faygo Martini #2: Morning People

I woke cocooned, not just in tangled sheets, but in a lingering cloud of sweat, sex, and the skin-warmed, almost edible scent of vanilla. It was the perfume of Ashley, imprinted on me, in me. Pale gold light, soft and forgiving, seeped around the edges of the blackout curtains, painting lazy stripes across the ceiling. Ashley was still lost to the world beside me, sprawled on her stomach in that way that spoke of utter, unguarded sleep. One arm was a possessive weight draped across my chest, her other tucked beneath the pillow, her face turned slightly towards me, lips parted in a soft sigh. Her leg, long and impossibly smooth, rested over mine, a comforting pressure, a constant reminder of the night's glorious entwinements. Everywhere we touched, a low, simmering heat radiated between us. Which was, somehow, almost everywhere.

This. This was new.

Not the sex--though, dear God, the sex. That had been a revelation, a rewriting of every erotic fantasy I'd ever dared to entertain. No, what felt utterly, profoundly new was the quiet hum of contentment thrumming through me now. A sense of calm so deep it felt like settling into a warm bath after a lifetime of shivering. Safe. Wanted. Not just desired in the heat of the moment, but wanted, in the quiet light of morning.

I'd navigated a few morning-after landscapes before. They were usually minefields of awkward silences, smiles stretched too thin, and hasty, almost apologetic exits. A defensive part of me, conditioned by past disappointments, always braced for the inevitable judgment, the subtle downgrading that seemed to arrive with the harsh clarity of daylight. With Rhonda, sex had always felt like an audition I was perpetually failing, each position a performance piece, every feigned moan a frantic mental note: do better, try harder, be someone else.

But this? Lying here entangled with Ashley, my body a symphony of pleasant aches, my chest still faintly tacky with the drying evidence of our shared pleasure -- spilled cum and mingled sweat -- this was the first time I felt like I'd truly arrived. Like the relentless pursuit was over. Like I didn't have to keep proving my worth, my desirability, my right to be there.

Careful not to disturb her, I turned on my side, propping my head on my hand, and just... looked. An act of pure, unvarnished adoration.

Her back was a breathtaking landscape of subtle strength -- the elegant, sweeping line of her spine, the gentle, alluring slope of her waist disappearing beneath the rumpled sheet. A delicate constellation of freckles, like scattered cinnamon, dusted her shoulders and the exposed curve of her upper arm. One dark, errant curl clung to the vulnerable nape of her neck, still damp with the intimacy of sleep. The sheet had slipped, revealing the proud, powerful curve of her ass, the long, sculpted lines of her thighs -- bare, sublime, and radiating a warmth that made my stomach clench with an almost religious hunger. I wanted to map every inch of her with my tongue.

Unable to resist, I leaned in and pressed a feather-light kiss between her shoulder blades, tasting the salt and sweetness of her skin.

Then another, a little lower, tracing the indentation of her spine. A slow, sacred trail down her back.

She murmured something incoherent, a soft, sleepy sound, shifting slightly beneath my touch, but her breathing remained deep and even. She didn't wake.

I kept going. This was prayer. This was devotion. My lips brushed the delicate, almost invisible crease of her waist, then the proud, jutting curve of her hipbone. I kissed the impossibly soft skin on the inside of her thigh, inhaling deeply, breathing her in -- that intoxicating mix of vanilla, woman, and the lingering musk of our lovemaking.

She stirred again, a more definite movement this time. Her breath hitched, a small, sharp gasp that shivered through her. Her legs parted, just a fraction, a subtle, almost unconscious invitation that sent a jolt of pure, primal lust straight to my groin.

My own body responding instantly, I lowered myself between those glorious thighs, my thumb tracing lazy, anticipatory circles on the warm skin just above the dark, enticing thatch of curls that guarded her heat.

"Ben..." she whispered, her voice thick with sleep, a husky question.

I didn't answer with words. Instead, I kissed the soft, yielding flesh there, then again, a little higher, my nose brushing against those damp curls. With infinite tenderness, I parted her, exposing the glistening, swollen pearl of her clit. My tongue swept along the delicate seam, a slow, deliberate caress.

Ashley inhaled sharply, a ragged sound, her hips twitching, lifting almost imperceptibly off the mattress.

