In the last installment of Forever
Some endings don’t arrive with distance.
They arrive with honesty.
Not when the wanting stops—but when pretending does.
When silence costs more than saying it out loud.
When staying hurts less than walking away.
Forever isn’t a promise you make lightly.
It’s what’s left when you finally stop running from the truth and decide to meet it where it stands.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.
It’s Sunday morning—late enough that he would’ve already texted by now. Something dumb. Something domestic.
Should I bring fries? Are you still on your anti-carb thing?
Wanna split a milkshake like emotionally repressed high schoolers?
Does the couch miss me yet?
But there’s nothing.
Because he’s not coming.
Because I told him not to.
I make coffee anyway.
Even pour two mugs out of habit. One with oat milk, like he takes it when he’s pretending he’s healthy.
I stand in my kitchen with both mugs in my hands and feel like an idiot.
The ache creeps up slowly. Not a sharp pain—just that low-grade throb of disappointment.
I don’t want the whole day to feel like this.
So I grab my phone and type fast before I can overthink:
Family had to reschedule. If you’re free, feel free to swing by.
Three dots.
Then nothing.
Three minutes go by. Then six.
And then:
Ah, wish you’d said something earlier. I made plans with this guy from my program—we’re doing a group study thing for the Monday exam. I’d feel bad bailing.
But definitely good for next week :)
I stare at that smiley face like it’s mocking me.
Because it’s not cruel.
It’s not cold.
It’s just… considerate.
And somehow that hurts more.
He didn’t replace me. He just moved on with his day. Found another place to be. Another couch to sit on. Another conversation to have.
Because I told him not to come.
And he listened.
And now?
Now I’m here.
Coffee getting cold.
Heart doing that thing where it hopes next Sunday will fix everything.
Even though I know it won’t.
I still went through the routine.
Changed the sheets. Cleaned the bathroom. Lit the same candle I always light when I know he’s coming over. I even queued up a show we used to half-watch while we messed around on the couch—something forgettable, just background noise for skin and breath and heat.
I watched it alone.
Dinner was pasta. Boxed. Uninspired. I didn’t set the table. Didn’t pour wine. Just ate off a chipped plate in the kitchen, scrolling through my phone like it might give me a better ending.
It didn’t.
By the time I got into bed, the house was still.
The kind of still that makes you think about things you shouldn’t.
The kind of still that makes your skin remember what it was like to be touched.
And that’s the thing.
I didn’t mean to. I didn’t plan to.
I just closed my eyes, and there he was.
Patrick.
The weight of him.
The way he mumbles when he’s half-asleep.
The way he grabs at me when he’s not.
I shifted beneath the covers. My hand trailed low, just absently at first—more memory than action. But it didn’t stay that way.
Because suddenly I could feel him.
The way he kisses down my neck.
The way he looks up when he’s on his knees.
The way he whispers, You always taste so good, right before he—
My breath hitched.
I closed my fist around my cock and stroked it slow. Eyes shut. Lips parted.
My hips lifted off the bed without permission. My thighs tensed. My skin flushed hot.
I imagined him between them.
His mouth. His hands. His voice.
Low. Sweet. Dirty. Calling me by name like it meant something.
I moaned—quiet, desperate.
It wasn’t enough.
But I chased it anyway.
Faster now. Rougher.
Fucking into my own hand like I needed it to feel like him.
And when I finally came—alone, panting, trembling against the sheets—
It felt good.
But not enough.
Never enough.
Because when I opened my eyes,
the bed was still empty.
And I was still alone.
I’m still breathing hard. One hand limp on my stomach. The other curled in the blanket like it might keep me grounded.
The room is dark.
The only light comes from the streetlamp outside my window, casting this soft, blurry halo across the ceiling.
And the silence is unbearable.
Not the kind that invites peace.
The kind that makes you realize just how loud your own thoughts are.
I wipe myself off with the edge of the sheet and lay back against the pillows.
Staring at the ceiling. Blinking slow.
And then it hits me.
That wasn’t release.
Not really.
It was grasping.
Grasping for something that used to be here. Something that tasted like intimacy. Smelled like comfort. Felt like warmth. Something Patrick gave me without ever promising to.
And now?
Now I’m just reaching for shadows.
I turn onto my side, curl in a little. My skin’s still flushed, but I feel cold.
And I think —
I can’t keep doing this.
I can’t keep pretending these Sundays are enough.
Can’t keep calling it casual when it’s anything but.
Can’t keep hoping he’ll read between lines I was too afraid to write out loud.
Because the truth is: I miss him on Mondays. I think about him on Wednesdays. I wait for him on Fridays. And on Sundays, I pretend it’s all fine.
But it’s not. It hasn’t been for a while. And I don’t want to be the only one wondering if this could be more. I press the back of my hand to my forehead and shut my eyes. The thought settles in like a stone:
I have to tell him.
Even if it ruins everything. Even if he doesn’t feel the same. Even if he walks away. Because what we’re doing now? It’s already breaking me.
And if I don’t say it soon—
There won’t be anything left of me to offer.
He’s late.
Not dramatically. Not even annoyingly. Just… predictably.
9:24 p.m.
Three knocks, same rhythm.
The sound that usually makes me breathe easier.
Tonight?
It lands heavy.
I open the door.
He’s smiling, windblown, holding a brown paper bag with grease blooming through the bottom corner.
“Thai,” he says, lifting it like an offering. “Your usual. Extra peanut sauce because you always complain when they skimp.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
He leans in, gives me a quick kiss on the cheek.
It lingers longer than usual, but not long enough to mean anything.
