In the last installment…
WHEN I WAKE UP the next morning, there’s sunlight on my floor and a dull ache behind my eyes. It’s the kind of ache that comes from too many thoughts, not enough rest. The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional hum of the fridge and the soft thrum of someone’s music bleeding through the wall next door. I lie there for a minute, the sheets tangled around my legs, still half-lost in the ghost of last night—Danny’s voice in my ear, the heat of his body pressed up against mine, the way his picture had undone me completely.
There’s a weight to that kind of intimacy—one I’m not used to carrying. Not with men. Not with anyone, if I’m honest.
I move slowly through the morning. Shower. Coffee. Sit on the edge of the bed like I’m waiting for someone to tell me what to do next.
By noon, I’ve somehow ended up at McKenna’s.
Not on purpose. Not really. It’s one of those things where you find yourself walking and suddenly your feet have taken you to a place you didn’t even know you needed to go. I don’t text first. Don’t call. I knock, and she opens the door like she was expecting me anyway.
She doesn’t look surprised to see me. Just tilts her head and says, “You good?”
I nod, but it’s not convincing. She opens the door wider and steps aside.
We sit on her couch. It’s not awkward, exactly, but it’s not comfortable either. There’s a thin layer of old familiarity between us, just enough to keep us from feeling like strangers. But we aren’t the same people we were when we started, and we both know it.
“I wanted to ask you something,” I say after a long stretch of silence.
She waits.
“Why did we really break up?”
She looks at me, eyes searching. For a moment, I think she might shrug it off with something vague or diplomatic. But she doesn’t. McKenna’s never been one to hide behind politeness when the truth is within reach.
“Because you couldn’t be there for me in the way I needed,” she says plainly. No malice. No bitterness. Just fact.
I open my mouth, then close it again. I don’t want to argue—I just want to understand.
She softens a little. “In the beginning, it was all fire. All the time. Everything felt intense and fast and full. But somewhere along the line… that fire faded. And I kept trying to reignite it, but I think we were both pretending for longer than we realized.”
I swallow. “So it was my fault?”
She shakes her head. “No. That’s the thing—it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It just stopped working. And I got the feeling that we weren’t right for each other. Not in the way I’d always hoped we would be.”
I nod slowly. Let her words sink in. Let them settle in the hollow place behind my ribs.
“I think I’ve been confused lately,” I admit. “About a lot of things.”
Her eyes don’t widen. Her posture doesn’t shift. She doesn’t lean in like she’s about to fix me or flinch like she’s been wounded. She just… listens.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” she says softly. “I think staying with me would’ve made us both miserable. And neither of us deserves that.”
I glance down at my hands, then back at her. “Do you think it’s possible to… want something that doesn’t quite fit what you thought your life was supposed to look like?”
McKenna gives me a look I don’t entirely know how to read. There’s a smile at the edges of it, but not one she forces. It’s the kind of smile people wear when they recognize a truth without needing it explained.
“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
There’s a beat of silence.
She leans back against the couch cushion, resting her head there, still watching me with that same quiet knowing. “I think maybe you’re just starting to figure out who you are outside of who you thought you were supposed to be. And honestly? That’s kind of exciting.”
I huff a laugh. “It doesn’t feel exciting.”
“No, it feels terrifying. But it’s also real. And you’re allowed to explore what that means. You don’t need my permission—but you have it, if it helps.”
I nod, more grateful than I can articulate. There’s still sadness between us, but it’s changed shape. It doesn’t feel sharp or sour. It feels… human.
She reaches for the remote, tosses it lightly onto the coffee table, and stands.
“Besides,” she says over her shoulder, “you’re still the only one who knows the answers to all the nerdy trivia questions on Thursday nights. Sam and Bree would mutiny if I let you go completely.”
I smile. It’s small, but it’s real.
“Guess I’ll see you Thursday then.”
She turns and grins. “Damn right you will.”
And for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like I’m standing on the edge of something broken.
I feel like I’m standing at the beginning of something else entirely.
I don’t plan it. I just drive.
Somewhere between McKenna’s couch and my own front door, I take a detour. A left turn instead of a right, like muscle memory I don’t actually have, and before I know it, I’m pulling into the lot of Danny’s complex. The sun is low now—caught in that magic hour haze that makes everything feel like a scene from something else. Something softer. Slower.
I sit in the car for a second, hands still on the wheel, eyes on his building. I should probably text. Call. Do something that resembles planning. But I don’t. I just get out, walk up the stairs, and knock.
Danny answers the door like he knew I was coming.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just gives me a look that sits somewhere between smug and gentle, like a smirk that doesn’t fully commit. He’s wearing one of those loose-cut tank tops that dip down so low it’s basically backless. Depending on how he moves, you can see the soft arc of his side, even the faintest flash of nipple if he shifts just right. It’s not intentional, not performative—it’s just what he wears when he’s home and comfortable. Which, apparently, he is.
“You coming in or nah?” he says with a little tilt of his head.