I flattened my tongue, dragging it upwards in one long, worshipful stroke, savoring every nuanced taste of her. She was slick, exquisitely salty-sweet, the undeniable flavor of recent sex, deep sleep, and pure Ashley. I circled her clit with the very tip of my tongue, a feather-light tease, then sucked gently, drawing a low, guttural moan from the depths of her throat.

Her hands, moments before relaxed, clenched tight in the sheets. Her formidable thighs tensed around my head, a delicious pressure.

"Fuck, Ben..." she breathed, the words a desperate plea. "Don't... oh God... don't stop..."

I wouldn't. I couldn't. I never wanted to stop. This felt like my sole purpose in the universe. I buried my face in her, a devoted simp at her altar. I alternated pressure, a rhythm of gentle laps and deeper, more insistent slurps, teasing the edges, then focusing with unwavering dedication on that central, throbbing point of her pleasure. My fingers, instinctively knowing, slid inside her, finding her slick and welcoming. I curled them slowly, deeply, feeling her inner muscles clench around me, until she bucked hard against my mouth, a silent scream building in her throat. I listened to every subtle shift in her breath, every tremor that ran through her magnificent frame, adjusting my rhythm, my touch, to match the rising crescendo of her body's song.

When she came, it was sudden, violent, and utterly all-consuming. Her thighs clamped around my head with surprising strength, her back arched dramatically off the bed, a raw, keening cry ripped from her chest, so loud and unrestrained it seemed to vibrate the very air around us.

I held her through the quake, my mouth still pressed against her, my fingers still stroking rhythmically inside her as her orgasm dragged out, a long, luxurious, shuddering wave, until she finally collapsed, boneless and panting, against the mattress.

I crawled up beside her, laying myself down in the warm, damp space she'd made. We were both slick with sweat and her release, breathless and utterly spent. She didn't say anything at first. Just turned her head, found my mouth, and kissed me, long and slow and deep, tasting herself on my lips, a claiming that sent another wave of heat through me.

"You," she finally said, her voice wrecked, husky, and filled with an awe that made my chest swell, "are one sexy little fuck."

I grinned, burying my face in the warm curve of her shoulder. "You can cum on my face any day, Ashley Lotz."

We looked at each other then, a comfortable silence stretching between us, filled only with the sound of our mingled breathing.

"Do you have Friday class?" she asked finally, her voice regaining some of its usual strength.

I nodded, a reluctant admission. "One. Macroeconomics. It, uh... it started about ten minutes ago." A beat. "Fuck it."

A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. "Good boy. Friday is my free day."

"Well," I said, feeling my cock twitch with a fresh wave of anticipation despite the thoroughness of our morning, "that's just wonderful news."

She stretched, a slow, languid movement like a contented panther, a satisfied groan rumbling in her chest. Her limbs, all elegant length and subtle power, draped over me like sun-warmed silk.

Her lips brushed my collarbone, a fleeting, electric touch, and then she shifted, a fluid motion that somehow resulted in me being on my feet, gently but firmly herded toward the full-length mirror leaning against her wall.

"Stand there," she murmured, her voice low and thick with a delicious, brewing mischief. "Hands at your sides. Don't move."

I did as I was told, my heart beginning to thump a heavy, anticipatory rhythm against my ribs. My reflection stared back, looking flushed and thoroughly debauched.

Ashley stepped in behind me, a towering, glorious silhouette. Her eyes, dark and intense in the mirror, drank me in, a slow, possessive appraisal that made my skin prickle. Her hands landed on my chest, palms warm and calloused against my nipples. She kneaded them gently at first, then her touch grew bolder, pinching, rolling them between her fingers with an expert touch that drew an involuntary groan from my lips.

"You've got the prettiest tits I've ever seen on a boy," she whispered, her breath warm against my ear, her voice a husky caress that sent shivers down my spine. "I wanna bite them. Tug them while I make you whimper my name."

She pressed her body fully against mine, her heat molding to my back, her firm breasts a delightful pressure against my shoulder blades. Her hips began to grind into my ass in slow, lazy, deliberate circles, a rhythm that promised exquisite torment.

I gasped when her hand slid around to my cock, which, predictably, was already half-hard again, straining against her touch.

