We didn’t talk much after Bryn’s almost confession. I held him tight and caught only a few broken words between sobs. I held him until they stopped. Until his breathing slowed and the silence felt safe again. Then I picked him up and carried him to the bed – drew the curtains and got in beside him. Both of us still naked. As if clothes didn’t have a space in this world we created. The sheets cooled beneath us, our bodies drawn close, and sleep curled into the space where grief had lived.
The next morning I woke to warmth, not light.
The curtains were still drawn, but the heat of him was everywhere. Across my chest, down my thigh, his breath on my neck. Bryn. Heavy and half-sprawled, softened by sleep. His calf was hooked over mine. I could see the curve of his back, tapering into that glorious ass I adored.. One of his hands curled into the space between us. I didn’t move. Just breathed him in. He rolled over in his sleep. His ass went out of view but it was replaced by the sight of his beautiful cock. Half hard. Inviting.
I could smell the sound of sleep on him.
It didn’t make sense, but that’s how it landed in my brain. Not just scent, not just heat, but the hush of it. That clean cotton musk that clung to his skin. Something fainter beneath it. Maybe shampoo. Maybe sweat from the gym. Maybe the trace of my tongue on his chest. He wasn’t used. He was spent. Relaxed. The afterglow of someone who had given everything and fallen asleep satisfied.
I slid down, careful not to wake him.
His cock lay against his thigh, warm and relaxed. It still held the memory of the night before, glistening faintly in the half-light. A sheen of mixed essences clung to it, dried at the tip, slick along the shaft, like the night hadn't quite let go of him. I bent to kiss his hip, then the shallow dip below his stomach. He shifted a little. I watched his cock twitch once before I took it into my mouth.
The taste was soft and faintly stale. The kind of taste that only came from skin that had been deeply loved the night before. I licked him slowly. Let him stiffen against my tongue. My hands settled on his thighs, and I sank deeper, careful, savouring every pulse and twitch.
He didn’t wake completely. Not at first. His hips lifted slightly, the faintest groan escaping his throat. I pressed one hand to his belly and kept going.
Sloppier now. Hungrier. I wanted to make him cum without ever opening his eyes.
His hand found my hair. No pressure. Just contact. Like he needed to anchor himself to something real. A deeper groan followed, still low and hoarse from sleep.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
I responded with a soft hum. Drew him deeper, swallowed. Let my fingers drift, slow and firm, up his inner thigh.
He tensed. I could feel it building in his gut, the way he strained but didn’t thrust. Holding back for my sake, or maybe just stunned. When he came, it was all breath and heat and the quick tightening of his hand in my hair. I let the heat of his cum fill my mouth, then slowly pulled back, teasing the underside of his cock with the flat of my tongue. I circled the head, savouring the salt and sweetness of his cum still lingering there. When he twitched again, half-sensitive, I let my lips close around him one more time, not to coax more, just to soothe. Then I licked him clean. Every drop. Every shadow of mess. Until he was gleaming and spent and his cock belonged to me now. Like I’d quietly claimed it.
His hand slid down my face to cup my jaw. Gentle. Reverent.
I rested my cheek on his thigh. Kissed the space just above his knee.
“Morning,” he murmured, barely audible.
I looked up and smiled. “Morning.”
He stroked my hair. Lazy, lingering fingers, like he didn’t want to stop touching me. Like he didn’t quite believe I was there.
I closed my eyes and let the silence stretch. Not heavy. Just full.
Bryn's fingers were still stroking my hair when the real world came knocking.
A soft ping from his phone pulled both our heads toward the nightstand. He didn’t move right away. Then another sound followed, this time a voice note. He played it. Too quiet to catch at first, then just loud enough.
A baby’s gurgle. A soft coo. Followed by a woman’s voice, cheerful and tired.
“Mommy knows you miss Daddy. Tell him we’ll be home soon.”
Bryn stopped the recording. He didn’t speak. The silence that followed was instant and total.
He just stared at the screen. His hand tightened slightly, and I could feel the weight of it press through the air between us.
“I should shower,” he said at last. Not cold, but not soft either.
I nodded and sat up, suddenly aware of my own sweat, the taste of his cum still lingering on my lips, the warmth of us turning into something else.
