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Almost Was, Always Will - Part One Section One: The Return

Almost Was, Always Will

A Forbidden Love Story

The boy I loved. The man I couldn’t have. The truth I can’t escape.

Coming home was supposed to be simple. Just a place to land after everything fell apart. But the moment I step back into the house that raised me, nothing feels simple anymore.

Every wall remembers—the laughter, the promises, the love I thought would last forever. Matt was my first everything, the boy everyone expected me to end up with. Being near him now feels like slipping into old habits, safe and steady.

But Dean is here too. Quiet, sharp, magnetic in all the ways I tried to ignore. One glance from him and every buried feeling comes rushing back, daring me to admit the truth I never said out loud.

I thought I left the past behind. Instead, I walked straight back into it. And this time, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.

Part One Section One: The Return

Home isn’t the same when your heart belongs to both.

Everly

The road into town is narrower than I remember, the edges cracked and swallowed by weeds. Same faded welcome sign, same rusted diner marquee promising the “best pie in the county.” Even after all these years, nothing here bothers to pretend it’s new. Which is both comforting and suffocating.

I roll down the window, letting the late-summer air rush in, and for a second I’m seventeen again, bare feet on the dashboard, stereo too loud, the whole world spread out in front of me. But I’m not that girl anymore. I left her behind when I left this town, and I thought I’d buried the parts of myself that belonged here too.

Turns out I was wrong.

Every street corner is a reminder of why I stayed away. I couldn’t come back without reopening what I’d fought so hard to forget: the years I spent tangled up in their family, the whispers that I’d always end up as one of them, the way my heart never quite chose the right brother.

I lasted a long time out there. Built a life. I tried to convince myself I didn’t need the familiarity of home, didn’t need them. But a failed relationship, no, a failed marriage, and a city that chewed me up until I couldn’t recognize myself anymore left me with nowhere else to go. My apartment is empty, my future uncertain. So I did the one thing I swore I never would. I came back.

The turn onto their street comes too quickly, and my chest tightens the moment I see it: the house that raised me as much as my own ever did. White paint still peeling along the trim, porch swing leaning to one side. The flowerbeds are tidier, though, I can already picture Matt’s steady hands pulling weeds, keeping things in order.

It smells the same here, like pine and cut grass and summers that never really ended. And it hits me, sharp and low, how much I wanted this once. A place in their family. A future with them. With him.

I pull into the drive and kill the engine, but I don’t move. My palms are sweaty against the steering wheel, my throat dry. I’ve faced worse than this, lawyers, moving trucks, a husband who couldn’t bother to fight for me. but something about stepping onto this porch feels harder than all of it combined.

Because this isn’t just coming home. It’s walking straight back into the life I almost had, the love I almost kept, and the one I never dared touch.

And no matter what I tell myself, I know the past won’t stay buried. Not here. Not with them.

The porch creaks the same way it used to, one loose board at the top step whining under my weight. I used to skip that one without even thinking, the muscle memory of all those nights spent sneaking in long after curfew. Some habits never leave you, even when you’ve been gone too long.

The screen door groans, and the smell hits me first, fresh coffee, lemon cleaner, and something warm drifting from the kitchen. It smells like family. Like belonging. And it hits so hard it nearly knocks me back out onto the porch.

Every corner of this house is a memory. The faded photo of the brothers on the wall, Matt’s easy smile, Dean’s reluctant one. The swing of the kitchen door where Lila and I used to race through for midnight snacks. The handprints painted on the wall in the mudroom, a project their mom insisted on when we were little. Mine is there too, smaller than theirs, tucked right between Matt’s and Dean’s. They never painted over it.

I belonged here once. Almost more than I ever belonged at home. Lila made sure of that. She was the kind of best friend who dragged me into every family moment, every dinner, every summer trip. Being here was never just about Matt, it was about all of them.

Matt made sure of that. He was my first everything, first crush, first kiss under the bleachers, first boyfriend who held my hand in front of everyone like I was his entire world. People used to say we were inevitable. That one day I’d be Everly Collins instead of Harrington, and I believed it. Everyone did.

But time has a way of stealing certainties. College, distance, choices we didn’t talk about. What felt like forever unraveled thread by thread until all we had left was silence.

And Dean…

Dean was always there. Always in the periphery. The quieter one, the sharper one. He wasn’t safe the way Matt was. He was restless, a storm in a boy’s body, the kind of energy that drew me in even when I knew I shouldn’t look twice. I didn’t let myself. Not then. He was Matt’s brother, my best friend’s brother. Off-limits in every way that mattered.

But the truth? He was the secret I never said out loud. The spark I buried so deep I convinced myself it didn’t exist.

Until now. Until walking back into this house, where every wall remembers.

“Evie?”

The sound of my name pulls me toward the kitchen, and there he is. Matt, standing by the counter with a dish towel slung over his shoulder like he never left this house, like I never did either.

He looks the same. Or maybe he just looks like home, broad-shouldered, steady-eyed, his smile softening in a way that makes me ache. For a second, it’s like no time has passed at all. Like I’m sixteen again, stealing a kiss from him under the bleachers, sure we’d last forever.

“Matt.” My voice catches, and I force a smile.

He crosses the space easily, without hesitation, pulling me into a hug that swallows me whole. It’s warm, solid, too much. He still smells like cedar and soap, the same way he did back when Lila and I would sprawl across the couch and pretend not to notice her brothers coming and going. But Lila isn’t here right now, she moved away years ago, chasing her own life. Without her, this house feels both familiar and strange, like I belong and don’t at the same time. When his chin grazes the top of my head, my heart twists.

“Didn’t think I’d see you back here,” he murmurs against my hair. The words sound casual, but the way he holds on a beat too long says otherwise.

“Yeah, well… life had other plans.” I laugh, but it’s thin, shaky.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb brushing over my arm like it belongs there. “Maybe it was just a detour. You always find your way home, Evie. Lila’ll lose her mind when she hears you’re back. She’s been trying to drag you home for years.”

The flicker is there, unmistakable. That familiar pull, the one everyone expected me to fall into again someday. It would be so easy, to lean into him, to pretend nothing broke between us.

But before I can answer, the air shifts.

Dean’s voice cuts across the kitchen, low and quiet. “She’s back, then.”

My head jerks toward the doorway, and there he is. Leaning against the frame, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He hasn’t changed much either, still sharp edges where Matt is smooth lines, still shadows where Matt is light. His presence is magnetic, unsettling. My skin prickles just from looking at him.

Our eyes meet, and it’s instant. Heat coils low in my stomach, the kind that doesn’t belong here, not now, not with him. I try to look away, but I can’t. His gaze pins me in place, stripping every excuse I built over the years until I’m raw, exposed.

Dean doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. Just watches me, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, and he’s daring me to admit it.

The room feels smaller, air tighter, and for the first time since I pulled into this driveway, I realize coming back was a mistake. Because one look at Dean and I remember everything I spent years trying to bury.

And it’s not buried at all.

Matt doesn’t let the moment linger long. He takes the dish towel off his shoulder and tosses it on the counter, flashing me that same easy grin that once felt like the center of my world.

“You hungry? Mom made way too much, like always. You know there’s a plate with your name on it.” He says it so casually, like I still belong here. Like I never walked away.

The ease in his voice is disarming, familiar. He pulls out a chair at the table, guiding me toward it with a hand on my back. The touch is gentle, protective, almost possessive. His warmth wraps around me like it used to, promising safety if I just lean back into it.

And for a heartbeat, I want to.

But then I feel it, Dean’s eyes on me, heavier, sharper.

He hasn’t moved from the doorway, but he doesn’t need to. The weight of his silence presses against me harder than Matt’s hand ever could. His eyes skim over me once before he looks away, and that single glance makes my skin prickle.

I shouldn’t feel it, not after all this time, not here, but I do. Heat unfurls low in my stomach, unwelcome and unstoppable.

I force myself into the chair, my knees brushing against Matt’s when he sits down beside me. He leans in close. Close enough that his shoulder brushes mine as he starts talking about nothing, work, the town, the same steady rhythm of conversation that used to soothe me. His voice is comforting, it’s home.

But every time I catch a flicker of Dean in the corner of my eye, it’s fire. Quiet, smoldering, waiting to burn.

