I woke later that afternoon. Disoriented at first. Sunlight streaming in through the windows. The rain from earlier that morning already gone. A warm breeze moved through the room, carrying the scent of sea salt and something heavier. Regret, maybe.
I was in the arms of my man. My Bryn.
I was exactly where I had wanted to be.
But was I?
His soft snores were endearing. His naked body half draped over me, half pressed into me. His eyelids flickering in that deep, unreachable sleep. Completely at ease.
And my first clear thought was what the fuck did I do?
I cannot even blame the booze this time. I kicked that habit again. After a very unfortunate incident involving a shower door and a version of me I would rather forget. Remind me to tell you about that someday. Or don’t. It is not exactly a story that improves with telling.
You would think I would have learned.
I didn’t.
One look at him standing there last night and every good intention I had lined up so neatly just disappeared. I walked through that door. I pulled him straight to the bed. I took what he was offering like I had been starving for it. Like I had not spent months telling myself I was done.
And now his skin is still warm against mine and I already feel like an idiot.
But fuck, he feels good.
I turn my head slowly, careful not to wake him, just enough to see his face. The same face I have loved for longer than I care to admit. The mouth that kissed me like he was drowning. The hands that knew exactly where to touch without asking.
My body remembers everything.
And that is the problem.
It always remembers.
I hate that part of me. The part that gives in so easily. The part that confuses wanting with needing and calls it truth.
My fingers move before I can stop them. Lightly over his arm. Down to his side. Slow. Careful.
He sighs in his sleep and shifts closer.
Of course he does.
His leg slides between mine and suddenly there is no space left at all. I feel him there. Half hard. Familiar.
Dangerous.
My heart starts to pick up even while my head is already pulling back, already trying to regain some kind of control.
You said you wouldn’t do this again.
Not this fast.
Not without talking.
Not without knowing where you stand.
And yet here you are.
I do not move.
I stay exactly where I am. Breathing him in. Letting the want and the regret circle each other in my chest, neither one willing to give way.
The breeze moves through the room again. Salt and something else I cannot quite name.
Mistake, maybe.
I close my eyes and speak so quietly it barely exists.
“Why did I let you back in so easily, Bryn?”
He does not wake.
He just pulls me closer. Like his body already knows something I am still trying to fight.
And I lie there, caught in it.
Not between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
No.
Between knowing exactly what he does to me…
and not being sure I have the strength to stop it this time.
I keep still, but my mind does not.
It starts drifting. Backwards. Like it always does when one is lying in a bed one should not be in.
Other mornings.
Other versions of him.
There was a time when he would not stay this close. When he would pull away first. Sit at the edge of the bed with his back to me, running a hand through his hair like he needed to put himself back together before facing me again.
That distance used to drive me insane.
Now this closeness does.
Funny how that works.
My eyes move without much thought. Down his arm. Over his hand where it rests against my chest.
And that is when I notice it again. But only now I truly notice the significance of it.
No wedding band.
I frown slightly, my body still but my mind sharpening.
I saw it before. I know I did. Not imagined. A simple band. Nothing flashy. But it was there.
It mattered.
Did it not?
My thumb shifts just enough to trace over the space where it should be. Bare skin. No indentation. No mark left behind. Like it has been gone long enough not to leave a trace.
That unsettles me more than if it had still been there.
So when did it come off?
Why did it come off?
For me? For a version of him that doesn’t fit anymore?
The questions arrive quietly, yet they don’t leave quietly.
They settle in.
They take up space.
I look at him again. Really look this time.
Still asleep. Still soft. Still completely unaware of the noise he has just started in my head.
Or maybe not.
Maybe this is exactly what he does.
He gets close. He makes it feel like something. And then he lets you fill in the blanks yourself.
I have played this game before.
I never win it.
My jaw tightens slightly, just enough to feel it.
You should move.
That voice again. The sensible one. The one that sounds like it has my best interests at heart.
I should get up. Get dressed. Leave before he wakes up and turns this into something you cannot control.
I do not move.
Of course I don’t.
Instead I stay right here, studying him like the answer might be written somewhere on his skin.