He disappeared into the bathroom. Water ran a minute later. I stayed in the bed where I was, stretching out my limbs to revel in the warmth of our shared secret, listening to the sound of the shower. I wanted to join him, but felt that I shouldn’t be rushing him. Just allow him to exist. When he came out, towel slung low around his waist, the mood had shifted. Still close. Still gentle. But there was something quieter beneath it now, I could see his longing to stay inside the fantasy we’d lived yesterday, instead of slipping back into his daily life.
He tossed me a fresh towel with that signature wink of his. The carefree Bryn I’d met still flickered beneath the serious man standing before me. I took the hint and got up, cock swinging, to go clean up as well. And yes, I noticed the way his eyes lingered on my soft cock. Just long enough to matter, before I disappeared behind the bathroom door. I made sure that he saw my ass in full. He might have the more muscled one, but I also wanted him to remember the promise that mine held.
The bathroom smelled faintly of cedar and something citrusy. His scent was everywhere. I showered and dried off quickly, found my underwear from the floor, and pulled it on. My jeans from the day before still sat folded on the chair. The shirt I’d worn was still outside, bunched on the patio where we’d left it, damp from cum. Unusable. I needed to borrow a shirt or hoodie from Bryn, and for a moment I felt like the hidden secret again. Like Marcus’ little fucktoy. But I banished the thought from my mind. Secretly hoping that this wasn’t that again.
Bryn must have seen the hesitation in my eyes. He rummaged in the closet and pulled out a soft grey hoodie, handing it to me with a lopsided smile.
I took it. Pulled it over my head. His scent wrapped around me. Warm and familiar, and somehow I was worse for it. Because I knew I’d be leaving soon.
He stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes distant.
“I should get going,” I said, quietly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, of course.”
But neither of us moved.
I crossed to him. Placed my hand gently on his back. He leaned into it, just barely, like instinct. A small, lingering touch. Then he turned and pulled me in for a hug. Full-body, no words.
I kissed his neck, just once. Held him.
We didn’t say what we both knew. That whatever had cracked in him last night wasn’t done splitting. That something else was coming. That the names of Marianne and Kane still sat in the space between us, waiting.
I stepped into my shoes and ran a hand through my hair. Bryn stayed by the window, arms still folded, but looking at me still. As if he willed me to stay. The silence between us felt fragile. Not cold. Just full of things we weren’t saying yet.
“I’ll see you soon,” I said.
He turned to face the window again, didn’t look my way when I answered, but I know he felt the words when they landed.
“Yeah,” he replied softly. “You will.”
I paused in the doorway for a breath, then left without another word.
Bryn heard the soft click of the door closing and realised Bruno had gone.
And just like that, the apartment was still. Too quiet.
Too stripped of Bruno’s presence.
My heart ached. I remembered Kane in that moment. Shed a quiet tear for love lost.
I didn’t move right away. Just stood by the window, arms folded, trying to remember when the light had changed. The clouds outside looked heavy, pale, the kind that hang just before noon. The kind of sky that doesn’t care what’s happening inside.
I turned from the window and looked back at the apartment.
The champagne flutes were still on the sideboard. One half-full, the other bearing the smudge of Bruno’s lower lip. Our coffee mugs sat in the sink, streaked with milk and something sweeter. Plates from the snack platter we never finished lay abandoned on the counter, like time had folded mid-conversation.
I saw his shirt too. The one he wore when he arrived, damp and clinging to his chest.
Now it lay just outside on the patio tiles, twisted and soaked with cum. The wind hadn’t touched it. It was still there. Exactly where he’d left it after stripping down, smiling like he had every right to undress in front of me.
And he did.
Every trace of him in this space felt too intimate now. Too raw.
Like a dream you try to hold onto after waking, even though it already belongs to another world.
I walked toward the kitchen, half expecting to find his breath still hanging in the air.
But all I found was the echo of him. And the quiet hum of the day after.
I leaned against the counter and let the memory return in full, vivid waves.
How I had pressed him there, his back flush to the cupboards, his breath catching as I kissed the side of his neck. I remembered the scent of him. Warm, skin-slick, his heartbeat thudding through both our shirts.
I didn’t want to fuck him. Not then.
I just wanted to feel. Grind. Let my body speak what I couldn’t name aloud.
Our cocks rubbed together through damp fabric, leaking, twitching, trapped between us.
I held his hips firm. Ground into him until he arched and gasped.