I nod, stepping past him into the apartment.
He shuts the door behind me. “Just playing games,” he adds casually, as he makes his way back toward the couch.
There’s a controller in his hand, headset already on. First-person shooter, based on what I can see. Not really my thing—I’ve never liked games where the whole point is just point and shoot until someone dies—but I settle next to him anyway. Not too close. Not far either. There’s a half-eaten pizza on the coffee table, crusts piled on a napkin like he gave up midway through pretending to be civilized.
He offers it up with a small gesture.
“I’m good,” I say, shaking my head.
He says something in response, but it’s not to me. A second later, he lifts a finger like hang on, eyes still glued to the screen. “Not you,” he mumbles around a grin. “Some fourteen-year-old who thinks this is the peak of his existence.”
I smile, settling deeper into the couch. Letting the moment breathe.
Danny’s completely immersed. Eyes sharp, shoulders loose, fingers dancing across the controller like it’s second nature. His legs are spread wide, posture relaxed in a way that says he doesn’t perform here—this is his domain. Comfortable. Unfiltered.
And me? I’m just watching.
Taking it in.
What I didn’t let myself see the other day. What I couldn’t.
The way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. The way the light from the TV glows along the line of his jaw. The slight flex of muscle every time he leans forward, says something trash-talking into the mic, then pulls back with a smug grin like he just embarrassed someone half his age.
I don’t know when it happens exactly, but somewhere between respawns, he reaches over and moves my leg across his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation. No glance. Just a hand on my ankle, a gentle tug, and suddenly I’m more entangled in this moment than I was five seconds ago.
He keeps playing. Doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t make a show.
But I feel the weight of it.
His hand lingers there for a beat before returning to the controller. My leg stays where it is, draped across him like it’s always belonged there.
And maybe it does.
I study his profile while he plays. Memorize the way his brow furrows when things get intense. The way he laughs quietly when he catches someone slipping. The way he looks—really looks—when he’s doing something he loves.
There’s a kind of peace in that. In watching someone be exactly who they are without apology.
I don’t interrupt.
I just… let myself be here.
And for once, that’s enough.
It happens slowly. Or maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe it’s just been waiting—this charge, this current, this thing humming beneath everything since I got here—and now it’s finally slipping through the cracks.
Danny shifts slightly on the couch, pulling one knee up to rest on the edge of the cushion, which stretches the loose fabric of his tank just enough to expose more skin. And there it is: the sharp line of his chest, the curve of his pec, and just beneath that dip—his nipple. Bare. Unbothered. Almost… inviting.
I look at it a little too long. I know I do.
He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s locked into the game again, headset snug, eyes narrowed with focus. Somewhere out there, a teenager’s shouting tactics into a mic like his life depends on it.
I bring my hand to my mouth, suck gently on my index finger, and without overthinking it, I reach over and press it to Danny’s nipple. Just a tap. A wet flick across skin.
He jerks like I shocked him. Whole body tensing.
Then comes the sound. A startled, wounded exhale that isn’t quite a moan but lands in the same family. His back straightens. One hand clamps down on the controller. The other shoots to the mic like he’s just realized the whole internet might’ve heard that.
His eyes snap to mine.
And the look he gives me?
Excited disbelief. A question and an answer in one. Like Really? and Please don’t stop had a baby and taught it how to smirk.
I don’t stop. I lean in.
My mouth closes over the same nipple. A lick first, slow and deliberate, then a kiss. Then another. Then I draw it into my mouth and suck—soft at first, then firmer when I feel him shiver beneath me.
Danny groans, trying to stifle it into a cough. His legs twitch beneath mine.
“Jesus,” he mutters, and his thumb fumbles something on the controller.
I feel him shift beside me, fumbling toward the headset like he’s about to yank it off.
But I shake my head. Press a hand against his thigh to still him.
“Keep it on,” I whisper. “Keep playing.”
His eyes flash wide. His Adam’s apple bobs.
And then I’m on the floor between his legs.
The carpet is soft beneath my knees. I slide forward, settling into the space like I’ve always belonged there. My hands run along the inside of his thighs, slow strokes that make his knees spread just a little wider. His tank top drapes open, the edges clinging to sweat-damp skin, and I glance up to see him trying—failing—to keep his eyes on the screen.
He’s still playing. Barely.
Still talking into the mic, but his voice is strained now, every sentence clipped and shaky. The controller twitches in his grip. His hips shift, once, twice, betraying just how wrecked he’s getting.
And I haven’t even touched him yet.
I just breathe him in. Let the warmth of his body roll over me. Let my fingers trace lazy patterns over the waistband of his shorts. Not pulling. Not rushing. Just being there.
Just being.
Above me, Danny sucks in a breath like he’s trying to anchor himself to something. Anything.
Too bad.
I don’t think he’s coming back from this.
Not tonight.
Looks like things are heating up🔥 on the couch with Danny and Ryan—but if you want to know what happens next, you’ll need to upgrade to a Paid Subscription.
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