My chest tightens, torn between the man who once held my heart and the one who’s always haunted it. Stability and temptation, safety and danger.

Matt is the love I almost had.

Dean is the one I was never allowed to want.

And sitting here, with both of them so close, I know I can’t keep pretending those feelings ever really went away.

By the time the plates are cleared and Matt is walking me to the door, my head is buzzing from more than just the wine his mom insisted I drink. It’s the weight of this house, the way it pulls me back into a rhythm I swore I’d outgrown.

Matt squeezes my shoulder before reaching for the door. “Don’t be a stranger this time, Evie. You know you’ve always got a place here.” His words are warm, steady. The kind that could settle me if I let them.

I manage a smile, but my pulse is erratic, my chest too tight. Because I can feel him before I see him.

Dean.

He’s leaning against the wall, half in shadow, arms still crossed like he hasn’t moved all night. Our eyes meet as I step past him, and the air shifts. Heavy. Electric.

For a second, neither of us breathes.

My hand brushes against his as I move through the doorway, barely a touch, the whisper of skin on skin, but it sparks through me like I’ve been branded. I jerk back, but his gaze doesn’t waver.

“You shouldn’t have come back if you weren’t ready to face the truth.” His voice is low, rough, meant only for me.

The words follow me into the night, echoing louder than Matt’s promises of home, hotter than the memory of his arms around me.

Matt is comfort. Dean is fire.

And right now, I’m standing in the middle, burning. 

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

What if he was mine - Part Five: Avoidance Is a Language

After days of silence and one drunk confession, everything is on the line. In this final part, Drew admits what he’s been too afraid to say—and Jamie finally hears the words he’s been waiting for. A story of longing, first times, and letting yourself be loved exactly as you are.

 Part Five: Avoidance Is a Language

They were just best friends—until they weren’t.

Jamie

It’s been three days since the storm.

Three days since Drew almost kissed me.

Three days since he didn’t.

I know exactly how long it’s been because I’ve counted every hour he’s avoided me since. Not that he’s vanished, he’s still around. Still sleeps in his bed. Still drinks his coffee. Still drops one-syllable answers like breadcrumbs I’m supposed to be grateful for.

But he doesn’t look at me. Not really. Not the way he did that night, when we were under the same blanket, when I thought maybe—

I stop the thought before it finishes. It’s too dangerous.

Instead, I rinse out my mug and pretend it doesn’t sting that he hasn’t asked about Matt. That he hasn’t brought up the call. Or the way his voice broke when he said I wasn’t supposed to fall for someone else.

I pretended not to hear it. I let him pretend he didn’t say it. And now we’re stuck in this limbo made of missed chances and unsaid things.

I drop onto the couch and pull my knees up, flipping aimlessly through some streaming menu like it’ll fix the tension in the room. He’s across from me, scrolling on his phone, silent. The TV plays but neither of us watches.

Avoidance is a language we’ve both become fluent in.

And right now, we’re practically screaming it.

“I was thinking about going out tonight,” I say, keeping my voice light, testing the weight of the words.

Drew doesn’t look up. “Cool.”

That word again. The one that means everything and nothing.

My throat tightens. “Not with Matt. Just… out.”

“Didn’t ask.”

Now he looks up. His eyes meet mine, and for one second, the air shifts, like we’re both seconds from breaking.

But then he blinks, and it’s gone.

“Right,” I murmur, curling tighter into the throw blanket. “You never do.”

…………

He catches me in the kitchen.

Late. Quiet. Like we’re both pretending the other one might not be there.

I don’t hear him come in. I’m halfway through wiping down the counter for the third time, because apparently avoiding feelings turns me into a clean freak, when I hear his voice behind me.

“Don’t go out tonight.”

I freeze.

The cloth stills in my hand. The tension, the silence, the avoidance, it all builds like a storm in my chest, and for once, I don’t turn it into a joke.

“Why not?” I ask, keeping my back to him.

There’s a pause. I can hear him breathing.

Then—

“Because I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t destroy me every time you talk about someone else.”

My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. Slowly, I turn around.

He’s standing there, hoodie half-zipped, barefoot again, looking like he hasn’t slept in days. His eyes are red, but not from crying, at least not recently. He just looks tired. Like he’s been carrying something too heavy for too long.

“I’m not confused,” he says, voice low. “I used to think I was. I told myself I was. But I wasn’t. I was just scared.”

I blink, unsure how to move, how to breathe.

“Scared of what?”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it costs him everything. “Of losing you. Of wanting you so much it changes everything. Of not being enough.”

And there it is.

The thing I’ve wanted to hear.

And the thing I never thought he’d say out loud.

I step forward once. “So what now?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t see you. That I haven’t seen you this whole damn time.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t—not yet.

So he does what he’s never done before.

He takes the final step. Closes the space between us. Reaches for me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

“I want you, Jamie. Not just as my best friend. Not just in secret. I want all of it.”

He waits, eyes locked on mine, chest rising and falling like he’s bracing for impact.

And I let him see it.

All of it.

The wanting.

The fear.

The ache of all the years I’ve tried to bury this exact moment.

“I never stopped,” I whisper.

His hand finds my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “Then don’t start now.”

It starts with a breath.

His. Then mine.

And then his mouth is on mine, careful at first, like he’s afraid to press too hard and shatter something fragile. But it’s not fragile. Not anymore. It’s fire wrapped in memory, want laced with years of silence.

I grip his hoodie, and tug him closer.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hands find my waist, then my back, then higher, like he can’t decide where to settle because none of it feels like enough. We’re kissing like we’re starving for it, like we already know how the other tastes but want to relearn it anyway. I feel his tongue slide against mine, deliberate and slow, and I moan into his mouth.

It’s like that sound flips something in him.

He lifts me onto the counter without warning, standing between my legs, pressing against me so I can feel just how hard he is. My hands move under his hoodie, dragging it up and over his head.

“Fuck,” he breathes when he looks at me. “You’re so—” He stops. Shakes his head. “You have no idea, do you?”

“Tell me,” I whisper.

He leans in, lips brushing my jaw, my neck. “You drive me crazy,” he murmurs. “Always have. With the way you smile. The way you laugh too loud at your own jokes. The way you talk with your hands and bite your lip when you’re thinking. You don’t even try, Jamie. And I’m fucking gone.”

My heart lurches. My thighs tighten around him.

He pulls back just long enough to say, “Bedroom.”

I nod, breathless.

We don’t make it neatly. We stumble down the hall, tangled in each other. When we finally hit the bed, he lands above me, bracing himself on his forearms as he kisses me again, slower this time. Like he wants to savor it. Like I’m not just someone he wants. I’m someone he already knows.

He undresses me like he’s done it before in a dream. Fingers grazing skin like I’m something precious. Like I’m his.

When he slips his hand between my thighs, I gasp, sharp and instinctive, because it’s not just the touch. It’s him. It’s how he moves like he knows me. Like he’s memorized every place I’ve needed to be wanted and waited until I let him close enough to give it.

“Okay?” he asks, voice rough against the side of my neck.

I nod, breath shaking. “More than.”

He doesn’t rush. Just slides down, kissing a path along my jaw, my chest, my stomach, until I’m trembling with how slow it is. How much he’s not teasing. Just taking in.

More clothes disappear, one piece at a time, until there’s nothing left but bare skin and held breath. Bodies shift. Knees brush. Fingers curl. The air changes.

He slicks his fingers with lube and preps me gently, murmuring between kisses. Praise and filth, comfort and hunger, all tangled in a voice that feels like heat on my spine.

And then, he presses in. Slow. Steady. Stretching me open until I can’t think, can’t speak, can’t be anything except his.

It’s not just my body that arches toward him, it’s everything.

My chest. My breath. My whole damn soul.

Like every part of me has been aching for this. For him.

“Fuck,” he breathes against my throat. “You feel like heaven.”

But then he stills for just a second, his breath catching like he’s bracing himself.

His voice drops, quieter. “Is this okay? I mean—does it feel right?”

He’s asking more than the obvious. It’s not just about comfort. It’s about this. Us. All the years of silence between us breaking open in the space where his body meets mine.

I lift my hand to his face, fingers tracing his jaw. “Yeah,” I whisper. “It feels like everything I’ve always wanted.”