The breeze moves through again, softer this time.
He shifts, just slightly, his fingers curling against me like he is holding on even in his sleep.
And something in me settles.
Not the good kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that decides to stay just a little longer.
His breathing changes.
It is subtle. Most people would miss it.
I don’t.
The rhythm shifts. Slower. More deliberate.
He is awake.
I do not move.
For a moment, neither does he.
Then his hand tightens slightly against me. Not enough to claim. Just enough to acknowledge.
“I was wondering how long you were going to lie there pretending.”
His voice is rough with sleep, but there is nothing uncertain in it.
No confusion. No hesitation.
Just… awareness.
I let out a quiet breath through my nose.
“You’ve been awake long?”
“A while.”
Of course he has.
I turn my head just enough to look at him.
His eyes are open now. Calm. Watching me like he has been doing it for longer than I realised.
And there is something in that look that makes it very clear.
He knows.
Not everything.
But enough.
I hold his gaze for a second longer than I should.
Long enough to remember exactly why this is a bad idea.
Long enough to remember how this ends.
“You always do that,” I say quietly.
His brow shifts, just slightly. Not confusion. Not quite.
“Do what?”
“Make it feel simple. Like none of the complicated parts exist.”
There it is.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
But it lands between us.
He watches me carefully now. Measuring.
“And you always overcomplicate it,” he replies.
Soft. Almost amused.
Like this is familiar territory.
It probably is.
I let out a breath that feels heavier than it should.
“You broke me, Bryn.”
No anger in it.
That is the problem.
No raised voice. No accusation sharp enough to cut.
Just… fact.
Something flickers in his eyes then. Brief. Gone before I can name it.
“Did I?” he asks. “Or did you do it to yourself?”
And that right there should be enough.
It should be the moment I get up. Get dressed. Walk out and close this door for good.
Anyone with sense would.
I know that.
You know that.
Hell, anyone watching this from the outside would be screaming it.
And yet..
I don’t move.
Because despite everything… despite knowing exactly what this is, exactly what it does to me…
there is still something here.
Not clean. Or safe.
But real enough that I cannot quite let it go.
I hate that.
I hate him a little for it too.
Just not enough to leave.
He studies me for a moment longer, like he is weighing whether to meet me where I am or step around it.
Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth lifts.
“You always did like a dramatic opening line.”
I let out a soft breath, something that almost passes for a laugh.
“That wasn’t dramatic,” I say. “That was me showing restraint. You should be grateful.”
“Oh, is this restraint now?” he murmurs, shifting slightly against me, close enough that it feels deliberate. “I’d hate to see what you consider excessive.”
My eyes drop briefly between us before I look back at him.
“You seemed to manage excessive just fine earlier this morning.”
There it is. The first real edge.
He doesn’t look away.
“No complaints,” he says, easy as anything.
Too easy.
Too familiar.
Something in me tightens in response.
“Of course not,” I reply, my voice quieter now but far less forgiving. “That would require you to stick around long enough to form one.”
His expression doesn’t change much, but I see the shift. It’s small, almost nothing, but it’s there.
“You’re still here,” he says after a moment.
Simple. Observational.
Infuriating.
“For now.”
A small pause.
“Mm.”
That sound again. Noncommittal. Like he’s taking note instead of engaging.
I hate that.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I ask, tilting my head slightly. “Mm?”
He watches me properly now, not just looking but paying attention.
“What do you want me to say?”
There is no defensiveness in it. No apology either. Just a question, clean and direct.
I hold his gaze, aware of how close we still are, how little space there is to hide in.
“I don’t know,” I admit, and I hate that it’s the truth. “Something that makes this feel like less of a repeat performance.”
“Or at least a better version of it.”
His fingers shift lightly against my side, not quite a touch, not quite nothing.
“You think this is the same?”
I let out a slow breath, considering him.
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
It comes too quickly to be casual.
That catches my attention.
I study him a little more closely now.
“Careful,” I murmur. “That almost sounded like certainty.”
“It is.”
That, more than anything, unsettles me.
I tilt my head slightly, watching him as if the answer might rearrange itself if I look long enough.
