What He Saw in the Archive Pt.02

Introduction:

If you want the full story read part 1 first so you will understand how did it end up here.

She never meant to keep the video.

She never meant for him to see it never meant for that old, messy memory to come between them.

But now it's out in the open, and nothing feels the same.

He can't look at her the way he used to. She can't quite touch him the way she wants.

A past she forgot, a secret he can't unsee.

Desire tangled with doubt, shame mixing with longing, and two lovers learning just how much forgiveness and craving can change a love story.

One slip, one secret, and everything they thought was safe is suddenly up for grabs.

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It wasn't supposed to be a dramatic love.

Not with him.

And Mara loved that.

She'd had drama. She'd had obsession, chaos, arguments in the rain, nights spent alone in a bed still warm from someone else's body. With Stefan her ex it had always been that way: too much, too loud, too quick to burn and then turn to ash.

But with him her boyfriend, her actual partner, her safe place it was different. They moved around each other in lazy circles, gentle, teasing, quietly intimate in ways that felt like exhaling after years of holding her breath. He never yelled. He never accused. He asked about her day and actually listened to the answer.

It was that kind of relationship.

No secrets.

No rules about phones or messages.

No reason to worry.

So when she left her phone on the kitchen counter that night, it didn't even cross her mind that he might see anything he shouldn't. She was chopping vegetables for dinner, laughing as he danced awkwardly to some old pop song, the windows open to the early summer breeze. He'd asked if he could pick a playlist, and she just tossed him her phone, smiling.

"Surprise me," she said, her voice easy, warm, unguarded.

He was never nosy. Never went through her messages, her photos, her old files. If anything, he was more careless with his privacy than she was. They'd traded devices a hundred times changing a song, looking up a recipe, checking a map on the drive home from a friend's place. Sometimes she'd find an open DM, an old selfie, a half-typed note, and it would make her smile, how ordinary it all was.

That's what made her love him most.

He was ordinary, and in all the ways she craved.

No games, no hidden wounds at least, none she ever saw.

If she sometimes felt a flicker of guilt for how wild she'd been before, she didn't show it. The things she did with Stefan, the things she said those were years ago. They didn't matter now. She'd deleted what she remembered, purged what she could, sworn off old habits and old lovers. Whatever files or photos were left on her phone had been buried by hundreds of lazy Sunday selfies, recipe screenshots, screenshots of memes she meant to show him.

If there were ghosts, she'd forgotten them.

She looked over at him as he scrolled, his face half-lit by the blue glow of her screen, his hair messy, his brow furrowed in mock concentration as he hunted for a song.

"You find something good?" she teased, nudging his hip with hers.

He grinned, a crooked smile she adored. "You'll see."

She let herself lean into him, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the music changed, something slow and familiar, the kind of song that made you want to dance in the kitchen at midnight.

She was happy.

Uncomplicated.

Loved.

If there were any old ghosts haunting her phone, she couldn't remember them, and she didn't worry. Why would she?

She'd found what she was looking for.

She'd found home.

****

The night after dinner was unremarkable.

They curled up together on the couch, legs tangled, her head tucked under his chin as they watched reruns of an old sitcom. She drifted off halfway through, lulled by the weight of his hand on her hip and the warmth of his breath in her hair.

Later, she showered. Warm water. Lavender shampoo. A quick check of her skin in the foggy mirror. She padded out in just a towel, humming to herself, and slipped into bed beside him.

He was on his phone nothing unusual. He always stayed up a little later than she did, scrolling, reading, or playing some mindless game. She kissed his cheek, pressed her body close, and let herself drift, feeling safe, small, and loved in the dark.

In the morning, she woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of dishes. He'd gotten up first, already half dressed, making breakfast like he did when he was feeling sweet. She watched him from the doorway, feeling a familiar ache of affection in her chest.

"Hey, chef," she teased, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.

He smiled, but there was something almost shy in the way he ducked his head. "Just wanted to surprise you."

She kissed his shoulder. "You're the best."

They ate together, talking about nothing the weather, weekend plans, a funny thing she'd seen online. He was quieter than usual, but she chalked it up to early morning sleepiness. She liked that about him: he could be silent without making her anxious. She never worried about being too much, or too little.

The days blurred pleasantly together work, groceries, takeout, shared showers, lazy sex in the afternoons when sunlight filled the room. Sometimes she caught him staring at her, his expression soft and distant. She liked to think it was love. She never imagined it might be something else.