He exhales, something soft and relieved in it. And then he moves.

He sets the pace—deep, rhythmic, grounding. Each thrust deliberate. Each breath broken. My hand clutches his shoulder, then his waist, fingers dragging down his back like I don’t know where to hold on because it’s too much. Because it’s him.

He leans over me, foreheads brushing. His voice is ragged, reverent, but filthy as hell.

“Been thinking about this every night since you went on that date.”

A whimper breaks in my throat.

“You’re mine now. Say it.”

The words burst from me. “I’m yours.” 

“You look so fucking good like this. Open for me. Taking me.”

He kisses me hard, messy and aching, hips rocking deeper. I moan into his mouth, legs tightening around him.

“Drew.” I say his name like a prayer. Like it’s a truth I was too afraid to claim. “Drew.”

“Say it again,” he growls, pace faltering just slightly as he reaches between us and strokes me with the same reverence he fucks me with.

“Drew. Fuck. I’m—”

He crashes with me, both of us unraveling at the same time—breathless, wild, and wrecked.

And when we fall apart, it’s not loud. Not frantic.

It’s soft. Deep. The kind of release that steals everything and gives it back gentler. Like exhaling a secret.

Like coming home.

It’s a quiet kind of breaking. The kind that fills in every cracked piece we didn’t know was still bleeding.

He collapses beside me, pulling me in, breath still ragged.

Neither of us speaks at first.

Because what the hell do you say when the thing you’ve been afraid to want finally becomes real?

The silence isn’t heavy.

It’s soft. Lingering. Like the air’s still humming with everything we just said without words.

Drew’s chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, his arm tucked around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

I don’t move. Not yet.

Because if I do, I’ll start thinking. And if I start thinking, I’ll remember how many times I’ve imagined this only to wake up alone.

I feel his lips brush the top of my head. Gentle. Real.

Still, something inside me braces.

Because this felt like everything. And that’s exactly what makes it terrifying.

“Hey.” His voice is scratchy with sleep and something quieter. “You okay?”

I nod into his chest before I answer out loud. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He tilts my chin until I have to look at him. Eyes soft, but searching.

“Don’t pull away,” he whispers.

I want to promise I won’t. I want to tell him I believe this won’t fade in the daylight. That I trust him. That I’m not scared.

But I don’t say any of those things.

Because even now—wrapped in him, still aching from the way he kissed me like I mattered—I feel it creeping in. That little voice that says things this good don’t last. That I’ve been here before, and I didn’t get to keep it.

So instead, I offer the only truth I have.

“I’m not trying to,” I whisper back. “But I already am. And I don’t know how to stop.”

His brow furrows. Not angry, just aching. “Then let me remind you.”

He shifts, just enough to pull me on top of him, arms wrapped tight like he’s grounding us both. “We’re not going backward. Not pretending it didn’t happen. Not acting like it didn’t mean something.”

I press my forehead to his. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes, half a breath of a laugh.

I nod, lips brushing his as I speak. “You said you see me. So don’t let me disappear.”

“I won’t,” he says without hesitation. “Not again.”

And maybe we don’t know what happens next. Maybe we’ll mess it up a hundred ways before we get it right.

But right now—this moment, this promise—I know exactly what it is.

It’s real.

It’s us.

And it’s just the beginning.

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 he was mine - Part 4: The Dark Makes It Easy

Sometimes, the truth only slips out in the dark—when the power’s out, the walls are down, and your best friend is sitting way too close. In Part Four, Drew finally lets a little of his guard down. But wanting more? That’s a risk Jamie isn’t sure he can take… not unless it’s real.

Part 4: The Dark Makes It Easy

He was never supposed to want more. Until now.

Drew

The power goes out around nine. One second the TV’s flickering through some rerun we’re not even watching, and the next, everything goes dark, except for the flash of lightning behind the windows.

Jamie curses under his breath and reaches for his phone. “Well, that’s fun.”

I pretend to care, muttering something about the fuse box and getting up to check, even though we both know it’s not that. Just a summer storm strong enough to knock out the whole block.

By the time I come back, he’s on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, phone flashlight pointed at the ceiling like it’ll help. “You coming, or are you gonna stand there looking all broody?”

I sit. Closer than I probably need to. He lifts the blanket without a word, and I slide under it like this isn’t the closest we’ve been in weeks.

The room’s quiet, except for the storm outside and the soft rustle of fabric as we shift. His knee brushes mine, and I don’t move.

The dark makes it easier. To watch him. To let myself look without pretending I’m not. His profile is lit only when lightning flashes, and every time it does, it catches on his smile, his jaw, his eyes when he glances at me and doesn’t say a word.

I’ve known this face forever. But something’s shifted. Maybe in me. Maybe in both of us.

I don’t think he knows I’m watching. Or maybe he does, and he’s letting me.

Either way…

I don’t want the lights to come back on.

We sit in silence for a while, the kind that would be awkward with anyone else. But not him. Not Jamie.

With Jamie, the quiet is… full. Like it’s got weight. History.

Lightning flashes again, and I catch the way he’s tucked into the blanket, socked feet curled up beneath him, hands wrapped around a mug he probably forgot to drink. I can feel the heat of him next to me, steady and familiar. And it does something to me I’m not ready for.

“I used to hate storms,” I say suddenly, surprising even myself.

Jamie glances over. “Yeah?”

I nod. “When I was a kid, I’d crawl into my closet and sit with my hands over my ears until it passed.”

“Jesus,” he murmurs, not teasing, just listening.

“I don’t hate them anymore,” I add quietly.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me like he knows there’s more.

And there is.

“I think…” I shift slightly, my hand brushing the edge of his thigh under the blanket. “I think it’s ‘cause I don’t feel alone in them anymore.”

Jamie’s lips part, just slightly.

“I’ve never really said this out loud,” I admit. “But being around you? It’s the only time I don’t feel like I have to keep everything locked up.”

My throat tightens, but I force the next part out anyway.

“You make things quieter. In my head. In my chest. Even when you’re being loud and chaotic and driving me insane… it still feels easier somehow.”

He doesn’t blink.

“I don’t know what that means,” I finish. “But I know I don’t feel like this with anyone else.”

And there it is.

Not everything. Not yet.

But enough that the air between us shifts again, heavier, sharper, and full of something I’m finally brave enough to want.

The silence between us hums louder than the storm.

Jamie doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look away either. His eyes are locked on mine, wide and unblinking, like if he moves, this whole moment might crack apart.

And maybe it will.

But I can’t stop now.

My hand shifts under the blanket, fingers brushing his. Not fully, just enough to test the line we’ve drawn a hundred times and never crossed.

He doesn’t move.

Not away.

Not closer.

Just… still.

My heart’s beating so damn loud I’m sure he can hear it. The air’s thick with everything we haven’t said, all the near-misses and what-ifs and nights I laid awake wondering if he’d ever feel this too.

“Jamie,” I whisper.

His breath hitches, and I swear it echoes in my chest.

I turn my palm up, barely touching his, waiting. And when his fingers slide against mine, slow, deliberate, trembling, I forget how to breathe.

He’s looking at me like he’s not sure what this is. Like he’s afraid to hope.

So I lean in, just enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. Just enough to give him a chance to stop me.

He doesn’t.

Not right away.

Not until his hand tightens around mine, and he whispers, barely audible.

“Don’t.”

My stomach drops. But I don’t pull back.

Not yet.

“Don’t do this,” he says again, voice shaking now. “Not unless you mean it.”

It lands like a weight in the space between us.

And I do mean it. I do.

But he’s right.

If I cross this line, there’s no going back.

So I don’t say anything.

I just stay there, close enough to want, but not enough to take.

And let him be the one who moves first.

Jamie’s hand stays tight around mine. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts straight through me.

“Don’t do this unless you mean it.” He repeats.

He pulls back just enough to break the spell. Just enough to breathe, but not enough to run. His eyes are glassy, too bright, too guarded. Like he’s bracing for impact.

I feel everything I should’ve said catch in my throat. All the years I wanted him but buried it beneath every joke, every shoulder bump, every “you’re my best friend” I weaponized to keep the distance safe.

But it’s not safe anymore. Not after the other night. Not after that call. Not after I watched him come home with someone else’s name on his lips.

