LS Phoenix's Blog, page 5

What If I Stayed - Part Five: What If I Stayed

Some stories don’t end when the goodbye happens, they just pause, waiting for the right moment to start again. What If I Stayed? is a second-chance, high-heat short story about long-distance lovers, the fear of getting it wrong twice, and the quiet kind of love that never really left.

What If I Stayed - Part Five: What If I Stayed

What if the one who broke your heart was still the only place it felt whole?

Eli

The light wakes me first.

It spills across the bed in slow golden streaks, warming the edge of the blanket and catching on the rumpled fabric beneath my hand. I blink a few times, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling and the way the air smells faintly like cedar and him.

And then I remember.

The way his hands moved like he never forgot my body.

The sound I made when he finally touched me like that again.

The way we didn’t speak after, as if words would ruin it.

I shift slightly, careful not to move too much, and feel the heat of Caleb beside me. One arm draped over my waist. His breath soft against the back of my neck. The weight of everything we didn’t say pressing into the space between us.

I don’t move right away.

His leg is warm against mine, his bare skin brushing where the blanket slipped down in the night. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, steady and unbothered, and it hits me how different it feels now.

Not like sneaking out of his dorm room at 3am. Not like pretending it didn’t happen.

Like we’re both still here, in the morning, breathing the same air.

I don't want to wake him.

And I don’t know if I’m ready for what comes next.

Because now that the night is over, my thoughts won’t stop.

What does this mean? Was it just the past pulling us under again? Some nostalgic collapse we’ll pretend didn’t matter when the sun is fully up? I can’t help wondering if he’ll regret it. If I should.

I steal a glance at him. Caleb’s face is soft in sleep, lips slightly parted, one hand still curled around the edge of the blanket. He looks peaceful. Uncomplicated. The opposite of everything I feel right now.

My chest tightens.

I start to ease out of the bed, slow and quiet, trying not to wake him. My leg slides free. Then my arm.

But before I can finish pulling away, his hand finds my hip and grips it, not hard, just enough.

“Don’t go again,” he murmurs.

I stop.

Every breath I’ve been holding rushes to the surface.

His voice is sleep-rough, unguarded, and it slices right through whatever wall I’ve spent the last year trying to rebuild.

“I’m not,” I whisper, throat thick. “I’m right here.”

It’s not the words, really.

It’s the way I say them. Like I’ve been holding them for a long time. Like some part of me has been waiting to speak them out loud.

He shifts behind me, one eye cracking open, gaze hazy but focused. His arm tightens like he’s making sure I’m real. I meet his eyes, searching for something, hesitation, regret, anything to tell me this was a mistake. But it’s not there.

He doesn’t.

Instead, his hand smooths over my back in a slow line. Comforting. Familiar.

We don’t speak.

Not yet.

But something’s shifted.

And instead of pushing forward or pulling away, I let myself sink into the quiet. Let myself believe, just for a minute, that this doesn’t have to fall apart.

I turn toward him and curl into his chest, feel the way his arms wrap around me like they remember how.

His skin is warm, the rhythm of his heart steady beneath my cheek. One of his hands drifts up to my shoulder, settling there without thinking. Like muscle memory. Like instinct.

And for now, that’s enough.

The coffee maker gurgles in the corner, loud in the quiet. I lean against the counter, one hand wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, the other braced on the edge like it might help hold me up.

I’m fully dressed now, jeans, the same hoodie I wore yesterday, but everything still feels exposed. Like my skin remembers last night too well to think it didn’t happen.

I can feel him behind me, hovering in that quiet space between distance and closeness, close enough to notice, but far enough not to crowd.

He’s  in the doorway, towel slung around his neck, hair damp from the shower. His eyes aren’t sharp yet, still soft from sleep and whatever came after. But they’re watching me.

He hasn’t said anything since I got out of bed. Just tracked my movements like he was trying to figure out which way I’d run.

“Coffee’s strong,” I mutter, taking a sip that burns.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” he says, voice low.

I glance up, mouth twitching. “Old habit.”

“You always did spiral before noon.”

“Guess I still do.” I pause, swirling the mug in my hands. “I’m just trying to figure out what this was.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that would’ve broken us once. But he doesn’t let it now.

“It was real.” His voice is steady. “For me.”

I nod, but it doesn’t stop the ache in my chest. “I don’t know how to come back without wrecking it all over again.”

“Then don’t come back.”

My eyes snap to his.

He pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, slow but certain. “Just be here.”

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or something in between. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not.” He shrugs one shoulder. “But maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated either.”

He’s always done that, cut through the noise I build in my head. But this time, it doesn’t feel like a fix. It feels like a choice. One I don’t know how to make without breaking something else in the process.

I look away, stare out the window like it’ll give me answers. The backyard is still wet from last night’s storm. Everything gleams under the morning sun, like maybe the world doesn’t know how wrecked I feel.

The mug trembles slightly in my hand. I tighten my grip.

“I’m scared,” I admit, quiet.

“I know.”

His hand brushes mine where it rests on the counter, a barely-there touch.

“You owe me the truth,” he says. “Not promises. Just the truth.”

The words echo, uncomplicated and steady. Just like him.

I want to ask what happens after today. What if we both fall again, harder this time and it breaks? What if I ruin it by staying the way I ruined it by leaving? But the questions stay trapped behind my teeth. Because I already know he won’t give me answers. Not unless I ask. And maybe not even then.

I don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? I left chasing something I couldn’t name. Came back carrying the weight of everything I didn’t say.

And now… now he’s standing here asking for the truth.

Not forgiveness.

Just one more moment I don’t have to regret.

I look at the door. The handle gleams under the overhead light. Easy to grab. Easy to walk out again.

Then I look at him.

Still steady. Still waiting.

I set the mug down.

“I could stay,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just for coffee.”

His mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah?”

I nod. “I’m not going anywhere. Not if you still want me here.”

The tension that’s been stretching between us softens. Caleb steps forward, and I feel the warmth of him before he even touches me.

“I never stopped,” he says.

Something settles in my chest—an ache that doesn’t hurt anymore. Not the way it used to.

And for the first time since I came back, I don’t feel like I’m one step from running.

I feel like I already stayed.

The porch steps are still cool under my legs, even with the sun pushing higher in the sky. The mug in my hands is warm, and I curl my fingers tighter around it like it might help settle the tremor still tucked somewhere behind my ribs.

Caleb sits beside me, one knee pulled up, the other leg stretched out. His bare foot brushes mine now and then, like he’s not ready to stop touching me, like we’re pretending this is new. Like we didn’t fall asleep wrapped around each other. Or that we didn’t wake up still tangled, and maybe a little scared.

He takes a sip of his coffee and glances sideways. “You always had a thing for porches.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “You always had a thing for making me stay longer than I planned.”

He lifts one shoulder in a slow shrug. “You always made leaving look too easy.”

The words settle between us, unhurried but heavy. Not an accusation. Just… truth.

I turn the mug in my hands and study the swirl of cream still floating on the surface.

“I used to think if I left first, it wouldn’t hurt as much when everything fell apart,” I admit.

Caleb doesn’t say anything right away. He just sits with me in the silence, the way he always used to. Like he knows the difference between when I need answers and when I just need space.

Then, quietly, “I always knew you were scared.”

I blink once. “You did?”

He nods. “I just didn’t know how to make you feel safe enough to stay.”

I reach over and run my thumb along the rim of his mug, just to touch something that belongs to him. “Last night felt different.”

“It was,” he says, no hesitation. “But I’m not asking for anything you’re not ready to give.”

He sets his mug down, then slides his hand over mine, grounding me.“You don’t have to promise anything,” he says softly.

I turn my mug slowly in my hands, letting the words settle.

“Then let me ask you something,” I say. My voice isn’t steady, but it’s honest. “What if I stayed?”

Caleb looks over at me, and he doesn’t smile, yet. He just studies my face, like he’s trying to decide if I mean it.

“Then we’d wake up every day and try not to mess that up,” he says quietly.

The corner of my mouth lifts, just barely. “Then let me. Not because I owe you or because it’s expected. Just because I want to.”

He doesn’t breathe for a second. Then he exhales, slow and steady. “One day at a time?”

I nod. “Every one of them.”

His fingers tighten around mine. “Then stay.”

There’s no pressure in the words. No desperation. Just a quiet certainty that echoes the same one rising in my chest.

I set my mug down and lean into him, let my head fall against his shoulder. He shifts to make room, tucking me in like we’ve done this a thousand times before. Like maybe, in some other version of us, we never stopped.

The breeze picks up, and he reaches for the throw blanket draped across the back of the porch swing. Tosses it over both our laps without saying a word. His arm curls around me.

I breathe in.

And this time, it feels full.

Like air after drowning. Like finally surfacing.

I don’t know what happens next. But I’m not afraid of it anymore.

Not with him.

Not like this.

I tilt my face toward him, just enough that he can hear me.

“Feels like I already did,” I whisper.

Caleb doesn’t even blink. He just smiles like he agrees.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

What If I Stayed - Part Four: What If We Still Fit

Some reunions are soft. Quiet. Wrapped in closure and neat endings.

This isn’t one of them.

Eli came back with a heart full of maybes and a body still aching for the boy he left behind. Now, with emotions running high and old desires rising to the surface, one night might not be enough to fix everything—but it might be enough to start again.

This chapter is high-spice, high-emotion, and everything Eli didn’t know he still needed.

What If I Stayed - Part Four: What If We Still Fit

You can’t fake the way someone touches you when they still care.

Eli

I didn’t go back to bed after he left.

I sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, hands clasped tight like I was praying to something I didn’t believe in anymore. After a while, the room’s too quiet, the kind of quiet that settles under your skin and reminds you you’re alone, even when someone’s just down the hall.

He didn’t slam the door but he also didn’t ask me to leave.