There was no sign that anything was wrong.

No hint of the storm brewing quietly in the background.

Her phone lay forgotten on the counter, buried under unopened mail and half finished grocery lists. She never checked old folders, never worried about the past. Her life was here, now with him.

If he was quieter some days, she chalked it up to work stress.

If he was rougher in bed, she assumed he was just hungry for her.

If he touched her with more urgency, more insistence, she welcomed it eager to show him she was his.

She didn't know what he'd found.

She didn't know what he was watching, what he was thinking, or how her past was unfurling, dark and wild, across the screen in the next room.

She didn't know that, in his mind, she'd become a secret she didn't even remember keeping.

She was just happy.

Blissfully, heartbreakingly unaware.

****

The week after was ordinary.

She went to work, shared dumb memes with her friends, planned an overdue girls' brunch, texted him about dinner, and felt lucky actually lucky that she could still get butterflies from the simplest things.

He'd always felt like home. Safe. Steady.

That Thursday night, she finished a bottle of wine with him in the living room, both of them sprawled on the rug, tipsy, joking about how terrible they were at trivia. He kept looking at her, his gaze hot and searching, like he wanted to say something but didn't quite have the words.

She thought he might be about to propose.

The idea flashed through her, silly and sweet, making her cheeks flush.

She let herself imagine the future a tiny apartment, a cat, weekend getaways, wedding plans, laughter in the kitchen.

Instead, when she reached for his hand, he squeezed it too hard, his knuckles white.

His eyes darted away, lips tightening for a moment.

He laughed it off, joked about work, and started clearing glasses.

She watched him move restless, tense in a way she didn't understand.

After he went to bed, she tidied up, humming, her mind spinning stories about vacations and secret love notes. She thought about sex: how he'd been rougher, more intense lately, sometimes holding her tighter, sometimes letting his hands linger around her throat, his voice lower, his words filthier. She liked it. She liked how it made her feel wanted, claimed, adored.

She chalked it up to passion. A second wind.

A sign they were still good. Better than good. She sent a giddy text to her best friend, emojis and all.

But there were new silences, subtle at first.

He didn't always meet her eyes in the morning. Sometimes she caught him staring at her while she brushed her hair, the look in his eyes unfathomable hungry and distant at the same time.

He wanted her more, but kissed her less.

He lingered in the shower, alone, locked the bathroom door, came out smelling like soap and steam and something sharp beneath it.

She didn't ask. She didn't pry.

She trusted him. They'd always trusted each other.

One night, she lay awake while he slept beside her, moonlight painting silver shapes on the duvet. She touched his cheek, brushed her lips to his shoulder, whispered "I love you" just to feel the way the words tasted in the dark.

He stirred, half-asleep, pulling her close.

In the morning, he was sweet again. Made her coffee. Kissed her like nothing was wrong.

If there was a shadow between them, she told herself it was just the weather. Just life.

She never once thought to blame herself, or her past, or some ancient ghost of a man she'd long forgotten.

She lived in the light, trusting that he was there with her, that they were building something strong and safe.

She didn't know that in the dark, he was hunting through folders, reliving things she barely remembered, obsessing over a version of her that wasn't real anymore.

She didn't know that he was falling apart slowly, silently, all for love of her.

To her, they were still happy.

To her, he was still hers.

But in the small, quiet spaces, the air was starting to hum with something unsaid.

She just didn't know what.

****

The silence started to itch.

Little things easy to ignore at first. He flinched when she touched his phone on the coffee table. He shut his laptop too quickly. Some mornings, his smile was just a little bit off: too bright, too brittle, like a mask held in place.

She tried to tell herself she was imagining it.

Maybe work was stressful. Maybe he was tired. Maybe she was overthinking she could do that, sometimes, spiral herself into little storms out of nothing.

But at night, lying in bed, she could feel the distance. His arms would be around her, but his mind was somewhere else far away and unreachable.

And that hurt in a way she couldn't explain.

It wasn't just about sex, or comfort, or even love. It was about knowing, deep down, when someone is no longer fully yours.

She started to check herself.

Maybe she was being too clingy. Maybe she should pull back.

She made extra plans with friends, spent longer at work, tried to give him space.

But the ache didn't go away.

One Saturday, while he was in the shower, his phone buzzed on the kitchen table. Just a text nothing special, she thought. She picked it up, intending to check the sender, but the screen flashed open to Files.

She saw a folder she didn't recognize:

SYS_CACHE_7

A neutral name. No thumbnail.