“Alright then,” I say. “Enlighten me.”
He doesn’t rush. He never does. He lets the silence sit just long enough to feel intentional.
“I didn’t ask you to choose me last time.”
It lands quietly, but it lands.
I feel it before I can stop myself. A small shift somewhere under the surface.
“You didn’t have to,” I reply.
“No,” he agrees, just as quietly. “I didn’t.”
The silence that follows is different now. Not neutral. Not easy.
It carries something.
I glance down then, deliberately, to his hand where it rests against me. To that bare finger that wasn’t bare before.
Then back to his face.
“You were also wearing a wedding band last time.”
No softness now. No playfulness left to cushion it.
His eyes flick down briefly, following the line of my gaze, before returning to mine.
Measured. Careful.
“It was just a ring.”
I let out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, but there’s nothing amused in it.
“Right.”
“It is.”
“Funny,” I say, my voice quieter but sharper now, “because I seem to remember it meaning something.”
“It does.”
Present tense.
I catch that.
“And yet…”
I leave it there, unfinished but fully understood.
His jaw tightens slightly, just enough to give him away.
“It’s complicated.”
Of course it is.
I shift, just slightly, creating the smallest space between us. Not enough to separate. Just enough to feel the difference.
“Of course it is,” I say. “It always is with you.”
“That’s not fair.”
I look at him properly then, holding his gaze.
“No?”
“No.”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t soften it.
“You don’t get to pretend you don’t bring your own complications into this.”
That lands. Clean. Accurate.
I let it sit for a moment, then nod once.
“True.”
That seems to throw him, just a fraction. Like he was expecting resistance.
“I’m very good at making bad decisions,” I continue, my tone almost thoughtful now. “You just happen to be a particularly consistent one.”
There’s something in his expression now. Not quite a smile, but close enough to recognise.
“Consistent?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
That almost gets me.
Almost.
I feel it, the pull of it, and shut it down before it can settle.
He sees that too.
Of course he does.
“You still haven’t left,” he says.
And there we are again.
That quiet observation that feels like a trap.
I exhale slowly.
“No. I haven’t.”
“Why?”
No playfulness now. No deflection.
Just the question.
I hold his gaze, aware that this is the moment where I could make it easy. Say something that keeps this light. Contained.
I don’t.
“Because when I do,” I say quietly, “you’ll let me.”
That lands harder than anything else so far.
He stills completely.
And for the first time, I see something crack through the calm.
“I don’t stop you,” he says.
“No.”
The space between us shifts again. Subtle. Heavier.
“You did,” I add after a moment. “Once. Ask me to stay.”
That lands.
I don’t look away.
“You were there,” he continues, quieter now. “I just… didn’t want to be alone.”
Just.
There it is.
I feel something in me go very still.
“That’s not how it happened,” I say.
His brow tightens slightly. “Isn’t it?”
“No.”
I hold his gaze, steady, not giving him room to step around it.
“You didn’t ask me to stay because you were lonely,” I continue. “You asked me to stay because you thought I could save you.”
That lands harder.
A flicker. Quick. Gone.
I don’t stop.
“You looked at me like I was the answer to something you couldn’t fix on your own.”
My voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.
“And for a second… I believed you.”
Silence.
Thick now.
Unavoidable.
His jaw shifts slightly, like he’s deciding what to do with that.
“I was going through something,” he says, careful now. Controlled. “I needed…”
“Don’t,” I cut in, not sharp, but firm enough to stop him.
Because I know where that sentence goes.
I’ve heard versions of it before.
“You don’t get to turn that into something smaller just because it makes it easier to live with now.”
That sits between us.
Heavy.
He doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
And for the first time, it feels like we are actually in the same moment.
Not circling it.
Not softening it.
Just… in it.
“There it is,” I murmur. “That thing you do.”
“What thing?”
“Making it sound like I had all the power in this. When you know damn well I didn’t.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine.
“Didn’t you? Or did you just not claim your power out of a sense of guilt?”
And I recognise it.
Clean. Precise. Right where it always lands.
I feel it.