I remember stepping out of my pants, slow and unhurried, letting the fabric fall while keeping my eyes locked on his. It wasn’t dominance. It was invitation. Intention. The clearest yes I knew how to give.
Then I took both our cocks in my hand, lined them up, and started to move. Slow at first. Just enough for him to feel the drag of skin on skin. Just enough to let him know he was mine.
He came first. Hard. Silently. His mouth open but voiceless. His whole body tensed for a heartbeat, then gave in, slumping against me.
He moaned into my neck when he came, and I held him there, feeling his heart pound through the cotton and sweat.
I didn’t stop. Just slowed. Shifted. Let it build.
Then I came too. Not inside him. Not even between us. Just enough to leave my mark, slick and hot across the curve of his chest.
I remember sliding two fingers through it. Our mixed essence. Still warm.
I brought them to my mouth and licked them clean. Not because I needed to.
Because I wanted him in me. A part of him. A part of us.
The taste stayed on my tongue as we stood there, breathing.
Then he turned to me, and we both started laughing. Soft, quiet, like we were getting away with something sacred.
We stepped out onto the patio, still naked. Still flushed. The sun on our shoulders. The breeze catching at our skin.
For a moment, we weren’t anything but bodies and light.
And I remember smiling. Because it felt like freedom.
I swallowed and stepped into the hallway, toes curling on the cool tiles, and wandered into the bedroom. The sheets were still tangled. I sat on the edge of the bed, then let myself lie back.
This was where I asked him to stay.
I didn’t plan to. The words had just slipped out of me. Please don’t leave me alone.
I think I scared him. But he stayed.
We didn’t talk. We kissed.
I turned him to face the cupboard, one palm flat against the door for balance. Moved slow. Careful. Entered him with the kind of reverence I didn’t know I had in me.
He was quiet in front of me. Not passive. Just trusting. His head tilted forward, breath fogging the wood. One hand braced above him, the other reached back to touch my thigh.
I held his waist steady. Let my free hand find the small of his back and rest there. Grounding us both.
It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t loud. It was a kind of prayer. I don’t know if I was praying to him, or through him.
Afterwards, he held me close. I felt the sweat cooling on our skin. I cried. I couldn’t stop.
I think I cried for Kane. For me. For the version of myself I’d buried so deep I didn’t even recognize him anymore. And for the fear of ruining something that might be real. For once.
I don’t remember moving to the bed. One moment I was on the carpet, curled into his arms with tears still cooling on my cheeks, and the next, I was waking in his warmth, the sheets tangled around us.
Bruno must have carried me there. Held me through the dark.
I must have fallen asleep in his arms, my face tucked against his chest, the smell of him settling into the pillow.
And then I woke up to warmth and wetness. His mouth on me before I was fully conscious. The soft drag of his tongue, the gentle pull of suction. He slowly built it, like he was waking me with his mouth alone.
It felt like the answer to a question I hadn’t asked.
And now he’s gone. And I’m still here. Remembering everything. Wanting more.
And I'm terrified that I don’t deserve it.
Days earlier, before any of it happened, before Bruno pressed me against the steam room wall and made me feel more alive than I had in years, Marianne had planned the trip that left me free, even if just for a while. And in my wildest fantasies I never thought it would turn into days of Bruno and sex. It was a short visit to her mother’s. She packed light and left that afternoon, the baby gurgling happily in her car seat. I kissed them both goodbye like it was any other day.
But the silence after they drove off felt sharper than I expected. I told myself I’d enjoy the quiet, maybe get some work done. But the walls felt thinner without them. My thoughts louder.
So I went to the gym. Out of habit. Out of boredom. Maybe even out of loneliness I wasn’t ready to name yet.
And there he was. Bruno. Mid-set. Back arched, sweat slicking down his spine like a dare.
I didn’t expect to see Bruno.
And I definitely didn’t expect what happened in the steam room.
I remember closing my eyes and pressing my forehead to the hot tiles. I remember his mouth, his weight, the way he held me there like he had every right to claim what I’d never said aloud. But I had offered it, in every look, in every breath.
It hadn’t felt like punishment. It felt like something inside him had snapped.
And I let him.
God, I let him.
“Bruno.”
I say his name like a prayer I’m not sure I have permission to speak.
He was so gentle this morning. So reverent. I can still feel the warmth of his mouth around me. The slow hum of him pulling me out of sleep like I was something worth waking for. And I remember the way I touched his hair. Like I was anchoring myself to something that might not stay.