She almost backed out almost.

But something made her tap.

The first image nearly made her drop the phone.

It was her. On her knees. Her lips parted, tongue out, cheeks flushed, eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes in thick, humid streaks. Her hair was wild, tangled from fingers and sweat, falling in loose waves around her face. Stefan stood over her, his hand tangled in her hair, his cock thick and glistening, veins standing out under the skin, the head already shining with spit and cum. She could see it herself, mouth open, eyes rolled up, tongue outstretched just as the first mess of him painted her lips and chin.

She remembered the heat of the room, the nervous laughter that turned to something raw as he pressed her head down, the heavy, filthy slap of skin on skin as he guided her through it, whispering praise and dirty commands until she couldn't think of anything but taking more. She remembered the flash of the camera, the way she'd posed after, holding his cock next to her cheek, giggling at the obscene size difference, smearing his cum across her lips with her fingers just to make him laugh. All of it came rushing back with a clarity that hurt.

She hadn't seen this picture in years. She'd honestly forgotten it existed. The memory flashed so vividly the cheap hotel sheets, the dizzy mix of shame and excitement, the way they'd laughed and collapsed into each other afterward, sticky and wild and seventeen kinds of wrong.

It felt like another life.

She swiped through, heart in her throat.

Another photo: her body sprawled on the bed, black lace stockings twisted around her thighs, Stefan's hand gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks. The angle was intimate, stolen, her face flushed and dazed as she looked up at him, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Her legs were open, his cock resting between them, thick and wet against her skin. The glisten of their mess smeared across her thigh. The sight made her stomach turn not just with shock, but with the strange, old ache of being that version of herself.

A short video auto-played. Shaky camera. Her own laughter, high and breathless. The sound of Stefan's voice, low and cocky, telling her to "ride it, baby, let's show the camera how much you love it." She could see herself straddling him, hips moving in slow, eager circles, sweat slick on her skin, breasts bouncing with every grind. She'd braced one hand on his chest, the other holding the phone, face twisted in pleasure as she looked straight into the lens. Her words, faint but clear: "God, I forgot how full you make me..."

Another video this time, his hands in her hair, her face shiny with spit, eyes glassy. The sound was wet and obscene: the slap of his hips, the muffled gags as he pushed deeper, the choked, desperate moans that she never thought she'd hear outside that tiny hotel. She saw herself flinch, tears breaking free at the corners of her eyes, but she kept going hands gripping his thighs, letting him use her, losing herself in the rhythm and noise and heat.

Her stomach twisted.

Not with guilt, but with fear.

How long had he known?

How many times had he seen her like this raw, desperate, used? Was this why he'd pulled away lately, why he seemed quieter and sadder, his touch sometimes hesitant? Was he disgusted by her now, or just haunted by the pieces of herself she'd forgotten she'd ever left behind?

She wanted to cry, but instead her body moved on autopilot methodical, frantic. She set his phone down, grabbed her own, opened her Photos app. Searched the folders she hadn't thought about in years, the old, hidden archive tucked away behind bland file names. "ARCHIVE_SET_2019 PRIVATE." There it was, still full of evidence she'd meant to erase a hundred times, but always put off. Too much history. Too much effort.

She started deleting them. Every single one. Tap. Delete. Confirm. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hit the buttons. Her heart hammered like she'd just run a race.

But then one last video caught her eye.

A moving car. The camera jostled, sunlight flickering over the dashboard. Her own thighs, bare and pale, stretched wide across Stefan's lap. Her skirt was hiked up, panties off, his jeans half-open, and she was riding him slow, steady, every bounce captured in the shaky frame. Her hair was stuck to her cheek, her mouth open in a silent moan. She could hear herself gasping, laughing softly, trying not to make noise but failing, the thrill of being so exposed, so reckless, shining in her eyes. Stefan's voice was in the background, soft and smug: "Look at you, Mara. Can't get enough even on the highway..."

She paused the video, staring at her own face flushed, bright, alive in a way that felt both foreign and painfully familiar.

Her chest ached. She didn't want Stefan. She didn't want to be that girl again. But seeing it all through her own eyes, after so long, made her understand how easy it would be for anyone especially someone she loved to get lost in those images.

She pressed delete, watched the screen flicker black, and sat in silence, the ghost of her own moans echoing in her ears.

She could only hope it wasn't too late to save what mattered now.

She wasn't that girl anymore.