So why does it still feel like I’m one word away from ruining everything?

I push off the couch and head for the kitchen. I don’t need coffee, but I need something to do. Something to hold. Something to keep my hands from reaching for him.

The pot’s already half full, but I grab a mug anyway, fingers trembling just enough to make it slip. It clatters against the counter, not hard enough to break, but loud enough to make me flinch. I steady it. Exhale.

It used to be different, mornings like this.

We had a rhythm once, easy, wordless, instinctive. One of us would grab the mugs, the other would pour. Our hands would find each other without even trying. A brush of fingers. A soft look over the rim of a cup. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel lonely.

Now the silence hums with everything we’re not saying.

I hear the creak of the floorboards behind me and don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. There’s no mistaking the weight of him in a room. It’s in the shift of the air, the way my breath catches before I can stop it.

He walks past, barefoot, hair damp from the shower. There’s a drop of water trailing down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of the shirt he clearly threw on too fast. It clings to his skin in places, slightly wrinkled and still damp near the hem. I look away before I can linger.

He reaches for the coffee pot. Stands beside me at the counter like it’s no big deal. Like my pulse isn’t thudding so loud I can barely hear myself think.

“You’re up early,” he says, his voice low. Unbothered.

“Didn’t sleep much,” I answer, trying to match his tone. Casual. Easy. As if my skin isn’t prickling just from being this close to him again.

We don’t move. Not really.

And then our hands brush, mine reaching for a spoon, his reaching for sugar, the two colliding in the middle, we didn’t plan it but couldn’t avoid it either.

He pauses. Just enough to make it mean something.

His eyes flick down, then up, landing on my mouth for half a second before he looks away.

It kills me.

Was it always like this and I just didn’t see it?

Or did leaving change the way he looks at me?

I swallow hard, step back from the counter like distance will help.

Because if I stay in this kitchen any longer, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.

I don’t make it far.

Just a few steps into the hallway, enough to breathe, to reset, to not say something I’ll regret.

But then I hear him behind me.

Not close, not rushing. Just there.

When I turn, Caleb’s already watching me, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Do you want me to go?” I ask, voice quieter than I mean it to be.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts his weight like the truth is heavier than it should be.

There’s a flicker behind his eyes. Something caught between fear and anger. Maybe hope.

Then he says it.

“No. I think I want you to stop pretending you don’t still feel it.”

The words land somewhere deep, unsteadying everything I’ve spent the last few years trying to hold together. A breath catches in my throat. Neither of us moves.

We just… wait.

Like the silence might settle this for us.

It doesn’t.

I close the space between us slowly, one careful step at a time until I’m close enough to feel the heat of him. His breath. The tremor he doesn’t try to hide.

“Say it,” I whisper.

His jaw tightens. “You left. I don’t owe you this.”

“No,” I say softly, “but you want to.”

Something cracks then. I see it—just for a second—in the way his shoulders shift. Like holding it in is starting to hurt.

He doesn’t move.

So I do.

Just enough to lean in, to let my mouth brush his. Barely a kiss. Barely anything.

Until his hand fists the front of my shirt and yanks me the rest of the way.

This time, when our lips meet, there’s no hesitation. No question. Just heat and need and the kind of pressure that feels like a dam finally breaking. His hand slides around the back of my neck, holding me there. Mine grips his waist, anchoring us both.

A soft curse slips from his mouth between kisses.

God, I missed this.

I missed him.

When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing hard, like the moment wasn’t just emotional, it was survival.

His eyes search mine, raw and tired and afraid.

“Tell me you’re not going to run this time,” he whispers.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“I can’t promise anything but this,” I say, voice rough. “Right now.”

And for now, it’s enough.

We don’t say anything as he turns and walks toward the bedroom. Doesn’t grab my hand. Doesn’t look back to see if I’m following.

But I do.

Because I can’t not.

The door closes behind us with a quiet click. The sound echoes louder than it should. Like finality. Like a line we just crossed and can’t uncross.

We stand there, maybe a foot apart, breathing the same thick air.We stand there, maybe a foot apart, breathing the same thick air. Long enough for the moment to stretch. Long enough to doubt it.

Caleb swallows hard, jaw tight. Like he’s waiting for one of us to stop this.

I don’t. I can’t.

I step forward. Kiss him again, slower this time but no less desperate. It’s all tongue and heat and the taste of coffee still lingering on his breath. My fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him closer until there’s no space left to think.

He groans when I bite his bottom lip.

Rough hands slide under my shirt, dragging it up, over, gone.

“You sure about this?” he breathes.

“No,” I whisper, because I’m not. “But I want it.”

That’s all it takes.

He surges forward, walking me backward until the backs of my knees hit the bed. I sit, tugging him between my legs, and he kisses me like he’s been holding back for years—because he has. Because we both have.

He tosses his shirt aside before his hands find me again. Skin to skin, like we used to be. His chest is warm against mine, his palms reverent as they trail down my sides.

“Tell me this isn’t just another memory I’ll have to live with,” he says, voice wrecked “I can’t go through losing this again.”

“You won’t have to.” I meet his eyes. “I didn’t come back to leave.” 

Something flickers in his expression, relief, maybe. Or something heavier. The kind of look you give someone right before you fall apart for them.

He kisses me softer this time.

He kisses me softer this time. Slower. But his hands are the opposite, urgent and everywhere. He knows exactly where to touch. How I like to be touched. He remembers.

Fingers drag over my ribs. Down my stomach. His mouth follows, slow and open, like he’s marking a path only he’s allowed to take.

I gasp when he reaches the waistband of my jeans, then peels them down with agonizing control. Like he’s giving me time to stop him.

I don’t.

He kisses the inside of my thigh. Looks up, eyes molten. “Still mine?”

“Yes,” I breathe, because there’s no point pretending. Not when my whole body’s already saying it for me.

“Say you missed this,” he murmurs, mouth brushing sensitive skin.

“I missed this. Missed you.”

My voice cracks. He notices. He always did. 

“Fuck,” he says, more like a prayer than a curse. He pushes me to lay on the bed. Then his mouth is on me.

I forget how to breathe.

Every stroke, every swirl of his tongue is deliberate. Designed to undo me. One hand grips my thigh. The other finds my hand, fingers laced, holding tight, like he knows I need the grounding.

I moan his name. Once, twice, louder than I mean to. He doesn’t stop.

“Caleb—” I warn, already unraveling.

But he just looks up at me, lips wet, eyes full of heat and something softer.

“Let go,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

And I do.

The rush is blinding. Like all the years of want and ache and silence are finally crashing into this one moment. My spine arches, my fingers claw at the sheets, and I fall apart for him, because of him.

My body trembles in the aftershock, muscles tight and trembling as the rush fades into something softer. I don’t realize I’m shaking until he’s touching me again.

He moves up my body, kissing the line of my throat, my jaw, my mouth. I pull him down beside me, our legs tangled, foreheads pressed together.

“You ruin me,” he says, breathing hard.

I smile, eyes burning. “You saved me.”

We don’t rush the rest. It’s slower now, less frantic but somehow even more intense. He flips me gently, climbs over me, every movement full of quiet intention. Our hands find each other again.

Any clothes left fall to the floor in pieces.

When he finally presses into me, it’s steady. Deep.

I gasp, forehead dropping to the bed as he moves deeper.

“Okay?” he asks, voice ragged.

“So fucking okay,” I whisper, fingers curling tight in the sheets. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

It’s not rough, but it’s not gentle either. It’s something else entirely. That perfect mix of reverent and filthy. The kind of fucking that feels like worship. That makes you believe in things you stopped believing in a long time ago.

We lose rhythm more than once, too caught up in kissing to keep the pace. But neither of us cares. This isn’t about getting off. It’s about getting back.

His breath stutters. Mine breaks. Our mouths meet again, teeth clashing. I whimper when his hand curls around my thigh and pulls me tighter, deeper.

“No one’s ever touched me like you,” I say, voice shaking.

He buries his face in my neck, groaning into my skin.

“You’re mine,” he says. “Always were.”

And when we both finally break, together, all at once, it’s not quiet.

It’s everything.

We collapse against the bed, sweat-damp and shaking, the air thick with everything we didn’t say.

For a while, neither of us moves. Just lie there in the mess of it all, breathing each other in.

I reach for his hand. He lets me take it. Lets me hold on like maybe he still wants to be held.

And I whisper the only truth I know for sure.

“If I break again, I hope it’s here.”

The room’s gone still, thick with the kind of silence that only follows something real.

My skin’s cooling beneath the sheets, sticky and flushed. Caleb’s arm is draped heavy across my waist, not tight but solid, like he doesn’t mean to let go yet. Maybe like he doesn’t want to.

I keep my eyes on the ceiling, letting my breathing even out, willing my heart to follow.

Behind me, he shifts slightly. Not enough to pull away, just enough to get comfortable. His thumb strokes along my hipbone, lazy and slow, like a rhythm he doesn’t realize he’s keeping. The touch is soft. Familiar. Dangerous.

I swallow hard.

I want to stay in this moment. Want to bottle it up, trap it in amber, and never let it change.

But moments don’t last. They fade. They always do.

“I wanted this to be enough,” I say, so quietly I’m not sure he’ll hear me.

He does.

There’s a pause, one beat too long. Then his voice, low and a little wrecked. “It is. For now.”

It’s not the kind of answer I expected. It’s not more. But it’s not less, either.

His fingers smooth up my back, along the ridge of my spine, then stop just below my neck like they’re thinking about staying.

I don’t move.

“You ever think about this?” I ask, voice still hoarse from everything we just were.

“All the time,” he says, like it costs him something to admit it.

A quiet settles between us again. Not tense. Not heavy. Just full.

His fingers keep moving in slow, absent patterns across my back, curling at the nape of my neck before moving down again. There’s no rush in it. Just comfort. Familiarity. A quiet that doesn’t ask for more than this.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice close to my ear.