And then that voice note came. Marianne’s voice, bright and casual and so very real. Like a hand reaching up from under the water, reminding me that I don’t belong to myself entirely.
Bruno hadn’t said anything. But I saw it in his eyes. The withdrawal. The calculation. The quiet pain of someone who’d seen this pattern before.
There’s this moment I keep replaying. The conversation we had on the couch, sunlight slicing across us.
I tilted my head and said, “Is that your way of saying you’re trying not to fall for me?”
“No,” he said to me. “It’s my way of saying I might already be in trouble.”
And smiling, I answered. “Me too.”
And I meant it.
But now I wonder if what I feel is the kind of trouble that builds something new, or the kind that ruins what’s already here.
I should tell him about Kane.
I should’ve told him before any of this. Before the steam room. Before the sex of yesterday. Before he whispered “morning” into my hair like it meant more than just time.
But I’m scared.
Because once I say that name, he’ll see it. The part of me I’ve buried. The shame. The reasons I don’t deserve someone like Bruno.
And maybe that’s the worst part. That I might already be falling for him. And that if I tell him the truth, I’ll lose the one person who didn’t treat me like something broken.
Yet, I don’t even think about it. My fingers just move. As if by muscle memory or need. I pick up my phone and call him. As if on auto.
He answers before the second ring.
“Hey.” His voice is soft, steady. Like he was already holding the phone, waiting for me.
I don’t speak right away. Just breathe. Just listen.
“Bryn?” he says again, quieter now. “You okay?”
I close my eyes. Let the weight of his name settle on my tongue.
“I didn’t know I was going to call,” I say, my voice softer than I meant it. “I just… did.”
A pause on his end. Not silence, exactly. I can hear the faint rustle of fabric, the subtle exhale of someone sitting down.
“I’m glad you did,” he says.
My throat tightens. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”
“I always will,” he says. No hesitation. No rush. Just truth, plain and attentive.
That does something to me. The part of me that wants to tell him leans closer. The part that remembers Kane flinches.
“I miss you,” I say.
I hear him swallow. “I’m still here.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed, the phone warm against my cheek. My voice drops to a whisper. “Can we talk?”
“About your tears from last night and what brought it on?” he asks. Not sharp. Not demanding. Just gently opening the door I didn’t know how to walk through.
I nod, then realize he can’t see it. “Yeah. About Kane. And me. And about how Marianne fits into all of it.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’m listening.”
“We met in college,” I say, voice steady, though my chest tightens. “Kane and I. We just... clicked. Same classes, same shitty sense of humour. It started as study sessions and late-night takeout. Then one night, something between us shifted. He kissed me. And everything changed.”
I pause, rubbing a hand over my face.
“I’ve never quite liked society’s labels – but I did enjoy the affection. And we had sex. It was clumsy at first, but the body figures it out. We became lovers, boyfriends I suppose, though we never called it anything. Never talked about it or made plans. But we were together. For a while. Not publicly, though. He was scared. His family’s the kind that thinks being gay is something you pray away. Church every Sunday, purity pledges, that whole world. So we stayed quiet. Hid.”
Another pause.
“Kane loved the scene. The parties. The rush. He was magnetic, and people gravitated to him. Guys, girls, it didn’t matter. He liked the attention. And he was drawn to a world of drink and drugs that didn’t help. Made everything feel more intense, more reckless.”
I press my thumb into my palm, grounding myself.
“There were nights I didn’t know where he was. Or who he was with. I’d wait for him to call, sometimes drunk, sometimes high, always full of excuses and charm. And I’d forgive him. Every time.”
My voice goes quieter.
“The worst part? We’d never said we were exclusive. Never said we were anything, really. So I didn’t feel like I had the right to be angry. I wasn’t his boyfriend. I was just… there. The one who stayed. The one who kept quiet.”
I swallow hard.
“I told myself I was being mature. That I understood the difference between love and possession. But deep down, I felt invisible. Like he could love me in private and forget me in public. And I let it happen. For way too long.”
“I thought if I just held on tighter, if I loved him a little more, he’d come around. That maybe he’d choose me. Settle. Stay.”
I exhale slowly, the ache in my chest dull but deep.
“But it didn’t work that way. The more I tried, the more he pulled back. Every time I got vulnerable, he got slippery. Like love was a weight he didn’t want to carry. So he’d vanish. Another party. Another lover. Another high.”