But seeing it, she understood:

Her boyfriend had seen it all.

All the raw, hungry, messy parts of her she'd never shown him, because she thought he'd only ever wanted her softer side.

She deleted the file.

Watched the screen go black.

A single, final ache gripped her chest not regret, but a sense of loss. Not for Stefan, or the past, but for the easy trust she'd had with the man she loved.

He'd seen her all of her.

And he hadn't told her.

That night, they sat together on the couch, watching a movie she barely followed. She kept glancing at him, searching for any sign.

His hand found hers.

She squeezed it, hard, and tried to breathe.

Neither of them said a word.

They went to bed early, bodies close but hearts somewhere else.

And as she lay there, staring at the ceiling, she wondered:

Could love survive this much silence?

****

She hadn't meant to come home early.

A meeting was canceled. The weather was perfect. She bought pastries from the little bakery on her street, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. Maybe today would be better, she told herself. Maybe tonight, after the weird silences and the unspoken tension, they'd finally talk. Laugh. Make love. Reconnect.

She opened the apartment door quietly.

His keys were in the bowl by the mirror, shoes by the mat he was home. But the TV was off, no music played. The only sound was the low, unmistakable thrum of a video behind the half-closed bedroom door.

She paused.

At first, she smiled at the familiar sight of his sneakers by the door, thinking maybe he was napping, sprawled out with a book over his chest. The apartment was still, the low afternoon sun painting a buttery haze across the kitchen tiles. She set her bag down softly, tiptoeing so as not to wake him.

Then she heard it.

Not a snore, not the murmur of the television something unmistakably fleshier. The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin, the frantic rhythm of it, underscored by the hiss of breath and a woman's pleading, broken moans.

Porn, she realized, cheeks burning. He was watching porn.

She hovered in the hallway, unsure her body flooded with a prickling cocktail of embarrassment and curiosity. She told herself to turn around, to give him privacy.

But she didn't.

Curiosity tugged her closer.

She crept down the hall, each step slow, silent, holding her breath. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar, cracked just enough for her to see inside. Her heart hammered, her throat thick with something between dread and intrigue.

She peeked through the opening.

There he was.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, bare legs braced wide, boxers shoved down to his thighs. His back was tense, his shoulders hunched, and his right hand was working his cock in fast, tight strokes fist gliding wetly from tip to base, knuckles shining in the light. His other hand gripped his phone, propped up on the comforter at the perfect angle.

He wasn't just watching he was riveted.

She saw how his jaw clenched with concentration, his lips parted as he breathed through his mouth, his chest rising and falling with the desperate, guilty energy of someone lost to their own need.

She followed his gaze to the screen, and her own pulse stuttered.

It was a homemade-style video POV, close, raw. A woman, petite and flushed, was on her knees. A man's hand buried in her hair, guiding her mouth down over the length of a cock that was so much larger than she could handle, her throat bulging as she choked and gurgled around it. The audio was brutal:

Schlup. Glkk.

The woman gasped for breath, mascara streaked, spit trailing from her lips to her trembling fist.

He groaned, "Yeah, that's it... watch your girlfriend get used. You like that, don't you?"

The boyfriend's voice soft, shattered whimpered from behind the camera, "God, yes. Fuck, yes. She looks so happy..."

Her own face flushed hot. She realized what she was seeing what he was seeing.

It was them, but not them.

A couple acting out their own humiliation and pleasure, a woman begging for more, for forgiveness, for the rough stretch that made her eyes roll back and her jaw go slack.

On screen, the woman's voice broke as she moaned, "He's so much bigger, I'm sorry, baby... I need it, I need you to watch please, please "

The camera jerked as the man filming stroked himself, groaning encouragement, lost in the spectacle.

She watched, transfixed, as her boyfriend's strokes matched the pace of the video, tightening with each frantic gasp and plea on screen. She could see the tip of his cock, flushed and weeping, his fist sliding up and down in quick, slick bursts.

He was trembling now, biting his lip, nearly whimpering.

She felt a strange, shameful ache in her chest:

Guilt because she'd made him feel this way.

Sympathy because she could feel his confusion and want from across the room.

Confusion because a part of her was suddenly, deeply aroused.

And something more: recognition.

This was about hunger, about not just the videos but about wanting all of her, even the dark, ruined, filthy parts she barely remembered.

She should have turned away.

But she didn't.