I nod against the pillow, swallowing down the ache that’s still lodged somewhere in my chest. “Yeah.”

He shifts behind me, pulling the blanket higher over both of us. “Good.”

We don’t talk after that. Just breathe in sync, his arm heavy across my waist.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know what this means.

But I know I’m not running.

Not now.

And maybe we’re not the same people anymore.

But maybe, just maybe we still fit.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part five

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

What If I Stayed - Part Three: What You Never Said

Some things are easier to leave unsaid. Others come back to haunt you until they’re finally spoken. In Part Three of Eli and Caleb’s story, the silence between them cracks open just enough to let the past slip through—and neither of them is ready for what it brings with it.

It’s not just a question of what was lost. It’s a question of what still remains.

Part Three: What You Never Said

The words they never said might be the only thing that can save them now.

Caleb

I heard him before I saw him.

The soft creak of the floorboard near the window. The one that always gave him away no matter how quietly he tried to move. It pulled me from sleep, but I didn’t open my eyes. Just lay there, motionless, heart pounding like it knew something I didn’t.

Then I heard it. His voice, low and rough, barely more than a breath.

“If I’d stayed…”

That was it. The sentence stopped there. But everything he didn’t say? I felt it settle in my chest like smoke. Thick and clinging and impossible to ignore.

I sat up slowly, the worn edge of the blanket slipping down my chest. My feet hit the floor with a quiet thud, and I rubbed the sleep from my face as I padded toward the hall. I didn’t even think about it. Just followed the sound of his voice like some half-awake part of me had been waiting to hear it.

He was standing in front of the shelf by the door, his back to me, still gripping the same picture frame he never used to notice. The one my sister took on the porch that summer. His fingers were tight around it, like maybe it was holding him together.

I didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

The air between us had already shifted.

He didn’t turn around, but I knew he could feel me there.

And maybe that was the part that wrecked me the most.

That after everything, the space between us still felt like it mattered.

I took a breath and held it.

I wanted to say his name.

To let it leave my mouth the way it used to, soft and sure and so damn full of hope.

But the words didn’t come.

Instead, I stood there with every unspoken thing I’ve been carrying since the moment he walked out. Words I’ve never said to anyone else. Words that stuck like splinters every time I tried to move on.

You broke me.

That’s what I wanted to say.

Not to hurt him. Not to make him feel guilty.

Just so he’d know that he mattered. That he still does.

Because when he left, he didn’t just take his things.

He took the version of me that only existed when he was here.

And I’ve been clawing my way back ever since.

I wanted to tell him that I hated him for leaving. That I hated myself more for still hoping he’d come back.

That I tried to move on. Really, I did.

But every smile since has felt a little hollow.

Every bed colder.

Every conversation just a little bit quieter.

I almost say it.

Almost close the distance between us and say the one thing that still burns behind my ribs:

I never stopped loving you.

But I don’t.

Because love isn’t always enough.

And sometimes the confessions that matter most are the ones that never make it out loud.

So instead, I stay in the silence.

Let it stretch.

Let it say everything I don’t know how to.

And when he finally turns his head, just slightly, like he’s waiting for me to break it—

I take one small step forward.

Not a leap. Not a demand.

Just a step.

And I let it speak for me.

The morning he left, I knew something was off the second I walked into the kitchen.

He was already dressed. Coffee mug in one hand, eyes fixed on the sink like it held the answers he hadn’t found yet. I looked past him and saw the bag. Half-zipped. Tucked just behind the door like he hoped I wouldn’t notice it.

I did.

“Going somewhere?” I asked, even though I already knew.

He didn’t answer right away. Just scrubbed the mug with a little too much force. That silence, it wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Tense. The kind that always came before a storm.

“I got offered a job,” he finally said. “In Atlanta.”

It didn’t feel real, not at first.

Not until he shrugged.

Not until I saw the way his hands trembled when he set the mug down.

“You weren’t gonna tell me?” I asked, already feeling the crack form. The one I knew would split everything wide open.

He said he didn’t think I’d care.

And that was the part that gutted me.

Because I did. Of course I did.

I loved him. God, I loved him.

And he was standing there acting like I wouldn’t fight for him if he gave me the chance.

“You really believe that?” I asked.

He wouldn’t look at me.

Which told me more than anything he might’ve said.

I tried to reason with him. Offered the kind of logic you only fall back on when you’re desperate. “We could figure it out. You didn’t have to do this alone.”

“I wanted to do it alone,” he snapped.

And that’s when I stopped. Really stopped.

Because I saw it then, the wall. The one I’d been pretending wasn’t there between us. Maybe it had been for a while. Maybe I’d just been too hopeful to see it.

So I asked for the truth.

And he didn’t give it.

He just stood there, quiet and closed-off, and let the silence say what he wouldn’t.

I should’ve begged.

Should’ve pulled him back.

But I was tired of being the only one trying.

“If you walk out now,” I said, “don’t come back.”

I didn’t mean it. Not really.

But I needed him to hear it.

He hesitated. For half a second, I thought he might stay.

Then he picked up the bag. Walked out without another word.

I stood there for a long time after the door closed. Not moving. Not breathing. Just staring at the place where he’d been like if I waited long enough, the air might give him back.

When I finally did move, I went to grab the mug he’d left behind—and that’s when I saw it.

His hoodie.

Folded on the back of the couch, half-tucked beneath the blanket we used to fight over. I don’t think he meant to leave it. But I took it anyway. Buried it at the bottom of my drawer like a wound I couldn’t stop touching.

Some nights, I held it like it might still smell like him. Like the weight of it could anchor me to something real.

Once, months after he left, I called his number. Didn’t expect him to answer.

He didn’t.

But his voicemail did.

And for thirty seconds, I just… listened.

To the voice I’d spent every day trying not to miss.

I almost said something. Almost asked if he was okay, if he ever thought about me, if I was stupid for still leaving a light on that he never promised to follow home.

But I couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t make the words come out.

So I hung up.

Deleted the call.

And told myself it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

He’s standing in the hallway like a ghost. Still gripping that damn picture frame like it holds the answers we never found.

I should say something.

Anything.

But the words lodge somewhere in my throat, trapped behind everything I never got to tell him.

He looks older. Tired in a way I recognize. Not just from the years that passed but from whatever haunted him long before he ever left.

I shift my weight, the old floorboard creaking again under my heel. His head turns toward the sound, eyes locking on mine like he’s not sure I’m real.

Neither of us speaks.

Not at first.

His jaw tightens. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Not yet. He’s still gripping the frame like it might splinter, and something about the way he’s looking at it, at me, makes it impossible to speak.

“How long have you been up?” I finally ask, even though I already know the answer.

“A while,” he says, clearing his throat. “Couldn’t sleep.”

I nod once, the motion slow. Measured. Still unsure how close I can get without tipping us into something too raw to handle.

“You always were good at running from rest,” I say.

It’s not meant to hurt. Not really. But I see it land. He sets the frame down gently this time, like he understands how fragile everything is.

For a second, I think about walking away. About turning around and pretending I didn’t hear the words he whispered into the silence before I stepped out of the shadows.

But I don’t.

Instead, I ask, “You meant it, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t pretend not to understand. Doesn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did.”

And fuck, it hits harder than I thought it would.

I nod again, slower this time. Something flickers in my chest. I don’t know if it’s anger or grief or something softer trying to survive beneath the weight of all the shit we didn’t say.

I don’t let it out.

“Get some sleep, Eli,” I say, voice barely steady.

Then I turn and walk back down the hall.

Because I need the space. Because I’m not sure what I’ll do if I stay.

Because if I don’t leave now, I might not be able to walk away again.

I don’t go back to bed right away.

I make it to the doorway, my hand is on the frame, but my feet won’t move. Not yet. Not with his voice still echoing in my chest. The way he said “yeah, I did,” like it hurt. Like he meant every syllable and still didn’t think it was enough.

God, I hated that he made me believe again.

Even for a second.

I turn, just slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of him in the hallway mirror, still standing where I left him. Still clutching the past like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he breathes too hard.

He doesn’t know I see it too.

The pull.

The ache.

The gravity of a thousand unsaid things pressing in until it’s hard to remember who walked away from whom.

I should be over it. Should be able to look at him and feel nothing but distance. But seeing him here, in this house, saying the things I wanted to beg him to say?

It scrapes something raw.

Because the truth is, I never stopped waiting for him to come back.

I just stopped saying it out loud.

And now that he’s here, I don’t know what to do with the hope clawing its way up through the grief.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part four

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

What If I Stayed - Part Two: Then & Now

Some goodbyes aren’t really goodbyes.

Not when the memories still live in the walls.

Not when you can still taste what it meant to be loved by them.What 

In this next part of What If I Stayed, we go back—back to the moment it started, and the moment it all fell apart. Because sometimes, before you can move forward, you have to remember exactly what you lost… and why it still matters.

What If I Stayed - Part Two: hen & Now

Before the goodbye, there was everything.

Eli

The couch is still the same. Too soft in the middle, cushions always sliding, a threadbare quilt half-draped over the back. I catch the scent of it as I pass, clean linen and whatever soap Caleb has always used. The one that clung to his skin like an afterthought. Crisp and warm and so goddamn familiar it makes my chest ache.

One night comes back in pieces. Not all at once. Just fragments. A flicker of laughter. The way our knees brushed on the too-small couch and neither of us shifted. The hum of a bad movie we weren’t really watching, just letting play because silence might’ve given us away.

It was late. One of those sticky summer nights where the fan barely helped and the air was heavy with things we weren’t saying. We were both shirtless from the heat, sitting too close for comfort, and pretending we hadn’t been circling something for months.

I remember Caleb saying something stupid—, some sarcastic comment about the movie, and I laughed. Really laughed. The kind that rolls out of your chest before you can stop it. He looked at me then. Just looked. Like he was seeing me for the first time, even though he knew me better than anyone else ever had.