I glance down at my hand, thumb brushing over the seam of my jeans.
“I kept waiting for the moment he’d look at me and say, ‘You’re enough. I don’t need the chaos anymore.’ But that moment never came.”
My voice drops.
“I wasn’t enough to make him stay. And trying to be just broke me.”
“Eventually… he dropped out,” I say, my voice softer now. “Stopped coming to lectures. Stopped answering my messages. Just disappeared. Like I was something he needed to escape.”
I swallow, fingers tightening slightly around the phone.
“And I was left there. Alone. Shattered. Like someone had hollowed me out and walked away with the part that mattered.”
I pause. Then continue.
“That’s when I met Marianne.”
I let the name settle between us.
“She was nothing like Kane. Calm. Gentle. Solid. She didn’t try to fix me. She just stayed. She saw how wrecked I was and didn’t flinch. And yes, she knew everything. Every detail. That I had loved Kane. She never asked me to be anything I wasn’t.”
My chest tightens.
“She helped me remember who I was before Kane broke me. Encouraged me to finish college. Helped me believe I still had something worth rebuilding. That I wasn’t just what Kane left behind.”
Another breath. Slower now.
“She brought me back to life, Bruno. I don’t think I’ve ever told her just how much.”
“But through it all,” I add, “Marianne and I never had a sexual relationship.”
I hear myself say it and realize how important it is that Bruno understands.
“She wasn’t a placeholder. And she never tried to be something I didn’t want. We were just... good together. Safe. The kind of friendship that didn’t need definitions. No pressure. No pretending.”
I shift slightly on the bed, phone still warm against my cheek.
“We shared a friendship, a life, a kind of quiet loyalty. But there was never any confusion. Not once. She knew I just broke up with a man. She knew who Kane was, what he’d meant to me. We built something honest. Something that didn’t ask for more than either of us could give.”
A long breath follows.
“She’s still one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.”
“Then Kane came back.”
The words land flat, like a dropped stone.
“He showed up clean. Or said he was. And I was stupid enough to believe him. To fall for him. Again.”
I exhale hard through my nose, trying to steady the shake in my voice.
“He said he’d told his family about us. Said he was ready this time. That he loved me. And maybe he meant it. For a while, I think he really did. We moved in together. Tried to build something that could last.”
My throat tightens, but I keep going.
“But his family never accepted it. They’d show up, uninvited. Sit on our couch and pray over him. Tell me I was corrupting their son. That I was dragging him to hell with me.”
I close my eyes and let the sting settle.
“I tried not to let it get to me. But it did. The shame didn’t just come from them. It crawled into me too. Made a home under my skin. And Kane... he started to crack again. I could feel it.”
“I started noticing small things,” I say, quieter now. “Petty cash missing from my wallet. Bits and pieces around the house disappearing. At first I thought I was imagining it. Maybe just forgetting where I’d put things.”
I pause, my gaze distant.
“But then it got clearer. A watch I’d inherited from my grandfather. Gone. A Bluetooth speaker. Headphones. Small, easy-to-sell things. Nothing dramatic, but enough to feel it. To know.”
My throat tightens.
“I confronted him. Gently. I wanted to believe there was another explanation. He said I was paranoid. That I didn’t trust him. That my constant worrying was going to drive him to drink. To numb himself.”
I rub a hand over my face.
“He said I was suffocating him. That I expected him to be someone he wasn’t. And maybe part of me did. I’d hoped he’d changed. That love could be enough.”
“But it never was. Not with Kane. The more I tried to hold on, the faster he slipped away. And the more he blamed me for it.”
“Through all of it, Marianne was still there,” I say. “She never left. She saw me shrinking. Saw what Kane was doing to me, even when I couldn’t or wouldn’t admit it.”
I swallow hard.
“She was the one who finally said it. That he wasn’t good for me. That love isn’t supposed to hollow you out like that. I didn’t want to hear it, but she didn’t let go. She kept showing up. Calling. Checking in.”
“And then one night, Kane lost it. I can’t even remember what started the fight. Something stupid, probably. But he was high. Drunk. And when I pushed back, just raised my voice, he punched me. Hard. I hit the wall. My eye was black and my shoulder bruised for days.”
I blink, remembering.