I let out a slow breath, my fingers curling slightly against the sheet.
“You really want to have this conversation?” I ask.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Of course.
I study him for a long moment, then give a small, almost imperceptible nod.
“Alright,” I say quietly.
And now there is nothing soft left in me at all.
“Then listen.”
I start talking. My voice comes out quieter than I expect. Steady enough at first. Like I am pulling the words from somewhere far away.
“After I left I had nothing left to give. Not for you, not for me. I stopped caring about anything. I didn’t paint. I wanted to, but there was nothing.”
“I remember sitting at my paint streaked easel. On that small wooden stool that had no right to carry my weight anymore. Yet it did. Day after day. Hoping you would call. But also hoping you did not. Curtains closed tight. Light shut out. The darkness inside me kept scratching. Pulling. Peeling at everything I once held dear.”
Bryn does not interrupt. His eyes stay locked on mine. Calm. Watching.
His hand slides under the sheet. Fingers brush my cock. Light. Barely there. Just enough to make my breath hitch.
I keep going. I do not stop.
“I stared at the canvas. It gave me something to face. Even though I was not really doing anything. The long fingers of that darkness kept testing what was still attached. I felt it consume me. I was powerless to stop it. So I just sat. Staring. Feeling nothing. Feeling everything.”
His thumb circles the head of my cock. Slow. Deliberate.
I look straight at him. He looks straight back. No smile. No words yet. Just those eyes holding me in place while his touch wakes everything up.
“I remembered the coffee shop. The way you froze when you saw me. How quickly you pulled your hand from the other guy’s. The way your mouth opened and closed around words that never quite formed.”
“My heart left my body before I had time to ask it to stay. It felt like someone punched me in the gut and kept the fist there. Twisting. It broke me.”
Bryn leans in. His mouth finds mine. Soft at first. A kiss that tastes like morning and last night all at once.
I kiss him back even while the words keep spilling out. My body fights it for half a second. Then it gives in. He deepens the kiss. Tongue sliding against mine. Slow. Like he is drinking the story straight from me.
“I got up from the stool, walked away from the empty canvas. Suddenly embarrassed by the memory. By how dramatic it sounded inside my head. By how often everything started with ‘I’. It rang like a distant church bell. Only it was not distant. It was inside me. Tolling. Counting every lonely hour.”
He pulls back just enough for us to lock eyes again. His hand still works my cock. Steady strokes now. Not fast. Just enough to make me throb against his palm.
I feel myself getting harder.
I hate how good it feels while I am bleeding out the past.
“I thought I knew enough about the human condition to be careful of I. I thought I was not melodramatic. I thought I was stronger than it.”
“None of it was true. This thing inside me. This darkness. This fear. It worked its way into every pore. Every breath. Every corner of the house I kept deliberately unlit.”
Bryn kisses me again. Harder this time. Hungry. Then he starts moving down my body. Mouth on my neck. My chest. My stomach.
All while I keep talking. His eyes flick up to mine every few seconds. Making sure I am still here. Still looking at him.
I am. I cannot look away.
“I went to the mirror. What looked back at me was not a man I recognised. I was hollow eyed. Slack mouthed. Someone wearing my face like a poorly fitted mask. Bruno Fucking Mitchell. Whoever he was. Whoever he had been. I did not know where he had gone.”
His mouth reaches my cock. He takes me in. Warm. Wet. Slow. All the way down until I feel the back of his throat.
I bite my lip. Try to keep the story going. My voice cracks on the next sentence.
“I did not know if you would ever come back. I just didn’t know. I didn’t even know if I wanted you to come back.”
“The urge to cry rose every day. Sharp and desperate. And then it stalled. I had nothing left to give. I was emptied out. Drained. All cried out, I thought.”
Bryn sucks me deeper. Tongue swirling. Eyes locked on mine the whole time.
I thread my fingers through his hair. Not pulling. Just holding.
Fighting the moan that wants to replace the words. I keep talking because if I stop I will lose the fight completely.
“All that remained was the shell of who I used to be. And the ghost of you. Still walking through my rooms. Still sleeping in my thoughts. Still haunting every quiet moment.” I trail off.