And I couldn’t breathe.

“I dare you,” he said. Soft. Teasing. But something in his voice cracked.

I raised an eyebrow. “To what?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in. Barely. His shoulder brushed mine, and the air between us snapped taut.

“To tell me this isn’t what it feels like,” he said.

My heart damn near stopped. I stared at him, every smartass reply stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

I don’t remember who moved first. Maybe we both did. One second, we were breathing the same air. The next, his mouth was on mine.

It was clumsy at first. A little desperate. Like we weren’t sure what we were doing but knew we couldn’t not do it. His lips were warm and soft, but he kissed me like he’d been thinking about it for a long time. Like this wasn’t just a dare or a mistake… it was inevitable.

When I kissed him back, everything else faded. The movie. The heat. My stupid fear. All I knew was that Caleb tasted like spearmint and sleep and something sweeter I couldn’t name. His hands found my waist, tentative at first, then bolder, pulling me closer until I was straddling his lap and nothing about this felt hypothetical anymore.

It wasn’t our first time, not technically. There’d been touches. Drunken hookups that we never talked about in the morning. But this was different.

This time, there was no one else to blame. No excuses to hide behind.

This time, we meant it.

I remember the way his breath hitched when I kissed the corner of his mouth. The way his fingers trembled just before he touched me, like he wasn’t sure I’d let him. I did. I wanted him to. Every inch of me wanted him like nothing ever had.

We didn’t rush. Not that night.

Even when it turned physical, his hand slipping under my waistband, my name on his lips, it wasn’t just sex. It was slow and quiet and so full of feeling I could barely hold it. We moved like we were memorizing each other. Like we didn’t want to forget a single sound, a single breath.

Afterward, we lay tangled on that same couch, limbs heavy, hearts racing. He had one hand on my chest, fingers brushing the space just over my heart. I turned my head and looked at him.

We didn’t say anything.

We didn’t have to.

I think I knew then that if I let myself fall, it’d be all the way. No safety net. No coming back.

And for a second, I thought maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

I blink, and the memory’s gone.

The room is quiet now, too quiet, and my legs ache from sitting too long.

I stand slowly, stretching as I walk toward the hallway, past the old bookshelf, past the edge of everything we were.

The couch creaks behind me, settling like it knows I’m not coming back to it. My steps are slow, careful. Not because the floorboards are loud—though they are—but because I feel like I’m walking through something fragile. Like memory itself might shatter if I breathe too hard. The framed photo is still crooked. The scratch in the hardwood still catches the light. I brush my fingers along the edge of the shelf as I pass, half-expecting dust to rise up and coat me in everything I left behind.

Caleb’s coat is still on the hook by the door.

Same navy one with the frayed sleeve from where it caught on a fence post one winter. I told him to get rid of it. He told me to mind my business.

I reach out, fingertips just grazing the hem before I stop myself. It’s ridiculous, how one stupid jacket can feel like a punch to the chest.

Another memory creeps in before I can stop it.

It was a Sunday. Early. Gray light filtered in through the windows, making the kitchen look colder than it was. My duffel bag sat by the back door, half-zipped and already packed. I hadn’t meant for him to see it yet. It wasn’t supposed to go down like that.

“You going somewhere?”

Caleb’s voice had been even, but I knew that tone. Knew how quiet he got when he was pissed.

I didn’t answer right away. Just kept washing the coffee mug like it was the most important task in the world.

He stepped closer. “Eli.”

“I got offered a job,” I finally said. “In Atlanta.”

A beat. Then another.

“And you weren’t gonna tell me?”

I shrugged. Shrugged. Like it was nothing. Like it hadn’t been keeping me up every night for a week.

Caleb’s jaw flexed. “When were you planning to bring it up? After you were gone?”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” I lied.

He flinched, and I immediately hated myself for it.

“You really believe that?” His voice broke on the last word. “After everything?”

I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at the expression I knew I’d find there.

The hurt. The disbelief. The hope that hadn’t died yet.

“You could’ve talked to me,” he said. “We could’ve figured it out. You didn’t have to do this alone.”

“I wanted to do it alone,” I snapped. Too loud. Too sharp. A defense built out of fear.

Because if I admitted the truth, I’d stay.

And if I stayed, I’d ruin it.

Caleb shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t mean that.”

I did. And I didn’t.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and jagged.

“Just tell me the truth,” he said. “Whatever it is. I can take it.”

But I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t tell him how much I loved him. How it scared me more than anything ever had. How I’d never trusted anything enough to let it be real.

So I said nothing.

Caleb stared at me like he was trying to memorize my face. Like he knew this was the last time he’d see it like this.

Then, quietly:

“If you walk out now, don’t come back.”

I hesitated. Just long enough to almost change my mind.

But fear’s a hell of a thing.

And so is shame.

I picked up the duffel. Slung it over my shoulder like it weighed nothing.

And walked out.

The door shut behind me.

Hard.

Final.

Like the closing of a chapter I wasn’t ready to end but didn’t know how to keep writing.

The door shut louder in my memory than it ever did in real life.

Now, standing in the same hallway a year later, it’s quiet. Still. Like the house moved on without me and didn’t need to slam the door again to make its point.

I run my fingers along the edge of the side table, pausing when they hit the frame that never moved, one of those old candid photos Caleb’s sister took. We were on the back porch, both laughing at something that’s long since slipped my mind. My hand’s blurry in the picture, caught mid-gesture, but Caleb’s smile is sharp. Bright. He was looking at me like I was the only one there. Like maybe I’d already ruined him and didn’t know it yet.

I almost say his name out loud.

Almost let it leave my mouth, like maybe if I speak it, everything else will follow.

But I don’t. I can’t.

There’s too much between then and now. Too much I don’t know how to ask for.

Like forgiveness. Or another chance.

Like whether the version of me that stayed away is the one he remembers.

I want to tell him I didn’t stop loving him.

That even in places I liked, cities I swore I’d never leave again—there was something missing.

I want to tell him that I looked for pieces of him everywhere.

In strangers who held their coffee the same way.

In waiters who laughed too loud.

In roommates who never understood why I never brought anyone home for more than a night.

It was never the same.

No one knew how to fill the quiet like he did.

No one ever made it feel like silence wasn’t something that had to be broken.

That every bed without him felt colder.

That every quiet morning made me want to call, and every time I didn’t felt like betrayal.

That I didn’t come back because I thought I deserved him.

I came back because I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t.

But none of that makes it past my lips.

I just stand there, still gripping the damn picture frame like it might give me answers, and wonder if he can feel it too. If something in the air still pulls tight when I’m near. If he’s in his room right now, awake, thinking about all the things we never said.

Maybe that’s the cruelest part of it all, how grief can linger for something you never really lost.

Because it’s not like he died.

He just stopped being mine.

And I stopped being brave enough to fight for what I wanted.

Maybe coming back was selfish.

Maybe it was brave.

Maybe I wanted him to yell. To slam the door again and give me the clarity I’ve been avoiding.

But he didn’t. He let me in.

And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

My thumb rubs over the edge of the glass, smearing the surface until the image distorts.

“If I’d stayed…” I whisper.

The rest doesn’t come.

Just hangs there, broken and suspended.

Like maybe, if I leave the sentence unfinished.

The words barely leave my mouth before I hear it—the soft creak of a floorboard near the hallway.

Caleb steps into view, sleep-rumpled and barefoot, like I conjured him with nothing more than memory and regret.

His eyes lock on mine. He doesn’t speak.

I don’t either.

We just stand there.

Two ghosts in the same haunted place.

His jaw flexes like he’s trying to decide if he should speak, if I’m worth the words. If I’ve earned them. His gaze drops to the photo still clutched in my hand, then flicks back up.

“How long have you been up?” he asks, voice rough with sleep or maybe it’s something else.

“A while.”

I clear my throat. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Caleb nods once. Slow. Measured. Like he’s still protecting something, even now.

“You always were good at running from rest,” he says.

It’s not a jab. Not exactly.

But it lands.

I set the photo frame back down, careful this time, like mishandling it might crack something else wide open.

He shifts on his feet, and for a second, I think he’s going to leave. Turn around. Pretend this moment didn’t just scrape against everything we buried.

But then he speaks again.

“You meant it, didn’t you?”

His voice is quieter now. Not accusing… just tired. “When you said ‘if I’d stayed’…”

I look at him, and for once, don’t hide.

“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”

He nods again, but this time, slower. Something flickers in his expression, anger, maybe. Or the outline of something softer beneath it.

Then he says, “Get some sleep, Eli.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

Just turns and walks back down the hallway, barefoot steps echoing louder than they should.

And I’m left standing there, heart in my throat, the taste of almost still sharp on my tongue.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

What If I Stayed - Part Two: hen & Now

Some goodbyes aren’t really goodbyes.

Not when the memories still live in the walls.

Not when you can still taste what it meant to be loved by them.What 

In this next part of What If I Stayed, we go back—back to the moment it started, and the moment it all fell apart. Because sometimes, before you can move forward, you have to remember exactly what you lost… and why it still matters.

What If I Stayed - Part Two: hen & Now

Before the goodbye, there was everything.

Eli

The door shut louder in my memory than it ever did in real life.

Now, standing in the same hallway a year later, it’s quiet. Still. Like the house moved on without me and didn’t need to slam the door again to make its point.

I run my fingers along the edge of the side table, pausing when they hit the frame that never moved, one of those old candid photos Caleb’s sister took. We were on the back porch, both laughing at something that’s long since slipped my mind. My hand’s blurry in the picture, caught mid-gesture, but Caleb’s smile is sharp. Bright. He was looking at me like I was the only one there. Like maybe I’d already ruined him and didn’t know it yet.

I almost say his name out loud.

Almost let it leave my mouth, like maybe if I speak it, everything else will follow.