The video built to a fever pitch. On screen, the woman was getting fucked from behind now her face pressed into the mattress, the man's hands gripping her hips, driving into her hard enough to make her scream. The camera lingered on her ass, on the shine of slick and spit and cum glistening between her thighs.

"Fuck fuck, I'm cumming "

Her boyfriend groaned, hand working faster, chest heaving, and with a shuddering gasp, he came. Hard.

She saw the thick mess streak across his knuckles and thigh, saw the way his whole body tensed, hips jerking with each pulse.

He let out a broken, desperate sound half moan, half sob.

Then slumped forward, chest glistening with sweat, breathing hard and wild.

She watched as he grabbed a wad of tissues, wiped himself off, then calmly sat for a moment, staring at the phone in his lap.

The silence in the room was almost louder than the video had been.

She realized her own pulse was racing, her thighs pressed tight together. She wanted to cry. She wanted to smile. She wanted to go to him and touch his hair, kiss his forehead, tell him she understood but she couldn't move.

Instead, she turned away, her hands trembling, her throat tight. She padded back down the hall, flicked the kitchen tap on with shaking fingers, opened the fridge, made some noise anything to give him a moment to compose himself.

Anything to give herself a moment to breathe.

When he finally emerged, freshly cleaned, his face a little pink and sheepish, she greeted him with a smile soft, sad, knowing.

Neither of them said a word about what had just happened.

But the truth was echoing in her bones, in her blood:

This wasn't just about old videos.

This was about everything they'd never said every hungry, messy, jealous, human thing that lived between them, louder than silence, thicker than shame.

"Hey," he said, smiling. "You're home early."

"Yeah," she managed, forcing a smile back. "Surprise."

He kissed her, lips lingering, searching her eyes for something.

She held him close, feeling how tense he still was, how raw.

"Pastries?" she asked softly, holding up the bag.

He laughed, and for a moment just a moment they almost felt normal again.

They talked about their days, made tea, watched TV on the couch. But all night, she kept glancing at him, wondering:

What exactly had he been watching?

Was it her he wanted, or just the memory of who she used to be?

Later, when they crawled into bed, he curled up around her and held her tight.

She didn't say a word.

She just listened to his breathing in the dark, and told herself:

We're both haunted, but at least we're haunted together.

****

The night after she'd seen him really seen him she couldn't sleep.

She lay awake next to him, staring at the ceiling, feeling the distance between their bodies like a line drawn in chalk: easily smudged, but real. His breathing was steady, almost gentle, but she could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he stayed curled on his side, as if afraid to reach for her.

She wasn't angry. Not exactly.

She was hurt, yes, and confused, but mostly she was desperate for things to feel right again. She missed the easy laughter, the shared music, the way they'd touch each other without thinking. She missed being wanted not just as a memory, or an idea, but as herself, here and now.

She wondered if he'd ever be able to let go of what he saw on her phone.

If he could forgive her for a past she'd truly forgotten.

If he'd ever believe that she wanted him, not the ghost of someone else.

In the morning, she got up quietly, made coffee, and watched the sunlight spill through the kitchen window. He shuffled in, hair wild, sleep still soft on his face. He paused in the doorway, uncertain.

She gave him a real smile.

Small, but real.

"Hey," she said, voice quiet. "You okay?"

He looked at her, a thousand things passing behind his eyes. "Yeah," he said softly. "Are you?"

She nodded. "I just... I want to start over. Us. No secrets. No ghosts."

He looked relieved, and maybe a little embarrassed.

He reached out for her, hesitated, then pulled her into his arms.

For a moment they just stood there, holding each other, the city humming on the other side of the glass.

Later, as the day wore on, Mara felt something inside her loosen.

She watched him do mundane things fold laundry, scroll his phone, sing along quietly to music and she realized how much she loved this life. Not the thrill of old sex tapes, not the ache of jealousy, not even the drama of confession and silence, but this: sunlight on wood floors, the warmth of his hand at the small of her back, the laughter they always seemed to find.

That afternoon, she sent him a text, her heart pounding as she typed:

Mara ????:

Dinner tonight? That little Italian place? My treat. I want to see you smile.

He replied almost instantly:

Him:

Yes. Pick you up after work? Can't wait.

She closed her eyes, holding the phone to her chest.

A promise. A second chance.

That night, when he walked through the door, she felt it: the hope, the hunger, the realness. He grinned awkward, but honest and pulled her in for a kiss that tasted like forgiveness and longing and something brand new.

She melted into him, thinking:

We're still here. After everything. We're still here.

And that was enough.