He pulls off with a wet sound. Looks up at me. Voice low and rough.
“Keep going.” He says, mouth barely leaving my cock. “I am listening.”
His mouth is back on me. Sucking harder now.
I feel the heat building low in my belly. I fight it. I want it. Both at once.
“I remember walking back into the studio. Picking up your discarded hoodie. Again and again. Smelling it. Breathing you in. I traced the creases with my fingertips. As if it were something fragile. A relic. Something sacred.”
Bryn slides lower. Lifts my legs. Spreads me open. His tongue finds that most intimate place. Slow. Wet. Circling. Pressing inside.
I lose the next word. It comes out as a gasp instead. My eyes stay on his. He looks up at me over my cock. Tongue working me open. Eyes never leaving mine.
“I reached for the cigarettes. Lit another Marlboro. Watched the smoke curl into the thick stale air. I started smoking again. The habit I kicked that was supposed to be proof that everything with Marcus was finished. That I had kicked self-destruction too. Well. There I was. Broken again. Depressed again. Reeking of stale cigarettes and old coffee.”
His tongue pushes deeper.
I grip the sheets.
My hips lift without permission. I want to pull away. I want to push closer. I do neither. I just keep talking.
“I never had a proper shower those days. Or a proper meal.”
“I wandered through the house in a robe that needed washing. Past pot plants that were wilting. Dying. Curling in on themselves. Sometimes I wished I could join them.”
Bryn licks me slow and thorough. Then he adds a finger. Gentle.
Opening me while his mouth stays busy. I look down at him. Straight into those eyes. He is watching me fall apart and he is not stopping.
“I knew it had to stop. It wasn’t me. And yet I did not know how to start being me again. I could have done something small. Washed the stack of coffee cups. Threw out the empty paint tin that became an ashtray. But I didn’t. I just stood there. Watching smoke dissolve into nothing.”
He adds a second finger. Stretching me open. His mouth moves back to my cock. Sucking me while he fingers me.
I am leaking now. I can feel it. The pleasure is rising. Slow. Relentless.
I fight every moan. Try to turn them into more words.
He pulls his fingers out. Moves up my body. Kisses me deep. I taste myself on his tongue. We lock eyes the whole time. He lines himself up. Just the head pressing against me. Teasing.
“I walked to the fridge. Pulled out a bottle of wine. Drank straight from it. Long greedy pulls. Then I lit another cigarette. And then, I painted. Thick. Generous. Reckless. Pink like the wine. Then charcoal grey. Then black. Then pale grey. I did not know where the brush came from. I layered. No plan. No safety. Just colour on colour on colour. Emotion turned into movement.”
He pushes in. Just the tip. Holds there.
Eyes on mine. I breathe hard. Keep talking.
“My hands shook. My eyes burned. And suddenly the tears I had been hoarding broke loose. But I did not stop. I painted through them. Smoked through them. Drank through them. Let them fall wherever they wanted.”
Bryn slides deeper. Inch by inch. Slow. So slow. Filling me completely.
I feel every bit of him. I look straight at him. He looks straight at me.
No hiding.
“I took a step back. And stared at the completed canvas. It was fucking gorgeous. It was nothing.”
“And it was everything. I walked to the liquor cabinet. Poured whiskey into a dirty coffee cup. Drank it like I was punishing myself. That is when it hit me.”
“Rhodonite. All that pink and grey and black. The fractures. The softness. The scars. A stone that looks like it was broken and healed at the same time.”
He starts to move. Long slow thrusts. Deep. Steady. His hand wraps around my cock again. Stroking in time with his hips.
I fight the bliss. I want the bliss. My voice shakes but I keep going.
“I laughed under my breath. Of course I did. I thought, that cunt wronged me. He pursued me against my better judgement and fucked me up all over again.”
He starts picking up the rhythm, slowly fucking me.
Only then do I realise he never bothered with a condom. I’m too far gone to actually care at this point, though I should.
“Rhodonite is the stone of heart repair. Sure. I thought. I painted a version of it even though my heart was broken. The stone is supposed to be connected to self-worth. To self-forgiveness. I did not feel any of it.”