“That was the breaking point. Marianne was there within the hour. She helped me pack a bag and get out. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t tell me she told me so. Just handed me my coat, locked the door behind us, and drove me to her place.”
My voice drops.
“That night, I sat on her couch, shaking. Not from fear. From shame. From the sick realisation that I’d let it get that far.”
“Kane disappeared after that,” I say quietly. “Just vanished. Blocked my number. Left his stuff behind like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”
I sit back, thumb brushing my thigh.
“I was the one left to deal with it all. The lease. The damage. The mess. I had to buy us out of the contract with the landlord, replace the things he’d broken - lamps, a mirror, even a damn doorframe. I don’t know if it was rage or guilt that made him destroy things, but either way, it was on me.”
A faint breath escapes me.
“Marianne helped with the cleaning. She showed up in old sweats and rubber gloves, scrubbing the walls like we were trying to wipe the past away. And my parents… they helped with the money. Quietly. Kindly. They didn’t ask for details. Just transferred what I needed and told me to take care of myself.”
I look down.
“I remember thinking that I should be angry. Furious. But mostly, I just felt hollow. Like Kane had burned through everything soft in me and left nothing but ash.”
“My dad was the one who said it first,” I whisper. “That maybe what I needed wasn’t more passion or chaos or heartbreak. Maybe what I needed was peace. Stability. Someone who wouldn’t run or ruin me.”
I pause, remembering the way he’d looked at me across the kitchen table. Not unkind. Just tired. Hopeful.
“He knew I was bi, gay, whatever, that I didn’t care to label it. Always had known, and he doesn’t care for labels either. But he suggested that maybe marrying Marianne would fix the pain in me. That the love we had, because there was love, could maybe be enough.”
I shift, throat tight.
“And maybe I wanted to believe him. Maybe I was so broken by then, so ashamed of who I’d become with Kane, that I thought I didn’t deserve anything better. That I didn’t deserve the love of a man. Marianne never pushed. She was kind. Gentle. She knew the whole story, even the worst of it.”
A faint smile touches my lips.
“She even said once that marrying me would be the safest mistake she could ever make.”
I glance at the wall like I can see through it.
“We both knew it wasn’t a great idea. But we did it anyway.”
“Kane showed up just after we got married. Just appeared one evening like he always used to, but this time he was a complete mess. Eyes wild. Skinny in a way that wasn’t healthy. You could smell the booze before he even said a word.”
I pause, hearing it again in my head. The door slamming. The shouting. The crack of breaking glass.
“He accused Marianne of stealing me. Said I belonged to him. That we were supposed to grow old together. He kept yelling, pacing, smashing things. Windows. Plates. Anything he could grab. Marianne tried to calm him down, but that only made it worse.”
I rub the side of my neck, trying to ground myself in the telling.
“He called her a witch. A whore. Said she’d turned me against him. It got so loud the neighbours called the police. I’ll never forget the look on her face as the sirens pulled up outside. She stood between him and me like a shield, even then.”
A long silence stretches between breaths.
“He was dragged out, still shouting. Promising he’d come back. Promising he’d ruin everything.”
“The next time we heard of him, Kane was dead.”
I hear myself say it like I’m talking about someone else’s story. But it’s mine. All of it.
“He’d hung himself. Alone in a motel room two towns over. The kind of place with flickering neon signs and mildew in the walls. No one even noticed until a cleaner found him two days later.”
I pause, and the quiet hum on Bruno’s end lets me keep going.
“The note he left was short. Scrawled on the back of a hotel menu. He wrote that he just couldn’t face life without me. That loving me had been both the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him. That he didn’t blame me, not really, but he couldn’t breathe knowing he’d lost me. That without me, he didn’t know who he was anymore.”
My throat tightens.
“And he meant it. That was the worst part. He meant every word.”
I close my eyes.
“And I didn’t know what to do with that. The guilt came first. Crushed me. Like maybe if I’d stayed. If I’d loved him a little longer. If I hadn’t married Marianne. If I hadn’t moved out. If I hadn’t walked away the night he hit me.”
A pause.
“But then the anger came too. Quiet. Shameful. Like a slow-burning flame. Because he didn’t just leave. He handed me his absence and expected me to carry it forever. He left the weight of him behind. His ghosts. His blame. His story.”
I swallow.
“And I hated him for it. And I missed him too. Both things can be true.”
There’s silence on the line. I keep going. I have to.