“I do mean it,” I say softly, but it sounds thin. Like hope laced with apology.

His jaw tightens. “You’re drunk half the time you say things that matter.”

“I’m not drunk now.”

“Still doesn’t mean you won’t regret it tomorrow.”

I flinch. Because he’s not wrong. I’ve spent years pretending I didn’t feel what I did, and now I want to rewrite the rules without warning.

“You’re not a rebound,” I tell him, voice rough. “You’re not a game. You’re—”

He cuts me off with a shake of his head. “Then don’t treat me like one.”

My chest aches at the look on his face, half-breaking, half-hoping. Like he wants to believe me. Like he’s afraid to.

“I’m not trying to ruin us,” I whisper. “I just… I can’t unfeel this anymore.”

Jamie breathes out, long and unsteady. He looks away, toward the window where lightning flashes behind the curtains, washing the room in flickers of pale light. He’s trembling. So am I.

“I’ve waited so long for you to see me,” he says, barely audible. “And now that you do, I don’t know if I trust it.”

Silence stretches.

Then, just as the thunder rolls again, he stands. Pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“I can’t do maybe, Drew. Not with you.”

He walks toward his room, pausing just long enough to glance back.

“Figure it out.”

And then he’s gone.

Leaving me there on the couch, every word still burning in my chest.

To be continued…  Come back tomorrow for Part Five later today..

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 he was Mine - Part Three: He Asks Me How It Went

What if your best friend finally said the thing you’ve been waiting years to hear—right when someone else already did?

Jamie’s trying to move on, and for one night, it almost feels easy. But Drew’s silence says more than words ever could… until the words finally come. Too late, too messy—and too close to everything Jamie ever wanted.

Part Three: He Asks Me How It Went

He waited too long to say it—now Jamie’s not sure he wants to hear it.

Jamie

I’m still smiling when I unlock the door.

Not the big, stupid kind that gives everything away, just a quiet tug at the corners of my mouth. The kind you get after a good night. A better-than-you-expected date. The kind of night that reminds you maybe you’re not as hard to love as you thought.

I try to push it down before I step inside, but the second I see Drew on the couch, barefoot, hoodie on, half-watching some rerun I’ve seen a hundred times, I feel it creep back up.

He glances over when the door shuts. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

I toss my keys into the bowl by the door and head toward the kitchen. The smile’s still there. I don’t mean for it to be.

“Are you just getting back?” he asks.

I nod, grabbing a glass of water. “Yeah.”

“How’d it go?”

His tone’s light. A little too light. Like he’s asking about the weather or what I ordered for dinner, nothing important. But we both know it is.

I lean against the counter, watching him. “It was good.”

He hums, like that’s all he needed to hear, then turns back to the screen. “Cool.”

That’s it. No teasing. No follow-up questions. Not even a smirk.

Just cool.

I study the way he holds the remote, the tightness in his jaw, the way his foot taps once against the floor before he catches himself.

There’s a shift in the air I can’t name, but it lands heavy, like something unsaid just took up space between us.

And it doesn’t feel cool at all.

It’s not just tonight.

I’ve been noticing it more and more lately, little shifts I try to ignore. The way Drew cut in at brunch when Matt was talking. The way he barely looked at me when I got home from that first date. The weird pauses, the short replies, the way his eyes linger just a second too long.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m imagining it.

God knows I’ve done that before, read into every laugh, every look, every stupid “what if” moment I tucked into the corners of my chest and told myself to stop thinking about.

But something’s different now. I can feel it. And it’s messing with my head.

I try to rationalize it. Drew’s just protective. That’s always been his thing. Big brother energy. He doesn’t trust easily, and I’m his person. Of course he’s going to be skeptical of anyone new.

Right?

But it doesn’t feel like skepticism anymore. It feels like something else. Something sharper.

And the worst part?

It makes me hope.

After all this time, after I’ve spent years convincing myself it could never be more, that I’d rather have him as a friend than lose him altogether. It still stings in a very specific way when he gets quiet after I talk about someone else.

Because a part of me has always wished he’d be jealous.

And now that it almost feels like he is?

I grip the glass a little harder, knuckles tight… I clench the glass in my hand a little tighter, jaw locked. Because I’ve spent years keeping quiet—trying not to need anything more than friendship. And now he shows up in the margins of something real, acting like he’s owed the middle? No. You don’t get to show up now and act like I’m still yours.

It just makes me angry.

I clench the glass in my hand a little tighter, jaw locked. It’s the kind of anger that simmers just beneath wanting—sharp and stupid and still not enough.

You don’t get to be jealous. Not if you were never going to choose me.

We’re both back on the couch now, pretending to watch some mindless show neither of us picked. It’s the kind of quiet that isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s not easy, either.

I need something real. Something that doesn’t feel like a game we’re both too afraid to lose.

So I say it.

“Tonight was good,” I offer, eyes on the screen. “Matt’s… nice.”

Drew doesn’t say anything.

“I think what I liked most was that he saw me.” I pause. “Like—not just the surface stuff. Not just the fact that I’m loud or sarcastic or good at pretending I’m fine when I’m not. But all of it.”

He looked at me like I wasn’t too much. Like the way I talk with my hands, the way I get too passionate about dumb things like horror movies or queer theory, wasn’t exhausting. It was the first time I didn’t feel like I had to tone myself down to be worth staying for.

And when I told him about my family—about the mess and the distance and all the things I usually leave out—he didn’t flinch. He didn’t make it feel like something he had to fix or tiptoe around. Just… listened. Like I wasn’t hard work. Like I was enough.

I can feel Drew’s stillness beside me. He’s not looking at me, but he’s not moving either.

“It’s harder than people think,” I continue, voice soft. “Letting someone in when you’re used to being too much for everyone else. Too intense. Too open. Too… whatever.”

I shrug, as if it doesn’t matter. As if I haven’t been carrying this around for years.

“Anyway. It was nice not having to explain myself.”

Drew shifts slightly, just enough for me to notice, but not enough to say anything.

I don’t push. I could. God knows I want to. But I’ve learned to live in the quiet. To take what I’m given and pretend it’s enough.

Even if it isn’t.

Because sometimes silence says more than anything else ever could.

And I wonder, not for the first time, if Drew’s ever really seen me that way.

And if he has… maybe that’s worse.

…………

I’m brushing my teeth when my phone buzzes on the bathroom counter.

I glance down, expecting a text.

It’s not.

It’s Drew. Calling. At 12:42 a.m.

I hesitate just long enough for it to almost go to voicemail before I pick up.

“Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, then a shaky exhale. “You answered.”

His voice is low. Slurred. Like he’s been drinking, but not enough to completely lose control. Just enough to let things slip.

“Yeah,” I say slowly, wiping my mouth with a towel. “What’s going on?”

“You’re not supposed to fall for someone else.”

My breath catches and I go completely still.

“Drew…”

“I was here first.” His voice cracks on the last word. “I’ve been here the whole time, Jamie. You’re not supposed to leave me behind.”

That last part is whispered, cracking at the edges. I sit down on the edge of the tub. My hand gripping the phone tighter than I probably should.

“I see you. I always have. I just—” He trails off, breath ragged. “I didn’t know how to want you without ruining everything.”

And there it is. The thing I’ve wanted to hear more than anything… and the one thing I don’t know how to believe.

Because it’s not sober. It’s not clean.

It’s messy and late and breaking him open.

And it’s breaking me, too.

“Drew,” I whisper, throat tight. “You can’t say this now. Not like this.”

He doesn’t respond. I hear him breathing, hear the weight of it all on the other end of the line.

And I hate that it still feels like too little, too late.

Because if he really saw me all this time…

Then why did you wait until someone else saw me first?

I waited, Drew. For years, I waited for you to see me the way I saw you. And now you call me after midnight, drunk and breaking, like I’m still supposed to be yours?

                    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 he was Mine - Part Two: The New Guy

Drew’s never questioned how he feels about Jamie—until Jamie starts dating someone else. Suddenly, every laugh, every look, every touch that isn’t his feels like a warning sign he never saw coming. And when Drew sees Jamie through someone else’s eyes, he realizes the truth might have been right in front of him all along.

A slow-burn best-friends-to-lovers moment of jealousy, confusion, and the kind of ache that refuses to be ignored.