Bryn kisses me again. Mouth open. Hungry. Thrusting deeper now. Eyes open. Never breaking contact.
I moan into his mouth. The sound mixes with the next words.
“I knocked back another shot. Chased it with the last sip of rosé. The painting had no right to exist. The centre could not hold. Neither could I. So I turned toward the bathroom. It was time. Self-pity and wallowing only got me that far. I needed to wash. But first, I thought, another whiskey.”
He angles his hips. Hits that spot inside me. I see stars. My eyes stay on his. I grip his shoulders. Nails digging in.
Not pushing him away. Pulling him closer.
“I passed the kitchen. Uncorked another bottle of rosé while knocking back the whiskey. Why not, I thought. I dropped the robe while turning on the shower. Took another long pull from the bottle. I laughed quietly. Having a glass of wine in the bath is socially acceptable. A bottle in the shower is not. I decided drunkenly that drinking in the shower should be normalised.”
Bryn thrusts harder. Still slow. Still deep. His forehead rests against mine.
We breathe the same air. Eyes locked.
“The water took forever to warm up. I kept drinking while I waited. I was drunk. Properly drunk. But I still had this ‘fuck my life’ attitude. So that was that. I stepped under the spray. The water hit me like a lovers kiss. My skin tingled. And suddenly you were there in my drunken haze. Your hands. Your mouth. The way you used to touch me. The way you made love to me. The way I claimed you.”
He slows down. Almost stops. Just rocking inside me. Hand still stroking me. Eyes burning into mine.
“And the thought hit me like a slap. What right did I have? What right did I have to claim you? To mourn your cheating? Was I the woman who stood by you? Or the man who took everything away from her? What the fuck am I? A slut? A homewrecker? What have I become?”
I scrub harder now. In the memory. In the story. But here in bed I push back against him. Wanting more. Hating that I want it.
“I scrubbed harder. Unsteady. Spiralling. Slipping into nothing. Then I fell. Slow motion. Glass shattering. Water everywhere. That was not happening, I thought. It was not my life.”
“Yet it was. My face hit the tiles. And I lay there laughing. Actually laughing. For the first time in months I was laughing. And it was because I was lying tits up on the bathroom floor. Surrounded by broken glass and flooding water.”
Bryn kisses me soft. Then hard. Thrusting again. Deeper. His hand speeds up on my cock.
I am so close to the edge. I fight it. I hold his gaze.
“Then I saw it. Red. A glimmer. Then another. Then another. I probably cut myself. I thought. Watching the pool spread beneath me. It is probably nothing. I should get a plaster. I tried to get up. Graceful was not an option. I got onto all fours. Crawled through glass. It hurt. So what. I was already broken. I reached the medicine cabinet. And that is when I realised. There was a river of blood behind me. Following me. I felt faint. I felt empty. Numb. Oh. This is it. I am done.”
Bryn stops moving. Holds still inside me.
Eyes locked on mine. Waiting.
“I tried to stand. I could not. I watched the blood pumping from my foot. Too much. Too fast. I needed to call someone. Somewhere in the fog my phone became my lifeline. I found it under a pile of dirty clothes. My hands were shaking. My head was spinning. The screen blurred. I do not even remember unlocking it. I just remember pressing the last number. Calling. Praying. The last thing I remember.”
“My assistant found me and nursed me back to a version of me that didn’t revolt me or her anymore. Found this residency here.”
I stop talking. The story ends there. My voice is gone. My body is trembling.
Bryn is still buried deep inside me. Still hard. Still looking at me.
He leans down. Kisses me slow and deep. Then he whispers against my mouth.
“I am here now. I heard every word. And I am not letting you fall again.”
I look at him. Really look. Tears in my eyes now. Not from the past. From right here. From him. From us.
I push back against him. Angry. Wanting. Both at once.
“Then show me.” I say. “Fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like you are sorry. Fuck me like you are never leaving again.”
Bryn starts moving deeper. Harder. Eyes never leaving mine. Kissing me between thrusts. Hand stroking me. The pleasure builds again. Slow. Relentless.