But I don’t. I can’t.

There’s too much between then and now. Too much I don’t know how to ask for.

Like forgiveness. Or another chance.

Like whether the version of me that stayed away is the one he remembers.

I want to tell him I didn’t stop loving him.

That even in places I liked, cities I swore I’d never leave again—there was something missing.

I want to tell him that I looked for pieces of him everywhere.

In strangers who held their coffee the same way.

In waiters who laughed too loud.

In roommates who never understood why I never brought anyone home for more than a night.

It was never the same.

No one knew how to fill the quiet like he did.

No one ever made it feel like silence wasn’t something that had to be broken.

That every bed without him felt colder.

That every quiet morning made me want to call, and every time I didn’t felt like betrayal.

That I didn’t come back because I thought I deserved him.

I came back because I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t.

But none of that makes it past my lips.

I just stand there, still gripping the damn picture frame like it might give me answers, and wonder if he can feel it too. If something in the air still pulls tight when I’m near. If he’s in his room right now, awake, thinking about all the things we never said.

Maybe that’s the cruelest part of it all, how grief can linger for something you never really lost.

Because it’s not like he died.

He just stopped being mine.

And I stopped being brave enough to fight for what I wanted.

Maybe coming back was selfish.

Maybe it was brave.

Maybe I wanted him to yell. To slam the door again and give me the clarity I’ve been avoiding.

But he didn’t. He let me in.

And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

My thumb rubs over the edge of the glass, smearing the surface until the image distorts.

“If I’d stayed…” I whisper.

The rest doesn’t come.

Just hangs there, broken and suspended.

Like maybe, if I leave the sentence unfinished.

The words barely leave my mouth before I hear it—the soft creak of a floorboard near the hallway.

Caleb steps into view, sleep-rumpled and barefoot, like I conjured him with nothing more than memory and regret.

His eyes lock on mine. He doesn’t speak.

I don’t either.

We just stand there.

Two ghosts in the same haunted place.

His jaw flexes like he’s trying to decide if he should speak, if I’m worth the words. If I’ve earned them. His gaze drops to the photo still clutched in my hand, then flicks back up.

“How long have you been up?” he asks, voice rough with sleep or maybe it’s something else.

“A while.”

I clear my throat. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Caleb nods once. Slow. Measured. Like he’s still protecting something, even now.

“You always were good at running from rest,” he says.

It’s not a jab. Not exactly.

But it lands.

I set the photo frame back down, careful this time, like mishandling it might crack something else wide open.

He shifts on his feet, and for a second, I think he’s going to leave. Turn around. Pretend this moment didn’t just scrape against everything we buried.

But then he speaks again.

“You meant it, didn’t you?”

His voice is quieter now. Not accusing… just tired. “When you said ‘if I’d stayed’…”

I look at him, and for once, don’t hide.

“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”

He nods again, but this time, slower. Something flickers in his expression, anger, maybe. Or the outline of something softer beneath it.

Then he says, “Get some sleep, Eli.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

Just turns and walks back down the hallway, barefoot steps echoing louder than they should.

And I’m left standing there, heart in my throat, the taste of almost still sharp on my tongue.

What if I Stayed - Part One: Back Where We Started

Some goodbyes aren’t final. Some doors never really close. And sometimes, the hardest thing isn’t leaving—it’s coming back.

This is a story about the ache of unfinished conversations.

About what it means to leave, and what it takes to come back.

About holding your breath for too long… and finally letting it out.

What If I Stayed - Part of the MM 'What If ' Short Story Collection I’m working on and will publish once all stories are out. In the meantime… enjoy them here on the blog.

Small intro:

One year after walking away from the man he couldn’t stop loving, Eli finds himself back on the porch of the apartment he once called home. He doesn’t know what he’s hoping for. Forgiveness? Closure? Or just a chance to say what he couldn’t before. But when Caleb opens the door, it’s clear their story isn’t over. Not yet.

Part One: Back Where We Started

What if leaving was the biggest mistake I ever made?

Eli

The porch light’s still crooked. The boards creaks under my boots as I shift my weight. It’s not loud, but it’s familiar, just enough to raise goosebumps. I used to sit here on late summer nights with a warm beer in my hand and Caleb’s laugh echoing through the screen door. Now, the quiet feels louder than it should. Like even the air is waiting for me to say something I never did.

It flickers once, like it’s deciding whether to work and then steadies, casting a dull yellow glow across the peeling paint and the same stupid crack in the third step that almost broke my ankle once. I almost laugh. It’s like the place froze the second I left. Or maybe it just never noticed I was gone.

I shift my duffel bag higher on my shoulder, my fingers flexing around the worn strap like I’m still not sure if I’ll knock or turn around. I tell myself I’ll just stand here a second longer. That I’m only catching my breath, adjusting to the humidity, anything but stalling. But it’s a lie I’ve told myself before. Truth is, this is the closest I’ve been to Caleb in over a year. One knock. That’s all it would take. But there’s something paralyzing about being on the other side of a door you once called home.

But I don’t move. Not yet.

The air smells like rain and dust. The good kind, wet pavement and distant firewood and the ghost of something sweet coming from the bakery two blocks over. For a second, it hits so hard I feel winded. Like all the time I’ve spent running just caught up to me in one breath.

That bakery used to stay open until midnight on Fridays. Caleb always got the same thing, those little raspberry tarts he pretended not to like but devoured in two bites. I used to make fun of him for it, but I still remember the look on his face the night he bought two and handed me one without a word. I never told him it meant more than it should’ve.

I haven’t been here in over a year. But every cell in my body still recognizes this street. This door. The exact pattern of rust on the old handle.

I shouldn’t be here.

But I couldn’t stay away.

The cab already pulled off, and I didn’t ask for a return ride. That was deliberate. I knew if I left that option open, I’d use it. I’d get back in, say never mind, and let the what ifs stay buried where they’ve been rotting since the day I walked out of this house and didn’t look back.

Except I did. I looked back. A thousand times.

I close my eyes, just for a second. Let myself remember.

Caleb standing in the kitchen, barefoot and pissed. His hand wrapped around a chipped coffee mug, the one he always forgot to put in the dishwasher.

I remember the way the morning light hit his face through the blinds, streaking gold across his cheekbones. He didn’t yell. That made it worse somehow. Just stood there, coffee in hand, jaw clenched like he was trying not to say something he’d regret. I think he knew. Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to know I was halfway out the door before I ever said goodbye.

My bag was already packed, my voice already shaking. I didn’t tell him why I had to leave. I didn’t say what I really meant to.

Didn’t say: I’m terrified.

Didn’t say: I’m falling in love with you, and it feels too big. Too real.

Didn’t say: If I stay, I won’t survive it when it falls apart.

Because if I’d stayed, I would’ve had to admit that Caleb made me believe in things I wasn’t ready to want. Like permanence. Like belonging. Love that didn’t come with conditions or caveats. And that terrified the hell out of me. I didn’t trust it and I didn’t trust myself. So I left. Like that would make it easier.

I just left.

And now I’m standing here, a year too late, hoping something about this place will look different. Feel different.

It doesn’t.

It feels exactly like what I gave up.

The door creaks open behind me.

I don’t turn at first. Just stay sitting on the steps, elbows on my knees, staring at the sidewalk like it might offer some kind of answer. The air shifts. I feel him before I hear him.

“Thought that was you.”

His voice is lower than I remember. Rougher.

My spine goes rigid before I can stop it, like my body’s trying to shield me from whatever I’m about to see.

I look up slowly. Caleb stands in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame like he’s debating whether to close it again. His hair’s longer now, the curls messier than I’ve ever seen them, falling into his eyes like they forgot how to behave. He’s barefoot, always barefoot. Like no time’s passed at all. That part nearly knocks the breath out of me.

“Hey,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

Caleb doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move closer. “Didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I didn’t think I would either.” I stand up, too fast, and instantly regret it. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Then why are you?”

It’s not bitter, but it’s not soft either. Just a question. One I don’t have an easy answer for.

“I don’t know,” I say, then shake my head. “That’s a lie. I do know. I just… don’t know how to say it.”

Caleb exhales, long and slow, and rubs a hand over his face. “Figures.”

That stings. The words hit harder than they should. Like he found the bruise I’ve been pretending wasn’t there and pressed down, just enough to make it ache.

My throat tightens, like my body’s begging me to shut up before I make it worse. I shove my hands in my pockets to stop them from shaking. “I didn’t come to fight.”

“You didn’t mean to hurt me,” he says quietly. “But you still did.”

The silence between us stretches too long.

“I kept thinking I’d see you again,” he says finally, softer this time. “But after a while, I stopped letting myself believe it.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d even open the door.”

That lands. I see it in his eyes, just for a second—how close he is to caving. But then he steps back, jerks his chin toward the doorway.

“Well. You might as well come in.”

He turns quickly, like if he looks at me for even a second longer, he’ll change his mind. As if letting me in is easier than saying why he almost didn’t.

The second I step inside, the air shifts. Not in a dramatic, thunder-clap kind of way. Just a subtle tilt. A breath held too long.

The door clicks shut behind me. And just like that, I’m back inside the space I used to know better than my own skin.

Caleb doesn’t offer a seat. Doesn’t ask if I want water. He just stands there, arms crossed, like if he moves, the whole thing might unravel.

But it already did. A year ago.

“I missed this place,” I say, because it’s easier than saying I missed him.

His jaw tics. “Didn’t realize you missed anything.”

I swallow the ache. “I missed everything.”

The words hang between us, thick and humming. His eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see it. The crack in him. The part that hasn’t healed.

He looks away first. Always did.

The silence pulls taut. My shoulder brushes his as I step closer, barely a touch, but enough to short-circuit my thoughts. He’s right there. Warm. Real. Still smelling like cedar soap and that damn spearmint gum he chews when he’s anxious.