"You like this, don't you, Ben?" she said, her voice gone even huskier, laced with a knowing satisfaction. "Being touched like this. Knowing you're mine to play with."

Her other hand slid lower, fingers trailing a path of fire down my spine, then parting my cheeks. One finger pressed against my opening--gentle at first, a teasing exploration, then more insistent, a clear demand. I tensed instinctively. Then moaned, a low, helpless sound, as she pushed in, slow and steady, stretching me, invading me.

"Fuck," I panted, my head dropping back against her shoulder, my body already starting to tremble.

"Shh," she breathed into my ear, her voice a soothing balm against the rising tide of sensation. She began stroking my cock harder, faster, her finger curling inside me, a molten core of pleasure and pressure. "Let me in, baby. Let me feel all of you. Every last inch."

The pressure, the heat, the sheer, exhilarating filth of it--my body shook with the force of it. My cock throbbed violently against her relentless grip, desperate for release.

"I'm gonna--"

Before I could finish the sentence, she dropped to her knees. Took me into her mouth in one slick, practiced motion, swallowing every frantic spasm, every drop of my release, while her finger stayed buried deep inside me, rooting me to the spot. The world blurred. Colors exploded behind my eyelids.

When I came, it was explosive. Blinding. I saw stars against the mirrored surface of my own wide, ecstatic eyes as my body bucked and convulsed.

Ashley held me through it, her mouth working expertly, licking me clean while my knees threatened to give out from under me. I'd barely caught my breath when I felt her fingers slide back into me--wet, unrelenting, and this time, there were two.

"After breakfast," she murmured, her voice feral now, a low growl that vibrated against my skin, "I'm going to make your ass mine."

My breath caught in my throat. My heart hammered.

"I want you ruined for anyone else, Ben," she continued, her lips brushing my earlobe, sending another jolt through me. "Marked up. Owned. I want you moaning my name while I take you and don't stop until I'm absolutely sure you won't ever forget who you belong to."

She bit my earlobe then, a sharp, possessive nip that was pure, undiluted Ashley. "You trust me, baby?"

"Yes, ma'am," I whispered, my voice shaky, dizzy with the raw, intoxicating promise of her words.

Her fingers slipped free, leaving me aching, open, and utterly desperate for more. She kissed the back of my neck, a tender counterpoint to her fierce words, then smacked my ass once, a sharp, stinging sound that echoed in the quiet room.

"Good boy," she purred, her voice laced with satisfaction. "Now let's get dressed. Smells like Zina's actually making something edible out there, and I'm starving."

Ashley and I emerged from the sensual cocoon of her bedroom still glowing with the aftershocks of our morning, both of us clad in comfortable gym shorts. She wore a tight, white tank top, braless, her nipples faintly, exquisitely visible through the thin fabric. I was bare-chested, my skin already feeling flushed and hypersensitive before we even reached the kitchen's warmth.

We walked in on Zina and Anna mid-argument--if you could even call it that. It looked more like a particularly intense form of foreplay.

Anna was pinned against the refrigerator, lips parted, panting slightly as Zina's formidable body pressed into hers. One of Zina's arms was braced high above Anna's head, the other hand buried deep in the waistband of Anna's loose sweatpants. Anna gasped, shuddered, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "I'm sorry, babe, I just needed to know what happened! It was only two episodes, I swear!"

Zina leaned in, her voice calm, cool, and devastatingly soft. "You watched two episodes of our show without me, Anna-banana, and now you expect breakfast as if nothing is amiss?"

Anna whimpered, biting her lip, the intricate tattoos covering her arms pulled taut against her skin. "I'll rewatch them with you, I swear--fuck, please, Zee--please--"

Zina's hidden hand moved, a deliberate, unseen motion, and Anna sagged against the fridge with a helpless, strangled moan, her eyes fluttering shut. Then, with an almost casual air, Zina turned her head.

"Morning, lovebirds," she said to us, her expression utterly serene, as if she wasn't currently knuckle-deep in her girlfriend.

Anna squirmed, her face a mask of exquisite agony and mortification. "Oh my God--can I please go clean up real quick? Please?"

Zina gave her one final, maddeningly slow stroke, then pulled her hand free with a soft, wet sound. "No. You will sit. You will eat. And you will be a very good girl for me."