I fight it again. Then I let it take me. Not all the way. Not yet. But close. So close.
We stay like that. Naked. Nowhere left to hide.
Upset with each other. Drawn to each other. The argument still hanging in the air. The sex pulling us back together. Revenge and coming home all mixed into one slow burning rhythm.
I keep looking at him. He keeps looking at me.
And for the first time in a long time it feels like maybe. Just maybe. We are not breaking this time.
We are rebuilding.
Right here.
In this bed.
“What do you have to say for yourself Bryn?” I ask as he drags his rock hard cock over my prostate.
Bryn holds still for a second. Deep inside me. Eyes locked on mine. His hand keeps stroking my cock. Slow. Steady. Sure. He leans down. Kisses me deep.
Then pulls back just enough to speak. Voice low. Rough from breathing hard.
“I have everything to say. And I am going to say all of it. Right here. While I am inside you. Because I am not going anywhere this time Bruno. Not unless you tell me to leave.”
He starts moving again. Long. Deep. Controlled thrusts. Not fast. Just enough to keep the pleasure humming through both of us.
I groan. Push back against him. My fingers dig into his shoulders. I do not stay quiet this time.
“Why now? Why tell me all of this while you are fucking me?”
Bryn keeps thrusting. Steady. Sure.
His eyes never leave mine.
“Because I have nowhere left to hide. I went to therapy after you walked out of that coffee shop. After I drove to your house and sat in the car for an hour staring at the dark windows. I told Carla, my therapist, everything. No performance. No edited version.”
He angles his hips. Hits that spot again. I grunt loud. My cock leaks over his fingers.
I gasp out the next question between moans.
“What did you tell her about me? About us?”
Bryn kisses me again. Open mouth. Hungry. Then keeps fucking me slow and deep.
“I told her I left Marianne because I ran out of versions of myself to sell. That I told her the truth. All of it. About the paint on my ear. About the other men. About you and my love for you. That Marianne didn’t scream or make it ugly. She just looked tired and said she hoped you would treat me better than I treat myself.”
Another deep thrust.
I moan. Bite my lip. Then push the words out anyway.
“Did you mean it? When you told her you loved me? Or was that just another line?”
Bryn’s voice stays vulnerable. His body stays sure.
He thrusts deeper.
“I meant it. I tried to love two people. I thought I could. I wanted her. I wanted you. I love Chloe. But I made it ugly. I made it hurt everyone. I really fucking love you Bruno. That is not the edited version. That is the real one. I still do. And I am choosing you, and only you.”
I groan louder. My hips lift to meet him.
But the anger and the need mix together.
“Then why the fuck did you let me see you with him? Why test me like that?” I spit this out through clenched teeth.
Bryn does not flinch. He keeps fucking me. Steady. Deep. Eyes locked.
“Because I was scared. I didn’t want you to see me with that guy in the coffee shop. Not because I did not love you. Because part of me still believed chaos equals love. Because I was scared if I chose only you there would be no one left to hide behind when it went wrong. And when you did, I think I tested how much you could take before you left.”
The words hit hard. I feel the heat rise in my chest. The pleasure and the pain twist together.
My hand comes up fast. I punch his chest once. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to feel something.
Bryn grunts but does not stop moving. He keeps thrusting. Deep. Sure.
I punch him again. Right over his heart. My voice cracks.
“Tell me the truth about Kane. Not the clean story you gave me on the phone. The real one. Now.” I demand.
Bryn’s eyes shine but he does not look away. He fucks me harder. Still controlled. Still looking straight at me.
“Kane was chaos. Firecracker heart. I thought suffering meant depth. I stayed even when he disappeared for days. Even when he brought other men home. Even after he hit me. I left because I saw his face after. He looked relieved. Like hurting me let him breathe. I allowed the ghost of him to mold me into a version of him that tried to fuck up everything that was good in his life. And I ruined you and Marianne in the process. And, very nearly, myself.”
I moan loud. The pleasure spikes.
I need more. I grip his shoulders. Pull him down harder.
“Keep going. Do not stop talking. Do not stop fucking me.”