What if he was Mine 

He thought he’d always be the one beside Jamie—until someone else took his place.

Drew

I hear him before I see him.

His voice carries down the hall, light and teasing, the way it gets when he’s flirting. I pause with a spoon halfway to my mouth, listening without meaning to.

“Yeah, I’d be down. Just let me know when. Cool. Sounds good.”

A laugh. A pause. “No, you didn’t ruin anything. I was just… okay. Yeah. I’ll text you.”

The door creaks open a second later. Jamie steps into the kitchen, still smiling as he sets his phone on the counter and opens the fridge like nothing’s different.

But something is.

“You going out?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound casual.

He glances over. “Maybe. Got asked out, so… we’ll see.”

“With who?” I don’t know why I ask. I already hate the answer.

“Matt. Guy I met at the bookstore a couple weeks ago.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Bookstore guy, huh? That the one who knocked over the plant display trying to get your number?”

Jamie laughs. “The very one. At least he’s memorable.”

“Bold move,” I say, shoveling cereal into my mouth before something worse slips out.

He grabs a yogurt and leans against the counter, facing me. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re making that face like someone poured orange juice in your cereal.”

I smirk, swallowing. “That happened once. And I was betrayed.”

Jamie just shakes his head and opens his yogurt. Like everything’s normal. Like he’s not about to go out with some guy who makes him laugh like that.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. He’s my best friend. He should be dating.

So why does it feel like someone’s tightening a screw in the center of my chest?

I tell myself it’s not a big deal. Just brunch.

We meet up at our usual spot, me, Jamie, a few friends from college, and apparently… Matt.

He’s exactly what I expected: clean-cut, soft-spoken, smart. He talks about working in publishing and how he’s writing a novel on the side, which earns him instant points with the table. Even Jamie looks impressed.

Everyone seems to like him. Of course they do.

Matt’s polite and humble and casually good-looking in that quiet, artsy way. The kind of guy who reads poetry for fun and somehow pulls it off.

I try to focus on my coffee, but every time I glance up, Jamie’s smiling again. Leaning in. Laughing like it’s easy.

It gets harder to swallow my food.

“So, how’d you two meet?” one of our friends asks.

Matt chuckles. “He helped me pick up the entire romance section I knocked over in a bookstore.”

“Smooth,” I say, biting into a piece of toast a little harder than necessary. “Was that part of your strategy, or just bonus chaos?”

Jamie’s eyes cut toward me, not amused. “It was cute.”

Right. Cute.

“I think it’s sweet,” someone else adds. “Romantic meet-cutes are making a comeback.”

I force a laugh. “Guess I’ll have to start knocking over shelves more often.”

The conversation moves on, but my head doesn’t. I’m not listening to what Matt says next. I’m watching how Jamie looks at him when he says it.

Not just amused. Not just polite.

But interested.

I stab my fork into a pancake and try not to think about why it bothers me so much.

Because it shouldn’t.

He’s my best friend.

That’s all.

Right?

By the time I get home, I’ve got a headache I can’t shake and a stomach that still feels weirdly full, even though I barely ate.

I stretch out on the couch and let the TV play something I’m not watching. All I can see is Jamie, his eyes crinkling when Matt made that dumb joke about his writing process, the way his hand brushed Matt’s arm when he got up to pay for his coffee. Little things. Stupid things.

I tell myself it’s not a big deal. Jamie’s allowed to date. I want him to be happy.

Right?

So why does it feel like I’m stuck in the backseat of a car I didn’t realize I wasn’t driving?

I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the cushion.

Jamie’s attractive. Objectively. Always has been. Even my ex once asked if we’d ever hooked up. I laughed it off, told her she had nothing to worry about.

And I believed that.

I think.

But this feels different. This isn’t about Jamie being attractive. It’s about someone else seeing it. About watching someone else slide into the spot I didn’t even realize I was holding.

And maybe that’s the part that really messes me up—because when I picture Jamie laughing like that, leaning in, letting someone else close… I don’t want it to be anyone else.

I never did.

I just didn’t know it until now.

And maybe it’s not about losing a friend.

Maybe it’s about losing something I didn’t even know I had.

…………

I’m not trying to eavesdrop.

I just got back from grabbing takeout and walked in at the wrong moment, or maybe the right one, depending on how cruel the universe is feeling tonight.

Jamie and Matt are on the couch, a half-empty pizza box between them. There’s some random show playing on mute and an open beer in Jamie’s hand. He looks completely at ease. Relaxed in a way I don’t think I’ve seen in a while.

Matt says something I don’t catch.

Jamie throws his head back, laughing, loud and unfiltered and so real it knocks the breath out of me.

And Matt just watches him.

Like he’s already fallen. Like Jamie’s a sunrise he didn’t expect to get.

I freeze in the doorway.

It’s a look I’ve never seen on someone else’s face before. A kind of awe. A kind of wanting that goes way deeper than surface attraction.

Jamie doesn’t notice me standing there. He’s still laughing, nudging Matt with his knee like the two of them are in their own little world. And I’m not even part of it.

And that’s when it hits me.

I don’t want him to look at Matt like that. I don’t want Matt to get that version of Jamie. The soft, bright, unguarded one.

I want it. I want him.

Not someday. Not maybe. Not if we’re still single at forty.

Now.

I turn away before they see me.

Because I’m not ready to deal with what it means. Not yet.

But in my chest, the words land hard, sharp, and undeniable:

Don’t look at him like that. You don’t even know what you’re looking at.

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 he was mine - Part One: The Thing About Best Friends

The slowest burn. The deepest cut.

They’ve been best friends for years. Jamie is out and confident. Drew is straight—at least, that’s what he’s always told himself. But when Jamie starts dating someone new, Drew feels something he can’t explain. And maybe it’s not just about losing his best friend… maybe it’s about finally admitting who he really wants.

A slow-burn, best-friends-to-lovers M/M romance told in five parts—full of longing, banter, jealousy, and the kind of love that sneaks up and wrecks you.

What If He Was Mine?

He was never just my best friend. He was the one I couldn’t have… and wanted anyway.

Jamie

The thing about best friends? They ruin you for everyone else.

Drew’s socked feet are propped up on the coffee table, one ankle crossed over the other. My legs are tangled with his on the couch like they’ve always belonged there. There’s a half-finished bowl of popcorn between us and some action movie playing in the background, but I couldn’t tell you the plot if you paid me. Not when he’s this close.

“That guy has a grenade launcher,” Drew says, nodding toward the screen.

“Very observant. You should be a detective.”

He elbows me, not bothering to look over. “I’m just saying. If I had a grenade launcher, I’d be unstoppable.”

“You’d trip over your own shoelace and blow yourself up.”

He laughs, that low rumble I feel in my chest more than I should, and tosses a piece of popcorn at me. It hits my cheek and bounces to the floor. Worth it.

“What was that for?” I ask, wiping at my shirt.

“You looked smug.”

“I am smug.”

He snorts. “What else is new?”

I shrug. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” He asks.

I hesitate, then grin to cover it. “How we’ve been friends forever, and it’s basically like we’ve been married for eight years. That’s longer than any actual relationship I’ve had.”

“Tragic, really.” He stretches, arms up, shirt riding high. I look away too fast. “You should aim higher.”

If only you knew who I’ve been aiming for.

There’s a lull in the noise. The kind that settles in when the joke fades and comfort takes its place. His thigh presses against mine. Our arms brush. I think about leaning into him… just a little.

But I don’t.

I never do.

The thing about being this close to him, arms brushing, legs tangled, shoulders bumping, is that it’s never been weird.

Not once.

Because Drew’s straight.

That’s the safety net, isn’t it? The reason it’s always been okay to sprawl across the couch together, to crash in the same bed after a night out, to wrestle over the last slice of pizza like a couple of frat bros in a beer commercial. He’s never pulled away, never flinched. And I’ve never had to explain why I linger a little too long when our eyes meet. Why I hold my breath when he leans too close.

Because there’s always been a line. A rule. One we never said out loud, and one I’ve never dared cross.

When I came out in college, he was the first person I told. My hands were shaking, and I could barely get the words out. I’d played every reaction in my head, over and over, bracing for the worst. But all Drew did was shrug, like I’d just told him my coffee order had changed.

“Cool,” he said, “you wanna grab tacos or something?”