Anna whined under her breath, a sound of pure, frustrated longing, but she obeyed, sliding into a chair at the small kitchen table. She caught my eye then, her own gaze a potent cocktail of commiseration and profound respect. "So," she said, her voice still a little shaky. "Welcome to the club. The meetings are... whenever they let us out of bed."

Ashley just grinned, a flash of white teeth, poured herself a mug of coffee from the pot, and plopped down at the table with an air of queenly nonchalance. I followed, easing into the seat beside her, acutely aware of every nerve ending in my body. Her hand immediately found my thigh under the table, her touch warm and possessive.

"Nice tits, Ben," Zina commented dryly as she passed me a mug of coffee. Her gaze was appraising, a hint of amusement in her dark eyes.

I turned a shade of red I didn't know my skin was capable of achieving. "She, uh... she wouldn't let me put on a shirt."

Anna laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound. "Girl loves playing with her food."

We dug into a mountain of pancakes, crispy bacon, and fluffy scrambled eggs, the comfortable clatter of forks against plates and the low hum of background gossip filling the sun-drenched space.

"So," Anna said, her voice still a little shaky but recovering quickly as she gestured vaguely at Ashley with her fork. "Other than what my stalker roommate has told me, I don't actually know that much about you. What's your deal, Ben?"

Ashley grunted playfully. "It's not stalking, it's supportive observation from a distance."

"I'm in the theater department," I offered, taking a grateful sip of coffee. "Right now I'm directing a play I wrote. It's... a whole thing."

Anna raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh, a writer-director? Fancy. What's it called?"

"Faygo Martini," I said.

"If it's about Juggalos, I'm in," Anna declared.

Zina tilted her head, her expression thoughtful as she took a slow bite of bacon. "Where'd a name like that come from?"

"My aunt," I explained, feeling a familiar warmth spread through me at the memory. "She used to let me drink Faygo out of her fancy martini glasses when I was a kid. Made me feel incredibly sophisticated. She was... well, she was kind of tragic, in the grand scheme of things, but also pretty incredible. A big reason I got into theater in the first place."They both nodded, their expressions softening, more serious now.

"Sounds like something worth watching." Zina said, a genuine note of warmth in her voice.

Anna finished her last bite of pancake and looked toward Zina, her eyes wide and hopeful, like a puppy waiting for a treat.

Zina wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin, then turned her gaze, slow and deliberate, to her girlfriend.

"Tell Ben it was nice to see him again. Tell Ashley you're happy for her. Then you will go get yourself ready for me in the bedroom. And Anna? Do not make me mad today."

Anna swallowed hard, her eyes wide and glassy with a mixture of fear and eager anticipation.

"Nice seeing you again, Ben," she said quickly, her voice a little breathless. "Ash, you're literally glowing. I'm so happy for you. Okay. Going now. Definitely going."

She practically bolted from the room. Zina calmly followed her, pausing only to give us a small, knowing nod. "Enjoy the rest of your breakfast, you two."

And then they were gone, the click of their bedroom door echoing softly in the suddenly quiet kitchen.

Ashley leaned into me, her hand moving higher up my thigh, her touch sending shivers of anticipation through me. Her fingers found me, already hardening again under the table. She didn't make a show of it--just rubbed gently, possessively, her thumb stroking the sensitive underside, while we both kept sipping our coffee, the silence charged with unspoken promises.

We were quiet for a long moment, the only sounds the distant hum of the city and our own soft breathing.

Then she kissed my cheek, a soft, lingering press of her lips. "Shower. Now."

Before I could respond, she tugged my shorts down with one smooth, decisive pull, leaving them pooled around my ankles.

"Turn the water on. Get it nice and hot. I'll be right behind you."

I stood, half-dazed, my body thrumming. "Yes, ma'am."

Then I disappeared down the hall toward the bathroom, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, every nerve ending alive with the promise of what was to come.

The water was already steaming, filling the small bathroom with a comforting, tropical humidity by the time Ashley joined me. She peeled her tank top over her head like it owed her money, the movement fluid and unselfconscious. She stepped out of her shorts, kicked them carelessly aside, and climbed in behind me under the hot, pulsing spray.