I don’t mean to reach for him. But I do.

My fingers graze his wrist, and he tenses but doesn’t pull away.

“I thought it would be easier,” I say quietly. “Leaving. Staying gone.”

Caleb’s breath catches. He shifts like he wants to walk away but can’t.

“It wasn’t.”

His eyes flick to mine and something behind them cracks wide open. Not shattering or explosive, but a slow, deliberate fracture. Like he’s been holding everything in place and just got too tired to keep pretending it didn’t hurt.

His throat works like he’s trying to swallow something sharp. I can practically feel the war behind his eyes, whatever he wants to say, whatever he’s afraid to.

Then he mutters, barely above a breath, “Fuck it.”

His hands come up fast, one curling behind my neck, the other fisting in the front of my shirt, and then his mouth crashes against mine.

It’s not gentle or careful.

It’s a year’s worth of silence and ache and all the words we didn’t say.

I gasp into the kiss, but he doesn’t pull back. Just grips harder, like he thinks I’ll vanish again if he lets go. My back hits the hallway wall with a thud, and Caleb follows, pressing against me like he wants to crawl inside my skin.

My hands are in his hair, dragging through the curls he used to hate but I always loved. His stubble scrapes my jaw. His mouth moves over mine, frantic, claiming, hungry, and I can’t keep up.

A groan breaks from deep in his chest. Uncontrolled. Like it’s been building for a year and this is the only way it knows how to escape.

His thigh slots between mine, and I instinctively grind down against it. The friction makes my breath catch. I feel him respond, his hips jerking forward, fingers digging in.

“Caleb,” I whisper, but it comes out broken. Like I forgot how to say his name without shaking.

He doesn’t answer. Just tugs my shirt free from my waistband and slides his hand underneath. His warm palm on my skin.

We don’t undress, there’s no time, no patience. Just mouths and hands and breathless curses as we fumble for more.

His fingers find my ribs. My spine. He knows exactly where to touch, like his hands memorized me and never forgot.

It’s fast. Hot. A little desperate.

But under all that urgency, there’s something else. Something heavier.

Like if he kisses me hard enough, he might forget I ever left.

Like if I let him, I might believe we never broke.

And suddenly I’m not here. Not now.

I’m back in that bedroom, the night before I left.

The way he touched me like I wasn’t already halfway gone.

His hands slide up my back like he can’t get close enough, until suddenly, he freezes. Just for a second.

Then he pulls away fast. Like he just realized what he’s doing. Like the moment caught up to him.

He steps back, breath shallow, and brings a hand to his mouth like it’s still tingling. Like he’s just now registering that he kissed me first. That he didn’t mean to. Or maybe he did, and that’s worse.

We’re both unraveled. Shirts wrinkled, hair mussed, barely breathing.

It didn’t go further than that.

But it almost did.

Now the silence is deafening.

Our breath’s still jagged, chests rising and falling in sync, but something’s shifted. The air between us feels thinner now. Brittle.

Caleb moves away from me. Not far, just enough to remind me it’s over. His eyes are glassy, unreadable, and he won’t quite look at me.

“I can’t do this,” he says, voice low and rough. “Not like that. Not when it still hurts like hell.”

I stay frozen. “Caleb—”

“You left.” His tone sharpens. “You packed a bag, walked out that door, and didn’t give me a single damn chance to stop you.”

“I didn’t know how to stay.” My voice cracks on the last word. “I was falling so hard for you it scared the shit out of me. I didn’t trust myself not to ruin it.”

“You didn’t trust me,” he snaps. “That’s what this is.”

I flinch, but don’t deny it.

“I needed you,” I whisper. “But I didn’t know how to need someone without falling apart. I thought if I stayed, I’d mess it up. Or you’d wake up one day and realize I was too much.”

Caleb leans back against the opposite wall, arms crossed tight across his chest. His voice is quieter now, but somehow it lands harder.

“You were supposed to fight for me.”

My throat tightens.

“You want to talk about what if?” he says, looking up at me for the first time. “What if you’d stayed?”

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Love That Breaks Us: Second Chances & Broken Promises

If Forbidden Love and Wrong Timing are about the ache of almost, then Second Chances and Broken Promises are about the pain of what was lost. These tropes wreck us in the best way possible — tearing down trust, then rebuilding it piece by piece.

Broken Promises is betrayal at its most personal. It’s the promise that wasn’t kept, the vow that shattered, the love that didn’t hold when it mattered most. It’s brutal because readers understand it — we’ve all been let down, and watching characters live through it forces us to confront that same ache.

Second Chance Romance is the balm to that wound. It asks: what if? What if the person who broke you is the only one who can put you back together? What if time, growth, and forgiveness mean it’s not too late? These stories are heavy with regret, but also rich with redemption.

When paired together, these tropes guarantee an emotional rollercoaster. A love broken apart by promises not kept, stitched back together by characters willing to fight for it anyway. Readers get the pain and the payoff, and the journey is unforgettable.

Why readers love them: Because love isn’t perfect. It’s flawed, it’s human, and it fails us sometimes. But the idea that it can also survive those failures — that it can come back stronger — is the hope that keeps us turning pages.

Love That Breaks Us: Forbidden Love & Wrong Timing

 

Some stories don’t just tug at our hearts — they shred them. Two of the most devastating tropes are Forbidden Love and Right Person, Wrong Time. They’re the kinds of romances that force readers to lean in, even when we know heartbreak is inevitable.

Forbidden Love is all about boundaries. It’s the relationship that can’t exist — because of family, friendship, circumstance, or moral lines drawn in the sand. Think best friend’s sibling, boss/employee, rival families. The beauty of it isn’t just the tension — it’s the constant ache of loving someone you shouldn’t. Readers get addicted to the push and pull, to the quiet moments stolen when the world isn’t looking.

Right Person, Wrong Time hits in an entirely different way. Everything lines up — except the moment. Maybe one person is in another relationship, maybe life is pulling them apart, maybe grief or healing needs to come first. Readers feel the ache of every almost, every missed chance, every “if only.” It’s not about whether they’re meant for each other — it’s whether they’ll survive long enough to finally line up.

When these tropes overlap, it’s devastating. Because not only shouldn’t they be together, but they also can’t. And that’s where the real magic happens.

Why readers love them: Because they mirror life’s hardest truths. Love isn’t always easy, convenient, or accepted. Sometimes it’s messy and complicated and ill-timed — but that’s what makes it unforgettable.

💔 And because these tropes cut the deepest, I’m bringing you a brand-new short story this week. Starting tomorrow and running through Thursday, you’ll get a three-part emotional ride that dives headfirst into forbidden love and wrong timing. Stay tuned—it’s going to hurt in all the best ways.

Always Was Always Will - Part Three: Quiet Fallout

Coming home was supposed to be simple. A place to catch her breath after everything fell apart. But the moment Everly steps back into the house that raised her, nothing feels simple anymore.

Matt was the beginning—the boy everyone thought she’d end up with, the safe choice, the steady future. But Dean has always been the secret she couldn’t admit, the fire that burned just beneath the surface.

Now she’s caught between the weight of small-town expectations and the dangerous pull of a love she was never supposed to want. Some choices tear you apart no matter which way you go. And some loves don’t fade, no matter how forbidden.

Part Three: Quiet Fallout

One brother was her first love. The other is the fire she can’t put out.

The house is too quiet after everyone leaves. Even the hum of the refrigerator sounds louder than it should, like it’s keeping my secrets. I lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of Dean’s mouth on mine. The heat of his hand beneath my shirt. The way he ripped himself away like it cost him something to stop.

I hadn’t planned on staying, but Matt’s mom insisted, pressing fresh sheets into my hands before I could make up an excuse. It was easier to give in than argue, so I ended up in the same guest room I slept in a hundred times as a teenager, lying in a bed that still smelled faintly of lemon detergent and old memories. Luckily I had an overnight bag with me.

By the time sunlight creeps through the blinds, my body feels heavy from lack of sleep. I throw on a sundress, splash cold water on my face, and paste on a smile that feels too thin.

Matt is already in the kitchen, frying bacon like nothing in the world has shifted. He glances up, grinning, and slides a mug of coffee toward me. “Morning, sunshine.”

I force a laugh, wrapping my fingers around the mug to hide the tremor in them. “Morning.”

He studies me for a beat, like he’s trying to place what’s off, but then he shrugs, turning back to the stove. He talks about the cookout, about how good it was to have me there, about how people kept saying how natural it still seemed, me and him, together again.

The words twist in my stomach. Natural. Like the whole town has already written our ending, and I’m just supposed to step into it without question.

I nod along, adding soft little sounds of agreement when he looks my way. But inside, my chest is tight, my mind restless. I can still taste Dean, bitter and sweet, fire threaded into every nerve.

Matt leans a hip against the counter, sipping from his own mug. “Crazy how easy it is, slipping back into this. Feels good, doesn’t it?.”

I swallow hard, unable to answer. My smile falters, and his eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something sharper slipping through his easy expression. He doesn’t push—not yet—but I can feel the question in the air.

I look away, focusing on the plate of bacon he sets between us. If I keep pretending, maybe it’ll be enough. Maybe the weight of the town’s expectations will anchor me where I’m supposed to be.

But the truth is still there, buzzing under my skin. I’m not anchored. I’m adrift. And no amount of small-town smiles can make me forget whose hands really set me on fire.

Dean spends the day making it impossible to breathe.

He doesn’t slam doors or throw sharp words. He doesn’t need to. His silence is sharper than anything he could say. When he comes in for breakfast, he brushes past me without looking. When I step into the living room, he slips out the back. By midafternoon, it’s obvious, he’s avoiding me.

And it works. Because the more he pulls away, the more I ache. Now that I know what his mouth feels like, what his hands can do, I can’t stand the absence. Every glance that doesn’t land on me is a reminder of the one moment he did.