Bryn kisses me soft. Then harder. His rhythm never breaks.
“I went to pieces after he died. Quietly. Marianne helped me. His family blamed me. Called me every name. Said I corrupted him. I believed them for a long time. That my desire was dangerous. That loving a man could kill him. Or at least break him.”
I grunt. Push back against every thrust. My legs wrap around him tighter. Pulling him deeper. Physically.
I need him closer.
“And what about me? Did you think the same thing would happen with me?”
Bryn shakes his head. Forehead against mine. Still moving deep inside me. Still stroking me perfectly.
“No. But I carried that fear into us anyway. I tested you. I let the old script run. I divorced Marianne, went to therapy. I sat in that too low chair and told Carla the unedited version. I am still a father. But now, I am also a man who shows up. A man who asked for help. And I am coming back for the man I love. If you will still have him.”
I feel the tears start to burn behind my eyes. The pleasure is rising higher. But so is the emotion. I punch his chest one more time. Softer now. Almost a plea.
“Say it again. That you are choosing me. Say it while you are inside me.”
Bryn thrusts deeper. Holds there for a second. Then starts moving again. Slow. Intentional. Sure.
“I am choosing you Bruno. I am not going anywhere. I left my marriage. I stopped hiding. I am tired of being the reason people hurt. Tired of believing I am poison. I love you. With the real version of me. Not the brochure one. And I am going to keep showing you. One honest day at a time. Starting right now.”
I pull him in tighter. Legs locked around his waist. Arms around his back. Nails scratching down his back.
I need him deeper. Emotionally. Physically. No space left between us.
“Prove it. Fuck me like you mean every word. Do not hold back.”
Bryn does exactly that. He picks up the rhythm. Deep. Steady. Relentless. His hand speeds up on my cock.
His eyes never leave mine.
“I am not holding back anymore. I told Carla I missed hearing my own thoughts out loud. They sound different when someone else is in the room. You are that someone now. You always were.”
I moan louder. My body trembles around him. The pleasure builds higher.
The truth sinks deeper.
I gasp out another question. Voice shaking.
“What if I am still angry? What if I still want to punch you again?”
Bryn kisses me through the words. Thrusting harder. Still sure.
“Then punch me. Or pull me closer. Or both. I can take it. I want it. I want all of you. The angry part. The hurt part. The part that still loves me even when it hurts. I am here for all of it.”
I do not punch him again. Instead I pull him in so deep our chests press tight together. Skin against skin. Heart against heart. I feel every thrust. Every word. Every breath.
The pleasure and the honesty twist together until I cannot tell them apart. I moan his name. Loud. Broken. I am so close. But I hold on. I need to hear the last part.
Bryn senses it. He slows just enough to speak clearly. Still moving. Still deep. Still stroking me.
“These last months weren’t punishment. They were rehearsal. I thought I could edit myself into someone worth keeping. Turns out healing does not take edits. It takes witnesses. You are my witness now Bruno. I am not tired anymore. I owe you an ending that is not silence. I owe us a beginning that starts with the truth.”
I cry out. The words push me right to the edge. My body tightens around him. I pull him in even deeper. Legs locked. Arms wrapped tight.
“I believe you. I hate that I believe you. But I do.”
Bryn kisses me hard. Thrusts deep. His voice breaks just a little.
“I love you. I choose you. I am not going anywhere.”
That is when it hits me. The bliss and the truth crash together. I come hard. Shaking. Moaning. Tears mixing with the sweat on my face. Bryn follows right after. Burying himself deep. Cumming inside me with a broken sound. His eyes still locked on mine. His body still sure.
We stay like that. Connected. Trembling. Breathing the same air. Nowhere left to hide.
I whisper against his mouth. Voice raw.
“Tell me one more time. Tell me you are staying.”
Bryn kisses me slow. Still inside me. Still holding me close.
“I am staying. I am choosing this. I am choosing you. Every messy, honest day from now on.”
I pull him in tighter. Chest to chest. No space left.
And for the first time the silence between us feels full.
Not empty.
Full of everything we just said.
Full of everything we still have to rebuild.