She let me stand there for a moment, just breathing, letting the heat soak into my skin, washing away the lingering traces of sleep and the morning's exertions. Then she took the bar of soap, lathered it generously in her strong hands, and began washing me--her touch slow, methodical, a catechism on my skin, yet undeniably proprietary.

"I love that you're not all hard edges," she murmured, her hand splaying across the gentle curve of my stomach. "There's more of you for me to hold onto."

I let out a shaky, surprised laugh. "That's the first time anyone's ever complimented my stomach without trying to sell me a gym membership."

My turn. I took the soap from her, the bar warm and slick in my hand, and paid her back in kind--my hands gliding over her strong back, under the proud swell of her breasts, across the hard, flat plane of her stomach. I teased at the sharp V of her hips, feeling her shiver and press into my touch.

"You keep that up, Ben," she said, her voice a little breathless, a warning laced with desire, "and we're not making it out of this shower for a very long time."

"I'm kind of counting on it," I admitted, my voice equally unsteady.

She turned me gently, her hands firm on my shoulders, and pressed me against the cool, smooth tile of the shower wall. Then, she knelt.

"Ash--" I started, my voice cracking.

"Shhh. Just relax, baby. Let me take care of you."

Her fingers, slick with soap and water, worked with an almost divine patience, teasing around the rim of my ass, then easing in slowly, carefully, stretching me with an infinite, loving care that stole my breath away. Her other hand braced my hip, grounding me, a steady anchor in the rising storm of sensation. I moaned, a low, helpless sound, my knees shaking, my fingers clutching uselessly at the cool, slick tile for support.

The shower hissed around us, steam curling up the walls, cocooning us in a private, sensual world. My hands clutched at the tile as her finger sank deeper, another joining it soon after, the pressure building, pushing past discomfort into a realm of pure, shocking pleasure. The pressure made me gasp, made my vision swim, made my entire body tremble.

Ashley's mouth was at my back, kissing a trail down my spine, her lips soft and warm, murmuring things I couldn't quite process, words of praise, of possession. Her hand slid around to my cock--but she didn't touch it directly. Instead, she stroked the soft, sensitive skin of my inner thigh, my hip, the vulnerable curve of my belly, her touch light as a feather, yet setting off explosions deep inside me.

And I came. With no warning, no direct contact with my cock, no conscious buildup. Just her fingers deep inside me, her hot breath on my skin, her voice a seductive litany in my ear. My legs nearly gave out, and I would have crumpled if not for her strong hands holding me steady.

"Jesus," I whispered, the word a prayer, a curse, an exclamation of pure bliss.

She stood, her body strong and solid against mine, held me up, and kissed the side of my neck. When the water was turned off, she didn't hand me a towel. She took a thick, plush one from the rack and began to dry me herself. The terrycloth was rough against my over-sensitized skin, but her hands were gentle. She dried my hair, my shoulders, my back, with a slow deliberation that was both maddeningly chaste and intensely intimate. Every touch was a promise. Every look in her dark eyes a chapter yet to be written.

"Let's get you in bed," she said, her voice soft now, yet firm with undeniable intent.

And I followed, pliant and eager, ready for whatever she had planned.

Ashley guided me back into the bedroom, her hand firm and possessive on my lower back. I climbed onto the mattress, my heart hammering, my limbs still trembling with aftershocks, and laid down on my back, instinctively spreading my legs.

I knew what was coming. Or at least, I thought I did.

It was something I'd fantasized about--jacked off to countless times, read illicit stories about in the dark corners of the internet, even half-joked about with exes who would have run screaming at the mere suggestion. But I never, ever thought it would actually happen. Not to me. Not like this, with such open, loving intent. And yet, lying there, legs spread wide in offering, watching Ashley retrieve a sleek, black strap-on from her nightstand and begin to buckle it around her hips with calm, methodical, almost consecrated grace--it felt... right. Like a missing piece of myself clicking into place.

She caught me watching, my eyes wide and fixed on her every movement, and she smiled -- a smile so tender, so fiercely, beautifully wild, it stole the breath from my lungs.

"You're so fucking pretty like this, Ben," she said, her voice a low, husky caress. "All open for me."