By evening, I’ve had enough. I find him in the barn, tossing tools into a box like they’ve personally offended him.

“Are you really going to keep this up?” My voice comes out sharper than it probably should, but I don’t take it back.

Dean freezes, shoulders tense. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” I step closer, heart hammering. “You can’t kiss me like that and then pretend I’m invisible.”

His head snaps toward me, eyes burning in the half-light. “I can’t kiss you at all. Not again. You’re Matt’s.”

The words hit like a slap, but beneath them is something even more raw… want. And it’s threaded into every syllable.

I move closer, until we’re breathing the same air. “I’m not his. Not anymore.”

His jaw flexes. For a long moment, it’s a standoff. Then his hand shoots out, gripping my wrist, dragging me into him like he’s lost the fight with himself. Our mouths crash together, all teeth and tongue, desperate and hungry.

I gasp, and he deepens the kiss, one hand sliding into my hair, the other anchoring hard at my hip. My body betrays me, melting against him, thighs pressing into his. The taste of him wrecks me, beer and heat and something I’ve craved too long.

His thumb brushes the underside of my breast through thin cotton, and I shudder, clutching at his shirt like I’ll drown without him.

But then he rips himself away, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to mine. “I can’t,” he chokes out. “Not when it’s him. Not when you were his first.”

The words cut deeper than the distance ever could.

I stand there, chest heaving, lips swollen, knowing what he won’t say: that wanting me doesn’t change the fact that he’ll never forgive himself for taking me from his brother.

And still, I want him anyway.

By the time dinner’s cleared, I can’t keep pretending. My skin still buzzes from Dean, even though he won’t look at me, and every time Matt’s hand brushes mine I feel like I’m lying.

He notices. Of course he does. Matt’s always been steady, grounded, the one who sees through me even when I wish he wouldn’t.

We’re in the kitchen, stacking plates, when he finally breaks the silence. “You’re quiet tonight.”

I shrug, keeping my eyes on the sink. “Just tired.”

“Evie.” His tone is soft, but firm enough that I have to look at him.

Matt leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me in that calm, measured way of his. “You’ve been quiet since you got here. I thought maybe it was nerves, but…” His gaze sharpens. “It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

My throat tightens. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He lets out a low breath, a humorless laugh. “I thought maybe… because you were here, we’d be able to start something again.” His eyes search mine, steady but sad. “But I’m starting to get the impression that’s not what you want.”

The words slam into me harder than any accusation. My lips part, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right.

Matt’s eyes search mine, waiting. Hoping.

And all I can think is how unfair it is that he knows me this well, better than anyone, maybe even better than I know myself.

“I…” The words die in my throat.

His jaw tightens, but he nods, like he already has his answer. He sets the plate down gently, carefully, as if the weight in the room is something fragile.

“You don’t have to say it,” he murmurs. “I just needed to know.”

I swallow hard, guilt crashing over me. Because he does know. He’s always known.

After I go to bed, I don’t sleep. Not really. I toss and turn, listening to the creaks of the old house and the steady rhythm of Matt moving around like nothing between us has shifted. But it has. God, it has.

When I can’t take it anymore, I slip downstairs. The hall light is off, but I don’t need it. I know this house by heart, every board that creaks, every dip in the floor.

Dean’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter like he’s been waiting for me. He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t even try to play it off. Just stares, jaw tight, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them.

“This can’t keep happening,” he says quietly.

My chest constricts. “Then why does it feel like it already is?”

For a beat, we just stand there, the silence heavier than words. Then I cross the room. I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I just grab his shirt and kiss him like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. His hands are everywhere, my back, my hips, tangling in my hair. He lifts me onto the counter, sliding between my legs, and I gasp when his body presses into mine, solid and unyielding.

The kiss is rough, frantic, a collision of everything we’ve denied for years. His mouth claims mine, his teeth scrape, and when his tongue dives deeper, I moan into him, clutching at his shoulders like I’ll drown without him.

His hand slips beneath my nightgown, fingers dragging along my thigh, up to the edge of my panties. The heat of his touch is devastating. I arch into him, desperate, reckless, every nerve begging him not to stop.

“Dean,” I breathe, breaking the kiss for only a second. “God, I—”

He cuts me off with another kiss, harder, like he’s punishing us both. His fingers press higher, just enough to make me whimper, to make me want to beg.

And then he rips himself away, chest heaving, forehead pressed to mine.

“This is killing me,” he rasps. “But if I take you, I’ll never be able to give you back.”

The words shatter me more than his hands ever could. I feel them in my bones, heavy and irrevocable.

I slide off the counter, adjusting my nightgown with trembling fingers. My lips are swollen, my skin still burning, but I know the truth.

I can’t choose Matt. I can’t choose Dean. Not without destroying us all.

And it feels like tearing my own heart out.

Dean’s words still hang in the air, shredding me from the inside out. If I take you, I’ll never be able to give you back.

I should walk away. Pretend this never happened. Pretending Matt’s steady smile is enough.

But I can’t.

I grab Dean's shirt again, yanking him back down to me, kissing him hard enough that it tastes like fury and heartbreak. He groans into my mouth, one hand gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing control.

“Fuck it,” I whisper against his lips. “I want you, Dean. I can’t live without you anymore.”

Something inside him snaps. His eyes darken, his jaw flexes, and then he’s lifting me like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, his cock hard and thick against my core even through layers of fabric. The heat of him makes me shudder.

“We shouldn’t—” he rasps, but he’s already walking, carrying me through the back door, across the cool night grass toward the barn. His mouth finds my throat, biting, sucking, his words muffled against my skin. “Fuck, Evie. You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I do.” I claw at his shoulders, desperate, needy. “I want all of it. I want you.”

The barn door creaks as he shoulders it open, the scent of hay and oil filling the air. He sets me down on a bale, braced between his arms, his breathing ragged.

“Tell me again,” he growls, eyes blazing.

“I want you,” I say, louder this time, my fingers tugging his belt free. “Only you.”

That’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes onto mine, rough and hungry. He kisses like he’s starving, tongue fucking into me until I’m gasping. His hands are everywhere, skimming up my thighs, dragging my nightgown higher, gripping me like he’ll never let go.

“Been thinking about this for years,” he mutters against my lips, filthy and raw. “Thinking about you spread out, taking my cock, moaning my name. God, Evie, you’re gonna scream for me.”

My core clenches hard, wetness pooling between my thighs at the sheer dirtiness of his words.

He yanks my panties aside, fingers sliding against my soaked pussy. “Fuck. You’re drenched. You wanted this just as bad, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I pant, bucking into his touch. “Dean—please—”

Two fingers thrust inside me, filling me, stretching me. I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as he works me hard, curling his fingers until sparks explode behind my eyes. His thumb circles my clit, relentless.

“Always knew you’d be tight for me,” he groans, watching my face, devouring every reaction. “Always knew you’d squeeze me like this. You’re mine, Evie. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp, shameless. “God, Dean—I’m yours.”

He pulls his fingers free, and I whimper at the loss, but then he’s unzipping and freeing his cock. Thick. Hard. Veins throbbing as he fists it once, the head already glistening.

“Wrap those pretty legs around me,” he orders, voice rough.

I do, pulling him closer, feeling the blunt press of his cock against my slick entrance. He thrusts in slow at first, a long stretch that makes me cry out, clinging to him like I’ll break apart.

“Fuck—so tight,” he growls, bottoming out, his forehead pressed to mine. “Been dreaming of this. Can’t believe I’m finally inside you.”

And then he starts to move.

Hard. Deep. Each thrust slams me back against the hay bale, every nerve lit, every moan ripped from my throat without control.

His mouth is everywhere, my throat, my jaw, my lips, filthy words spilling between kisses. “So good. So fucking perfect. Take me, Evie. Take all of me.”

My nails rake down his back, dragging, desperate, as the coil inside me tightens. Every thrust pounds it tighter, harder, until I’m nothing but need.

“Dean—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he commands, thumb rubbing my clit, relentlessly. “Come for me, baby. Come on my cock.”

The orgasm rips through me, violent and consuming, my scream echoing in the empty barn. I clamp down, pulsing around him, my whole body trembling as he drives into me through it.

“Fuck—Evie—” He slams into me once more, burying deep, spilling inside me with a guttural growl that sounds like it’s been caged for years.

We collapse together, breathless, clinging, sweat-soaked and undone.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our gasps, the creak of the barn settling around us. His hand cradles the back of my head, gentle where he was just brutal, his lips brushing mine softly.

Dean closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath still ragged. “He was your first, Evie,” he rasps. “He’ll always have that.”

Tears sting my eyes as I clutch at him tighter. “Yes, Matt was the beginning, always was,” I whisper, voice breaking. “But you… you are the end, always will be.”

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Always Was, Always Will - Part Two: Section One: Under Watchful Eyes

Some loves are safe. Some loves are steady. And some are the kind you’re never supposed to touch—because they’ll burn you alive.

Almost Was, Always Will is a forbidden love story about coming home, facing the past, and the dangerous pull between comfort and fire.

Part Two – Section One: Under Watchful Eyes

Two brothers. One forbidden choice. And a past that refuses to stay buried.

Everly

By the time the weekend rolls around, it feels like the entire town knows I’m back. I wasn’t planning on showing up anywhere just yet, but Matt caught me in the kitchen last night, leaning against the counter after I cleaned my dish, with that easy grin, and said I had no choice. “You’re coming to the cookout, Evie. Rite of passage. Everyone will want to see you.”

And now here I am, paper plate in hand, surrounded by the same faces who watched me grow up on this lawn.

It’s exactly how I remember it, paper plates bending under the weight of potato salad, kids chasing each other barefoot across the grass, music spilling from an old speaker that crackles at the high notes. The same families are here, the same neighbors who watched me grow up here. Only now they’re watching me with a different kind of interest.