Like it didn’t change a thing. But it did. At least for me.

Because by then, I’d already fallen. Quietly. Hopelessly. And if I told him…if I ever told him… I knew I’d lose him. Not because he’d stop being kind. But because he’d pull away. Guard himself. And I’d rather have this… close, familiar, almost-enough, than nothing at all.

So I smile. I tease. I keep my hands to myself.

And I look at him now, laughing at something on the screen, popcorn in his hair, and think…

You’re the rule I never wanted to follow.

Drew shifts beside me, absently brushing popcorn crumbs off his hoodie. “You seeing anyone lately?”

The question’s casual, a little too casual, like it’s just filler noise between explosions on the screen, but it still tightens something low in my stomach.

I shrug. “Not really.”

He glances over. “Not even that guy from the gym?”

“Matt?” I huff a laugh. “He ghosted after one date. Said I was intimidating.”

Drew smirks. “You are intimidating.”

“Says the man built like a linebacker.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking over me. “We both are. You’re like… gym bro meets Greek god with resting jerk face.”

I snort. “Wow. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying, if I think you’re a lot, what chance does a soft-spoken book guy have?”

I toss a pillow at his head. “You’re the worst.”

He bats it away easily, grin smug. “I just think you need someone who can handle you.”

I raise a brow, teeth sinking into my bottom lip before I can stop myself. “Like you?”

His eyes cut to mine, playful. “You wish.”

Yeah. I do.

But instead I laugh, like it’s all part of the game. Because it is, isn’t it? This dance we’ve been doing for years. Push, pull. Flirt, deflect. Always toeing that invisible line.

He stretches again, arms behind his head, like this is all normal. Like my heart isn’t trying to climb out of my chest.

“If we’re both still single at forty,” he says, “we’ll just marry each other. Problem solved.”

“Great,” I say lightly. “We can split rent and die of sexual frustration.”

Drew chuckles. “Speak for yourself.”

I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach. “We’ll see if I’m still interested in confused straight boys by then.”

The movie ends without either of us really noticing. Credits roll, casting a soft glow over the living room. We don’t move.

For once, Drew isn’t talking. He just stretches, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. His shirt rides up again, of course it does, and I make the mistake of looking.

Not just at the skin. Not just the V of his hips or the way his chest rises and falls.

But at him.

Bare feet on the coffee table. Shirt stretched over muscle from years of pick-up basketball and protein shakes. Hair a mess. Eyes half-lidded, lips parted like he might say something and decided not to.

It’s not just attraction. It’s not a crush. It’s not some stupid, fleeting thing.

It’s him.

It’s knowing the sound he makes when he stretches in the morning. The way he only drinks orange juice with pulp. The fact that he still keeps Band-Aids in the kitchen drawer because I once scraped my knuckle trying to open a bottle of wine.

It’s love. Deep, stupid, impossible love.

And for one second, just one, I think about saying it.

Not in some dramatic confession. Just something quiet. Testing the words. Do you ever think about it?

But I don’t. Because he’s never looked at me like that. And if I say it, if I put it out into the world and he laughs or pulls away or says he doesn’t want to lose me as a friend…

That would destroy me faster than silence ever could.

So I swallow it down. Like always.

“Goodnight, Drew,” I whisper.

He doesn’t hear the ache in it.

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

How to Accidentally get a Husband - Part Five: No Going Back

Delaney Quinn came to Vegas to escape a picture-perfect life she didn’t want. She didn’t plan to marry a charming, cocky stranger with a killer smile and a heart too big for his own good. But after a night of impulsive choices and undeniable sparks, she wakes up with a ring on her finger… and a man who remembers everything.

Nate Carter isn’t asking her to stay forever. Just for one day.

One day to prove this wasn’t a mistake.

One day to show her that sometimes the most reckless decisions lead to the most unforgettable kind of love.

Part Five –   No Going Back

A night they chose. A morning they’ll remember. Now the question is—what comes next?

His mouth is warm and sure against mine, no hesitation now, just want. Need. Something real.
He deepens the kiss slowly, like he’s memorizing it, like this matters.
And God, it does.

His hand curves around my waist, the other threading into my hair, keeping me close. Not to trap me. To hold. To ask. To feel.

I shift in his arms, legs tangling with his as his lips trace a path to my jaw, my neck, back to my mouth again, like he can’t bear to stop touching me.

And I don’t want him to.

Not tonight.

There’s no rush or dare behind it. Just heat and intention and something deeper than I want. His mouth is soft but firm, his hands anchoring me gently as I move to straddle him, the hotel blanket pooling around us.

I expect heat. What I don’t expect is… reverence.

He takes his time, kissing along my neck, down my collarbone, hands tracing my hips like he’s memorizing them. Like he’s learning me. There’s something holy in the way he touches me, like he can’t believe I’m real.

And for the first time in a long time…I believe it too.

Every time I tense, he slows, like he feels the hesitation before I even move. His hand finds mine between our bodies, fingers lacing, anchoring me to the moment. Every time I start to pull away from what this means, he draws me back in. Not with force. With intention. With presence.

It’s not just about sex.
It’s permission.

To want.
To need.
To take.

His jeans are unbuttoned, my leggings shoved down and off. Everything rushed and clumsy now compared to the way it started, but now it’s careful. Focused. The kind of urgency that knows how to slow down when it matters.

He shifts his hips back, just enough to reach between us and free himself. The heat of him against my thigh makes my breath catch and then I see him.

“Jesus,” I whisper before I can stop myself. “You’ve been walking around with that all day?”

His laugh is soft, strained. “Yeah?” He leans in close, lips brushing my jaw. “Starting to think maybe you like my bad decisions?”

I grip his shirt, tugging him closer. “I like this one.”

He lines himself up then pushes in, deep and steady, and I gasp, more at the feeling than the shock of how intimate this is without stripping everything away. There is  fabric is still between us. The way our clothes stay half-on, like we couldn’t wait long enough to get undressed. Like we didn’t have to.

I feel every inch of him, the press and stretch, the heat and weight. His body curves over mine, his hand still tangled with mine, the other braced beside my head.

He moves with control, hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts that make my whole body tighten around him.

I don’t close my eyes or look away.

Because he’s watching me too.

And every time he sinks back in, it’s not just to make me feel good.

It’s to make me feel wanted.

I bite down on a moan, but he catches it with his mouth, swallowing the sound as he kisses me again. Deep. Lingering. One hand grips the back of my thigh, dragging it higher around his waist. The other stays on my jaw, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

“Delaney,” he breathes, like it’s a prayer, like saying my name makes this more real.

I arch into him, hips lifting to meet his next thrust, and he groans against my neck, his control unraveling by degrees. He stays slow, but it’s a needier slow now. More pressure. More friction. My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in when he rolls his hips just right. The rhythm stutters as my breath catches, then surges again, stronger, deeper.

There’s no cocky grin. No smug remark. Just his forehead against mine, sweat at his temple, his body shaking with restraint. I feel his whispered words in the way his hands move over me, down my ribs, over my hips, back up to cradle my face. Reverent. Almost awed.

“Let go,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

And I do.

I let go.

With a cry I can’t hold back and a body that trembles under the weight of it all. His name is the only thing I can form, and even that breaks apart on my lips.

“Nate.”

He follows me seconds later, gasping into my mouth like I’ve knocked the wind out of him and maybe I have. Because when he collapses against me, his chest rising and falling with mine, we’re not just tangled.

We’re tethered.

…………

I wake to the sound of silence.

The kind wrapped in warmth and slow breaths, with the soft hush of a city far below and a sunrise that hasn’t quite reached us yet. The bed is still warm beneath me, the sheets tangled around my legs, and Nate, God, Nate, is beside me.

Sleeping.

One arm thrown lazily across my waist, the rise and fall of his chest steady, content. His hair is tousled, his lips parted just slightly, like even in sleep he’s still caught between whatever just happened and whatever comes next.

I don’t move. Not at first.

I just watch him.

Study the way his brow is soft when he’s not awake and teasing me. The way his body curves toward mine like it’s instinct. Like we were meant to end up here all along.

My fingers brush the sheet where his ring rests against mine, still on. Still shining in the sliver of light cutting through the curtain.

A sham of a marriage. A real moment.