And then he walks inside like it’s any other Sunday.
Like nothing’s changed.
Like I didn’t spend all week trying to figure out how to tell him that everything has.
Dinner is quiet.
He eats with his usual enthusiasm, telling a story about some guy in his cohort who passed out during a mock IV and tried to play it off like he was meditating.
I give him half a smile. A couple nods. Not much else.
At one point, he pauses.
“You good?”
I look up from my noodles.
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly. “Just tired.”
He seems to accept it. Doesn’t push. Just keeps talking, filling the space with words that bounce off the walls and fall flat at my feet. The food tastes fine. But I barely touch it. Because everything feels tight. Like I’m shrinking in my own skin. I want to say it. Want to just look at him and blurt it out.
But I’m not ready. Not yet.
So instead, I clean up. Stack the containers. Wipe the counter. Avoid his eyes.
And Patrick? He watches me. Quiet now. Like he knows something’s coming. But doesn’t know what. I’m at the sink. Hands braced on either side. Plate rinsed. Water running. I haven’t turned around in two minutes. Haven’t said a word since dinner. Patrick’s sitting at the table, messing with his phone. Or maybe just holding it. I don’t know. I’m not looking.
I stare at the faucet. The backsplash. The pale reflection of my face in the window over the sink.
I open my mouth once. Close it. Try again. Then finally—
“I can’t do this anymore.”
I don’t say it loud.
I don’t say it soft.
Just… clear.
The water keeps running.
“I told myself this would be temporary. That it was just about convenience. About comfort. About not wanting to deal with anything too real while everything else in my life is already overwhelming.”
I pause.
Still facing the sink. Still not breathing right.
“But it stopped being casual for me a while ago. Probably around the time you started staying the night. Maybe even before.”
Silence behind me.
I keep going.
“And I thought I could live with that. Thought I could keep showing up every Sunday and pretending that it was still what it used to be. But I can’t.”
My hands curl tighter on the edge of the counter.
“Because I want more. And I’ve wanted more. And I’ve been scared to say it. Because if you don’t feel the same, then I lose what little I had.”
I let the last line hang.
And then—
“I’m done pretending this doesn’t matter to me.”
I shut off the water.
The kitchen feels impossibly still.
And then I hear him.
“Turn around.”
His voice is quiet. Steady. Not shaking.
So I do.
And Patrick is already standing. Already close. Already watching me with eyes that look like they’ve been waiting for this.
“You think I don’t feel the same?”
I blink. “I didn’t know if—”
“I broke the rules,” he says. “And I thought I ruined everything. So I pulled back. Hard. Too hard.”
He steps closer.
“But I wanted more before that. I just didn’t know if you could handle it. Or if you’d run the second it stopped being convenient.”
I exhale. It shakes.
“I’ve wanted more for a while, Aiden.”
He says it like it’s not a confession.
Like it’s just been true.
I nod. Slow. “So what do we do now?”
Patrick smiles. Just a little.
Soft. Like a secret he’s finally allowed to tell.
“We stop pretending.”
Patrick steps in before I can say another word.
His hands come up to my face—firm, warm—and then he’s kissing me.
Hard.
Not rough. Not angry. Just full.
Like he’s been saving this.
Like we’ve been circling it for weeks and finally crashed through.
I kiss him back.
Immediately.
Without hesitation.
His mouth opens against mine, and I taste everything I missed. Peanut sauce. Red wine. Him.
It’s familiar—his weight, his lips, the way he always presses his palm flat against my chest like he’s checking for a heartbeat—
But it’s not the same.
Because this isn’t a prelude to a hookup.
This isn’t convenience.
This is us, choosing something. Finally.
We stumble toward the bedroom. Hands everywhere. My shirt comes off first. His hoodie hits the hallway floor. Our mouths barely part for breath.
We make it to the bed. Fall into it like gravity’s stronger now.
He rolls on top of me.
Smiles.
But it’s not cocky.
It’s soft.
Intentional.
Like he sees me, really sees me, and still wants all of it.
He kisses me again—slower now.
And it’s not about the next move.
It’s about the moment.
Us.
Here.
Finally saying what our bodies have been trying to say for weeks.
And that’s where we stay.
Breathless. Tangled. Warm.
Not just wanting—but letting ourselves be wanted.
Patrick kisses down my neck like he’s memorizing the taste.
Slow. Intentional. Familiar in rhythm, but not in weight.
Everything feels more vivid now. More there.
His hands move over my chest—not quick or greedy, just… present. Thumbs brushing over my nipples. Palms pressing heat into my skin. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t tease. Just touches me like he wants to know what makes me tremble.
And I do.
He mouths at my collarbone, teeth grazing. Kisses lower, slower, dragging his tongue across my stomach until my abs twitch. His fingers hook in my waistband, and he looks up—eyes dark, asking, still good?
I nod. Barely.
He pulls everything down and off. Takes me in his hand first. Just holding. Stroking slow.
I gasp—because it’s not just the pressure.
It’s the way he’s watching me.
And then—he lowers his head.
His lips part around me like he’s done this a hundred times, but tonight it feels different.
Because it’s not just a blowjob.
It’s not just heat and suction and tongue.
It’s affection.
It’s promise.
It’s yes.
His mouth moves slow at first—working me inch by inch, lips flushed and slick. Then deeper. He hums against me, and my hips twitch. I groan, trying to keep control, fingers knotting in the sheets.
He moans back. Like he wants me to fall apart.
The story doesn’t end here, but it does get better and it’s definitely the conclusion that was earned. Upgrade now to find out what happens when the heat is turned all the way up! 🥵🔥