“Doesn’t it feel just like old times?” Mrs. Carmichael beams at me, eyes darting between me and Matt like she’s already writing our love story all over again. “You two always were the perfect pair.”

I smile politely, but the words land heavy. Perfect pair. Like it’s that simple. Like years and choices and heartbreak don’t matter when the town wants a fairytale ending.

I catch the tilt of heads, the not-so-subtle smiles, the way someone elbows Matt like they’re in on a joke. Everyone here already knows the ending they want for us.

Matt doesn’t seem to mind. He slips his hand lightly against the small of my back, steering me toward a group gathered around the grill. He laughs easily, filling in the blanks when I falter, like he’s determined to prove we still fit together. And the truth is… we do. At least on the surface.

But every time I glance across the yard, I find Dean.

He’s not mingling, not laughing. Just leaning against the porch rail with a beer in his hand, watching the chaos with that same unreadable expression. His eyes flick to mine once, brief but enough to make my stomach knot. He doesn’t look at me like the rest of them do. Not with nostalgia or with expectation. His gaze is sharp, questioning, as if he knows exactly what I’m trying so hard to pretend.

The weight of the stares presses down harder than the summer heat. I can play the role they want, Matt’s girl, the happy ending they’ve been waiting for, but I feel the crack in it already.

Because Matt may be the story they all believe in.

But Dean is the secret I can’t stop remembering.

Matt finds me by the drink table, rescuing me from a conversation with Mrs. Carmichael about how many kids she thinks I would have by now if Matt and I were still together. He slides in beside me with a wink, handing me a bottle of water like he’s been doing it my whole life.

“You still hate sweet tea, huh?”

I smile, twisting the cap. “Some things don’t change.”

“Plenty of things do,” he says, leaning back against the table, close enough that our arms brush. “Remember the summer you swore you’d leave this place and never look back? Said you’d rather choke on city smog than ever drink sweet tea again?”

I laugh, the sound surprising me. “That was your fault. You and Lila thought it was hilarious to dare me to chug that gallon jug.”

His grin is boyish, unguarded. “I don’t regret it. You turned purple. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The memory warms me more than it should. It’s easy with him, always has been. The years between us blur when he looks at me like that, like no time has passed.

He reaches for my hand without thinking, thumb brushing over my knuckles in a way that feels achingly familiar. “Feels like you never left, Evie.”

For a second, I let myself believe it. The chatter around us fades, the laughter and clatter of plates dissolving until it’s just him and me, the boy I once thought I’d marry.

The music shifts, something slow drifting from the old speaker, and Matt leans in just a little closer. His lips graze my cheek, too near my mouth to be accidental. My pulse jumps, and before I can stop it, he closes the space, soft, tentative, a kiss that tastes like memory.

His hand slides to the small of my back, holding me in place as if afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. For a moment, I melt into it, into the familiarity of his mouth, the gentleness of it. I remember long drives with his hand tangled in mine, whispered promises in the dark, the future we planned without ever questioning it. It’s all here, wrapped up in this kiss.

Maybe this is the future they all imagined for me, the kids Mrs. Carmichael imagined, white picket fences, but even with Matt’s lips on mine, it doesn’t feel like enough.

It’s sweet. Safe. Everything I thought I wanted once.

But when he pulls back, smiling like he’s just reclaimed something lost, all I can think is how it doesn’t burn.

It’s almost right. Almost enough.

And almost is cruel, because it makes me wonder if I could live on safety alone, if I could trick myself into believing comfort is the same as fire.

And almost isn’t what keeps me awake at night.

The night winds down with the usual small-town rhythm, kids collected, folding chairs stacked, casserole dishes returned with promises of “next time.” I slip away from the chatter, stepping onto the porch. The air is cooler out here, thick with cut grass and charcoal smoke, still heavy with summer. I drag in a breath anyway, lungs tight, like even the night knows I’m not supposed to be here.

I’m not alone.

Dean leans against the railing, half in shadow, the glow from the porch light catching the edge of his jaw. He doesn’t move when I step out. Doesn’t even look at me right away. Just takes a slow sip from his bottle, eyes fixed on the yard like he’s waiting for me to speak first.

“You always were the broody one,” I say, aiming for lightness. My voice wavers anyway.

Finally, his gaze cuts to mine. Sharp. Direct. It pins me in place, like he’s peeling back every excuse I’ve rehearsed since I got here. My fingers curl tighter around the railing, nails pressing into the wood I can’t seem to let go of. 

“And you always filled the silence. Guess some things don’t change.”

The words shouldn’t sting, but they do. I cross my arms, leaning beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. The distance between us hums like a live wire.

“You could at least pretend you’re glad I’m back,” I murmur.

Dean’s laugh is low, humorless. “Glad? That’s one word for it.”

My stomach knots. I want to ask what the other words are, but the look in his eyes already answers. Complicated. Dangerous. Forbidden.

A moth beats against the porch light, frantic wings tapping glass. Dean shifts closer, his hand brushing against mine on the railing. The touch is accidental, it has to be, but neither of us moves. His knuckles graze mine, rough and warm, and the heat of it shoots straight through me.

My body betrays me, swaying toward him before my brain can stop it, as if the space between us has its own gravity

 My pulse ricochets in my throat, my breath stutters, and still I don’t pull away. It feels indecent, standing here with his hand pressed so close to mine, like we’ve already crossed a line even without kissing.

“Evie.” My name in his mouth is different, rough, threaded with something unspoken.

His breath ghosts across my cheek, warm and unsteady, carrying the faint bite of beer. I swear I can feel the shape of his mouth before it even touches mine, the air between us so thin it hums. For one dizzy second, I want to close the gap, to taste the fire I’ve denied for years.

But I don’t. He doesn’t.

Dean pulls back first, jaw tight, eyes darker than the night around us. The space between us floods with everything we didn’t say.

Inside, I can still hear Matt’s laugh, steady and safe.

But out here, with Dean’s heat lingering on my skin, safety feels like the last thing I want.

The house is quiet after the crowd leaves, only the faint hum of the refrigerator breaking the silence. I slip into the kitchen to rinse my glass, grateful for a moment to breathe. My nerves are frayed from smiling too long, pretending too much.

I sense him before I see him.

Dean steps out of the shadowed hallway, moving with that same controlled tension that always makes me feel like he’s holding back more than anyone realizes. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, gaze pinned on me like I’m the only thing left in the room.

My fingers fumble with the glass, slippery under the water, and I set it down harder than I probably should. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” he says, voice low, roughened by something that doesn’t sound like anger.

I turn, and suddenly he’s closer than I expect, close enough that the counter presses against my back, close enough that his scent wraps around me: soap, beer, the sharp edge of something entirely him.

“Dean—”

The word barely leaves my lips before his mouth is on mine.

It’s nothing like Matt’s soft, tentative kiss. Dean devours. His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been starving for years, and I’m the only thing left to feed on. His hands frame my face, calloused thumbs dragging against my jaw as if he’s memorizing the shape of me, branding me into his skin.

My gasp parts my lips, and he takes full advantage, tongue sliding against mine, rough and unrelenting. The taste of him, beer, heat, and want floods my senses until thought is impossible.

I should stop him. Push him away. Remind us both of the line we can’t cross. But I don’t. My fingers curl into his shirt instead, clutching fabric like I’ll fall apart if I let go.

The counter digs into my hips as he presses closer, chest solid, heartbeat pounding against mine. His body cages me in, a wall of muscle and heat, leaving me nowhere to run and no desire to try. One hand drops, skimming down my side with deliberate slowness, each inch of contact sparking fire in my veins. He grips my waist, hard, like he owns the right to hold me this way. The pressure makes me whimper, a sound that betrays everything I swore I wouldn’t feel.

Heat unfurls low in my stomach, molten and consuming, every nerve lit and screaming more. His teeth catch my bottom lip, biting just enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue, and the sharp contrast sends a rush straight between my thighs.

When I moan into him, it’s reckless. His hand slips beneath the hem of my shirt, palm hot against my bare stomach. The rough drag of his skin over mine makes me shudder, arching into him before I can think better of it. His fingers splay wide, traveling upward until they brush the edge of my bra, and my whole body jerks like he’s found the secret I’ve been hiding.

It’s raw. Needy. Messy. The kind of kiss that isn’t just want… it’s a confession. It’s years of silence and denial breaking all at once.

And then he rips himself away, forehead pressed to mine, both of us gasping like we’ve surfaced from drowning. His breath scorches my lips, still close enough to steal another kiss, and I almost do.

“You think you can keep pretending,” he rasps, voice shredded, eyes burning into mine. “But I’ve wanted you all along.”

My chest heaves, lips swollen, skin still buzzing everywhere he touched me, and I can only watch as Dean tears himself away, turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen without another word.

Matt is safe. Matt is steady.

But this—Dean—is fire.

I grip the edge of the counter after he’s gone, knuckles white, chest heaving like I just ran a race I never agreed to. My lips still throb, swollen from his kiss, and my skin hums with every place his hands touched. The air feels thick, clinging, impossible to breathe.

I should hate myself for letting it happen. For wanting it. For leaning into every forbidden second. But instead I stand here, trembling, wishing he hadn’t stopped.

The kitchen feels too small, too full of memory, so I force myself back into the living room. Matt is there, easy smile still in place as he collects empty cups and folded napkins. He looks up at me like nothing in the world has changed.

But it has.

I cross my arms to hide the way my body still shakes, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from tasting Dean on my lips. Matt brushes past me with a plate in hand, steady and familiar, and for a fleeting second I almost believe I can step into the life everyone wants for us.

Almost.

But when I sink onto the couch, I feel it, the scorch of Dean’s hands still imprinted on my skin. The sound of his voice in my ear, ragged and raw, refusing to fade.

Something broke tonight.

And I know deep down there’s no way to piece it back together without shattering everything else.