And suddenly I don’t want to go back to the way things were before. I don’t want to file paperwork and undo this thing that doesn’t feel like a mistake.

I slide closer, careful not to wake him, just close enough to feel his breath on my shoulder. It’s terrifying how safe I feel in a city built on chaos. How easy it is to imagine waking up like this again.

And again.

My phone buzzes somewhere in the room. I ignore it.

Instead, I tuck my head under Nate’s chin and breathe him in. Vanilla and cedar and something stubborn and steady I can’t name.

This wasn’t part of the plan. Hell, none of it was.

But lying here, wrapped in his warmth and the quiet ache of something that feels like hope, I start to wonder…

Maybe the best things never are.

His eyes blink open slowly, like the morning took its time coaxing him out of sleep.

He stretches, muscles shifting under the sheet as he shifts onto his side, face inches from mine. His smile is lazy. Gorgeous. And completely unbothered by the fact that I’m staring at him like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“Morning, wife,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.

It shouldn’t make my stomach flip.

But it does.

“Morning,” I whisper back.

He lifts my hand, presses a kiss to the knuckles softly, like a promise.

We lie there in the quiet, neither of us rushing to fill the space. I should be panicking again. Making lists. Asking questions. But all I want is to stay right here in this little moment that doesn’t feel borrowed anymore.

Still, I can’t stop the words from slipping out.

“So… what now?”

Nate’s brows lift slightly. “Now?”

I nod.

He grins, cocky and warm. “Now we get brunch. You’re glowing, and I want everyone to know why.”

I laugh, the sound unsteady but real. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He tugs me a little closer, fingers brushing the bare skin of my hip. “There’s a place down the street with insane French toast. They’ll probably comp our drinks once they see how in love we look.”

I roll my eyes, but the smile lingers. “You’re not really keeping me, are you?”

His expression shifts, still playful, but there’s something under it. Something steadier.

He rolls onto his elbow, leaning in until our foreheads touch. His thumb traces the curve of my jaw.

“Oh, sweetheart…” His voice drops, low and sure. “You accidentally married the most stubborn man in Vegas.”

My breath catches.

Not from nerves.

Not from fear.

But from the possibility that this—this moment, this man—might actually be real.

And maybe, just maybe… worth keeping.

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: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

How to Accidentally get a Husband - Part Four: The Ex, the Offer, and the Breakdown

What started as a drunken dare has turned into one very real day of fake honeymoon adventures. Delaney never expected her accidental husband to be this charming—or this committed to making her smile. Between street tacos, oversized sun hats, and questions that cut a little too deep, one thing becomes clear: pretending it doesn’t mean anything is getting harder by the hour.

Part Four – The Ex, the Offer, and the Breakdown

One day into their one-month deal… and pretending it’s not real is getting harder.

The room is too quiet. Just the low hum of the air conditioner and the soft clink of ice in my glass. Nate’s in the bathroom, probably brushing his perfect teeth or flexing at the mirror or whatever men like him do to pass time.

I scroll absently through my phone, not really looking at anything until the notification flashes across the top of the screen.

Evan: Saw the pics. Hope you’re enjoying rock bottom.

My stomach twists so fast it steals the breath from my lungs.

All the air in the suite seems to vanish, replaced with shame, hot and sticky and clinging. My thumb hovers over the message, rereading it even though I don’t need to.

I know what he’s doing. What he always does.

Cutting me down. Making me feel small. And somehow, still managing to make it sound like he’s the victim.

I lock the screen, but it’s too late. Nate’s voice is quiet behind me. “You okay?”

I don’t turn around. “Fine.”

He walks closer. “You’re a bad liar.”

The silence stretches between us like a pulled thread. Eventually, I hand him the phone.

He reads the message. Doesn’t say anything. Just… hands it back and sinks onto the edge of the bed beside me.

No jokes. No sarcasm. Just soft stillness.

“That the guy you were gonna marry?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I nod.

“Next weekend,” I say, my voice flat. “It was supposed to be next weekend.”

Nate doesn’t look surprised. Just thoughtful. Quiet.

“He didn’t love me,” I add, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “He loved the version of me that looked good on his arm. The polished, quiet one who didn’t ask too many questions. Who didn’t take up too much space.”

I laugh bitterly. “Guess I failed at that.”

Nate shifts beside me, just enough for his shoulder to brush mine. “Sounds like he failed at being a decent human.”

I exhale a shaky breath. “Everyone thought he was perfect. He was charming and successful and dressed like a walking Ralph Lauren ad. My mom adored him. My sister said I was lucky.”

I glance down at my hands. “But I was shrinking. Every day. Little by little, he made me feel like I wasn’t enough unless I was exactly what he wanted.”

Nate is quiet for a moment. Then, softly he says, “You deserve more than that.”

I close my eyes.

“You deserve someone who chooses you. Exactly as you are. Who sees you, listens to you, laughs with you. Cries with you. Fights for you.”

His voice breaks a little. “You deserve someone who doesn’t make you feel like too much.”

I don’t know what it is, his voice, the way he says it, or just the dam finally cracking, but the tears hit fast. Hot and unstoppable.

My shoulders shake, and before I can even process it, I’m curling in on myself, sobbing into my hands like I’ve been holding it back for years.

Nate doesn’t hesitate.

He slides behind me on the bed, pulling me into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like we’ve done this a thousand times before. No heat or expectation behind it. Just warmth and quiet and safety.

He doesn’t speak. He just lets me cry.

Lets me break.

His hand rubs gentle circles on my back, slow and steady. And for the first time in a long time, I let someone hold me through the storm instead of pretending I’m not drowning.

Eventually, my breathing slows. My tears run dry. I’m still curled in his arms, head resting against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat grounding me in a way I can’t explain.

I whisper the words before I can talk myself out of it.

“Okay. One more night.”

He doesn’t ask for more and he doesn’t push.

He just holds me tighter.

Eventually, my breathing slows and my tears run dry. I’m still curled in his arms, head resting against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat grounding me in a way I can’t explain.

His fingers sweep lazy, soothing lines along my spine. Up and down, over and over, until the comfort of it turns into something else. Something warmer. A slow-blooming heat that slips beneath the sadness like sunlight through fog.

I tilt my head, just slightly. His chin rests against my temple, his breath soft in my hair.

My voice is barely a whisper. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

His hand stills on my back. Then he exhales through his nose, a soft, almost bitter sound.

“Because someone should be.”

I lift my eyes to his, and he looks down at me like I’m made of something breakable. Not fragile, exactly. Just… rare. Precious.

I don’t think. I don’t second-guess or analyze or overcomplicate it. I just… move.

My fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, and I lift myself toward him, brushing my lips against his like a question.

He freezes.

He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t take over either. He’s just… waiting.

Letting me decide.

The kiss is soft. Just a press of my lips to his. Just enough to tell him I’m still here. That I want this. That I want him.

His hand cups my jaw, the rough pad of his thumb skimming my cheekbone as he kisses me back, slow and deep and aching.

It’s not rushed.

It’s not about distraction or erasing pain.

It’s about feeling.

Every moment of it.

The way his mouth moves over mine like he’s memorizing the shape. The way his fingers slide into my hair, gentle but possessive, like he needs to touch every part of me just to believe I’m real.

I sigh into him, sinking into the kiss the way I sank into his arms, unguarded, willing.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice low, eyes searching mine.

I nod. Then whisper, “I want you.”

His jaw tightens.

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” I say quickly. “I’m just… tired of hurting. And I feel safe with you.”

His lips brush mine again. “Then let me take care of you.”

I nod again, and this time, when he kisses me… there’s nothing tentative about it.

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: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

How to Accidentally Get a Husband - Part Three: The One Month Husband

One wild night. One ridiculous bet.

Now he wants a month to make her fall in love.

 

Delaney didn’t plan to spend the day after her accidental Vegas wedding playing tourist with her supposed husband. But Nate shows up with room service, a charming grin, and a ridiculous proposition: stay married for one month. No pressure. No strings. Just one chaotic, chemistry-filled adventure.

It’s not a date. It’s not real.

Except… it’s starting to feel like it could be.

Part Three – The One Month Husband

One wild night. One ridiculous bet. Now he wants a month to make her fall in love.

The bedroom door creaks open, followed by the unmistakable smell of bacon.