She crawled onto the bed, moving with that predatory grace that was uniquely hers, and settled between my parted legs. She kissed her way down my body, a slow, adoring journey, pausing only to flick her tongue across my already aching nipples, before her strong, knowing hands coaxed my legs even wider, higher, until my ankles rested on her powerful shoulders. She rimmed me then, slowly, thoroughly, with a focus that bordered on the religious, her tongue circling, teasing, laving, opening me up until I was gasping, panting, clutching helplessly at the sheets. She slicked her fingers with lube, then the toy, her movements unhurried, deliberate. She took her time, building the anticipation, drawing out the exquisite torture.

When the thick, blunt tip of the dildo pressed against my entrance, I tensed, a lifetime of ingrained anxieties tightening my muscles.

Ashley kissed the inside of my thigh, her voice a soft, soothing balm against my fear. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe for me. Let me in. Trust me."

I did. I focused on her voice, on her touch, on the unwavering love in her eyes. Slowly, I forced myself to relax, to open. Her hands never left me. One rested on my chest, over my racing heart, the other on my hip, grounding me, holding me steady. Inch by agonizing, exquisite inch, the toy slid deeper. The burn was real. Sharp. Intense. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. But beneath the initial shock, behind the stretching, aching pressure, was a burgeoning heat, a different kind of sensation that hinted at something deeper, something profound. A pleasure I hadn't known existed, waiting to bloom in the most unexpected of places.

She bottomed out, filling me completely, and stopped, laying her body over mine, her forehead resting gently against my cheek, her breath warm and steady against my skin.

"Just like that," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "See? I've got you."

I nodded, unable to speak, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over. It wasn't pain, not really. Not anymore. It was the sheer enormity of it. The absolute, terrifying trust I had placed in her, and the way she held it, cherished it. The way she held me, like I was precious, like I was everything. The deep, profound ache inside me was already softening, transforming into something sweeter, something that felt like coming home.

I shifted, a small adjustment, a settling into the sensation.

And then I felt it--that deep, molten core of pleasure coiling and uncurling low in my belly, a sensation so intense, so overwhelming, it made my toes curl.

"Please," I whispered, the word torn from me, a raw, desperate plea. "Oh God, Ashley... fuck me."

Ashley smiled, a fierce, triumphant, divinely missioned smile.

She pulled back slowly, almost agonizingly, then thrust in again, gentle at first, then firmer, deeper. Her rhythm built with each stroke, a steady, powerful tempo that my body instinctively began to crave, to meet. She lifted my legs higher, draping them completely over her shoulders, the angle changing everything, deepening her penetration, hitting something inside me -- my prostate, I dimly registered -- that made me see white, made stars explode behind my eyelids.

"That's it, baby," she moaned, her voice a low, guttural growl of pure satisfaction, her hips bucking against mine. "My good fucking boy. You take it so well. So fucking well for me."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. My hands were fisted in the sheets, my knuckles white, my mouth open in a soundless cry of utter, abject surrender. I came again, untouched by any hand but hers, deep inside me, stars bursting behind my eyes, my body convulsing around her.

Ashley didn't stop. If anything, my orgasm seemed to fuel her.

With a strength that belied her graceful movements, she flipped me onto my stomach, her hands gripping my hips, positioning me. I barely had time to gasp, to register the change, before she was inside me again, relentless now, her thrusts powerful, purposeful, driving into me with a fierce, loving energy that was all Ashley. The wet, percussive slap of our skin, her deep, guttural groans, the way she gripped my body like it was hers to command, hers to cherish, hers to break and remake.

She came with a ragged, soaring cry, her hips trembling violently, her entire body folding over mine as her release washed through her.

We collapsed together in a slick, tangled, trembling heap. Her weight on top of me was perfect. Grounding. Steadying. Claiming.

I turned my head, found her shoulder, kissed it. Her collarbone. Her damp cheek, tasting the salt of her sweat, her tears. I licked the moisture from her skin, my own breath ragged, my brain melted into a puddle of blissful goo. I couldn't stop touching her.

There were no words left. None that mattered.

Just my heart beating a frantic, syncopated rhythm under hers.

And the quiet, profound, earth-shattering certainty that nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever be the same again.

Sleep, heavy and sweet, pulled me under while her fingers, strong and gentle, tangled with mine.

I didn't let go. I never wanted to let go.