“His parents came after that. Not to offer condolences. Not to share in the grief. But to blame me.”
I shake my head even though Bruno can’t see.
“They stood in our driveway like prophets of punishment. Told me I’d poisoned their son. That I’d dragged him into sin. That his death was the natural consequence of a life led astray. I tried to speak, to explain, but they didn’t want truth. They wanted a villain. And they made me into it. They even questioned if Marianne was some type of high priestess devil worshipper. ”
I pause. My voice is quieter now.
“I wasn’t allowed at the funeral. Marianne told me later they’d made it very clear we’d be escorted off the grounds if we showed. They buried him like he’d never loved a man. Scrubbed my name from his story. Refused to speak it. Refused to acknowledge what we were.”
I let out a slow breath.
“I grieved in silence. In private. And even that, they tried to take from me. They called. Sent letters. Posted Bible verses on our door. Words like abomination. Like shame. Like punishment. As if Kane hadn’t suffered enough. As if I hadn’t.”
I run a hand through my hair, like I’m trying to push the memory away.
“They disregarded my pain like it didn’t belong. Like it wasn’t real. Like I hadn’t held him. Loved him. Tried, again and again, to save him. But I couldn’t. And that truth has lived inside me ever since.”
I pause long enough that Bruno might think I’m finished.
“Married life saved me,” I say softly. “It was quieter than anything that came before. There were no slammed doors. No broken dishes. No nights spent searching for someone who didn’t want to be found. Just stillness. And Marianne.”
I exhale.
“She poured herself into our home. Into the life we were building. Into me. And slowly, I got better. I started sleeping through the night. My business took off — mostly because of her. She believed in me when I couldn’t find a reason to believe in anything at all. She gave structure to the chaos. Stability where there had only been fire.”
I smile faintly, and it even surprises me.
“And then our baby came. And suddenly… it all made sense. My father had been right, in the way that only fathers with grey temples and broken sons can sometimes be. Marrying Marianne brought me peace. And love. Not the wild, desperate kind that tears you apart, but the kind that builds a home around your heart and lets you breathe again.”
I let the words hang between us.
“I love them. Both of them. My wife. My daughter. Maybe not in the way stories say I’m supposed to. But deeply. Fiercely. Truthfully.”
Another breath.
“And for a long time, I thought that would be enough.”
“But it wasn’t enough,” Bruno says.
I answer him. “No. Not really. Not when I saw you.”
There’s a pause on the other end. I imagine him holding his breath.
“The first time you walked into the coffee shop, Bruno… something shifted in me. I didn’t know your name yet. Didn’t know anything about you. But I knew exactly what I was looking at. Not just a beautiful man. You were..” I hesitate. “You were the truth I’d buried.”
I exhale slowly, heart hammering.
“I’ve loved Marianne in the best way I can. And Chloe? She’s my heart. But that first moment with you? I knew what I’d been missing. The love of a man. Not chaos. Not comfort. Something real. Something I haven’t let myself want for years.”
My throat tightens again.
“And the worst part? I realised I haven’t healed. I just… found ways to be useful. Reliable. Safe. Closed. Until you came along and reminded me that there’s still something alive in me.”
“I don’t know what to do with any of this. But I know I needed to say it.”
There’s a long silence on the line.
Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just full. Like he’s holding what I said in both hands, afraid to drop it.
Then I hear him exhale. Soft. Careful.
“Thank you for telling me," he says.
That’s all. No judgment. No pity. Just that. Thank you.
I close my eyes, and for the first time in what feels like years, something inside me unclenches. Not all the way. But enough to breathe a little deeper.
He continues, voice low. “I wish I could take some of that weight from you. I don’t know how. But I’d try. If you’d let me.”
His words wrap around me, steady and warm. I press the phone tighter to my ear, as if I could crawl through it and into that voice.
I don’t speak. Can’t. My throat is too tight, my eyes burning. But it’s not from pain this time. It’s something gentler. A kind of relief I hadn’t dared hope for.
“I don’t know where this goes,” he says. “But I’m here. Not because I want to be a replacement. Or a fantasy. But because I see you, Bryn. And I’m not scared of what’s real.”
I let out a slow, shaky breath. One that carries the edge of a smile I didn’t expect.
The line goes quiet again, but this time it feels like a door opening.
“I’m still here,” he says again.
And this time, I believe the man that’s making a promise to me.