I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. My head still feels like it’s doing laps in a cement mixer. I burrow deeper into the pillow, hoping he’ll take the hint and go away.

He doesn’t.

Nate’s voice filters through the room like he’s the world’s most obnoxious room service attendant. “Mrs. Carter. I come bearing hash browns and a very generous mini syrup packet.”

I groan. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, his tone light. “And coffee. You like coffee, right?”

I crack an eye again. He’s standing in the doorway, shirtless again—because of course he is—holding a tray with two plates, two mugs, and a cocky smile that shouldn’t be legal before noon.

“What do you want?” I ask warily, pushing up to a sitting position and clutching the blanket like armor.

“To spend the day with my wife.”

I arch a brow.

He shrugs. “One month. That’s what you agreed to, right? And I’m calling in day one.”

I blink at him. He just stands there, barefoot and smug, like this is how all good marriages begin, on a dare, with syrup.

The tray wobbles slightly as he shifts his weight, waiting for me to object. I really should but I don’t. And maybe that’s the weirdest part.

“I haven’t even brushed my teeth.”

“I brought mints, too.” He flashes the little foil packet with a wink. “Come on, Mrs. Trouble. Eat up so we can go see Vegas.”

My mouth opens. Closes. I want to roll my eyes, say something clever, but all that comes out is a tiny puff of laughter.

Because he’s standing there like some alternate-reality husband, room service tray in hand, hair messy, tattoos peeking out from the edge of his t-shirt, and somehow, I don’t hate the way that looks.

He says it like he’s done this before. Like waking up married and ordering waffles like it's just a normal thing

We start at the fountains.

Well, he calls them fountains. I call them jets of water trying to drown me while Celine Dion screams about her heart going on.

I stand there, arms folded, trying not to shiver in leggings and a thin zip-up I pulled from my overnight bag, definitely not warm enough for the fountains’ icy mist.

“You’re not actually into this, are you?”

He reaches over without looking and tugs my jacket tighter around my shoulders. His knuckles graze my collarbone. It shouldn’t send a shiver through me, but it does.

I tell myself it’s the wind. It’s not.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the water. “Of course I am. It’s Vegas. You’re supposed to be tacky and emotional and overwhelmed. You’re supposed to feel things.”

“I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

“From the alcohol or the romance?”

“Both.”

He laughs, and the sound pulls something loose in my chest.

We get tacos from a cart that probably failed its last health inspection and sit on the edge of a fountain outside the Bellagio. Nate orders for both of us without asking, and I’m too tired to argue.

Turns out, he’s annoyingly good at picking food.

“You’re not allergic to anything, right?” he asks mid-bite.

“Only bullshit.”

I expect him to get offended. Or defensive. But instead, he laughs like I’ve just handed him a gift.

Like being sharp-tongued and hungover is something worth noticing.

He chokes on his taco and grins at me like I’m the most interesting thing in Nevada.

Everywhere we go, people assume we’re newlyweds.

A woman in rhinestone cat ears offers to take our picture in front of a fake Eiffel Tower. Nate throws an arm around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Say ‘morning regrets!’” she yells.

His arm stays there a second too long, fingers warm against my waist. We’re playing pretend—but I’m starting to forget the script.

I glance at him after the picture. He doesn’t look like he’s pretending at all.

I fake a smile. He doesn’t.

He buys me a ridiculous floppy sun hat from a street vendor. Says it’s a honeymoon gift and insists I wear it the rest of the day.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It brings out your eyes.”

“It brings out my rage.”

“Also a good look on you.”

Later, at a quiet slot machine lounge off the strip, I finally ask the question that’s been sitting on my tongue all day.

“Why me?”

He’s nursing a drink, watching the lights flicker across my face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… why go along with it? The wedding. This.” I gesture vaguely around us. “You could’ve said no. Could’ve run the other way.”

He looks down for a second, then back at me. The grin is gone.

“I saw you three nights ago. You were at the same bar. Hair up, red lipstick, laughing at something the bartender said.”

My stomach dips.

“I was gonna say something. Walk over. Ask your name. But you left before I got the nerve.” He smiles softly. “Didn’t think I’d get one night with you, let alone a wedding.”

The words settle between us, quiet and electric.

“I’m not some romantic story,” I murmur.

“Good. I hate predictable endings.”

I open my mouth to say something, what, I’m not sure, but the lights above us flash, and someone wins on a nearby machine, drawing attention away.

We both look. When I glance back, he’s still watching me.

His hand is on the armrest between us. Not touching. Just close.

I could lean in.

My pulse kicks up. I stare at that hand like it’s a line I’m not sure I’m allowed to cross.

One inch. That’s all it would take.

One inch, and this would stop being a mistake and start being something else entirely.

I almost do.

But then he stands, reaching for my hand with a boyish grin. “Come on, wife. We’ve got a whole city to disappoint.”

And just like that, the moment passes.

But it lingers.

And I’m not sure I want it to go.

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: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

How to Accidentally Get a Husband - Part One: The One Month Husband

One wild night. One ridiculous bet.

Now he wants a month to make her fall in love.

 

Delaney didn’t plan to spend the day after her accidental Vegas wedding playing tourist with her supposed husband. But Nate shows up with room service, a charming grin, and a ridiculous proposition: stay married for one month. No pressure. No strings. Just one chaotic, chemistry-filled adventure.

It’s not a date. It’s not real.

Except… it’s starting to feel like it could be.

Part Three – The One Month Husband

One wild night. One ridiculous bet. Now he wants a month to make her fall in love.

The bedroom door creaks open, followed by the unmistakable smell of bacon.

I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. My head still feels like it’s doing laps in a cement mixer. I burrow deeper into the pillow, hoping he’ll take the hint and go away.

He doesn’t.

Nate’s voice filters through the room like he’s the world’s most obnoxious room service attendant. “Mrs. Carter. I come bearing hash browns and a very generous mini syrup packet.”

I groan. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, his tone light. “And coffee. You like coffee, right?”

I crack an eye again. He’s standing in the doorway, shirtless again—because of course he is—holding a tray with two plates, two mugs, and a cocky smile that shouldn’t be legal before noon.

“What do you want?” I ask warily, pushing up to a sitting position and clutching the blanket like armor.

“To spend the day with my wife.”

I arch a brow.

He shrugs. “One month. That’s what you agreed to, right? And I’m calling in day one.”

I blink at him. He just stands there, barefoot and smug, like this is how all good marriages begin, on a dare, with syrup.

The tray wobbles slightly as he shifts his weight, waiting for me to object. I really should but I don’t. And maybe that’s the weirdest part.

“I haven’t even brushed my teeth.”

“I brought mints, too.” He flashes the little foil packet with a wink. “Come on, Mrs. Trouble. Eat up so we can go see Vegas.”

My mouth opens. Closes. I want to roll my eyes, say something clever, but all that comes out is a tiny puff of laughter.

Because he’s standing there like some alternate-reality husband, room service tray in hand, hair messy, tattoos peeking out from the edge of his t-shirt, and somehow, I don’t hate the way that looks.

He says it like he’s done this before. Like waking up married and ordering waffles like it's just a normal thing

We start at the fountains.

Well, he calls them fountains. I call them jets of water trying to drown me while Celine Dion screams about her heart going on.

I stand there, arms folded, trying not to shiver in leggings and a thin zip-up I pulled from my overnight bag, definitely not warm enough for the fountains’ icy mist.

“You’re not actually into this, are you?”

He reaches over without looking and tugs my jacket tighter around my shoulders. His knuckles graze my collarbone. It shouldn’t send a shiver through me, but it does.

I tell myself it’s the wind. It’s not.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the water. “Of course I am. It’s Vegas. You’re supposed to be tacky and emotional and overwhelmed. You’re supposed to feel things.”

“I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

“From the alcohol or the romance?”

“Both.”

He laughs, and the sound pulls something loose in my chest.

We get tacos from a cart that probably failed its last health inspection and sit on the edge of a fountain outside the Bellagio. Nate orders for both of us without asking, and I’m too tired to argue.

Turns out, he’s annoyingly good at picking food.

“You’re not allergic to anything, right?” he asks mid-bite.

“Only bullshit.”

I expect him to get offended. Or defensive. But instead, he laughs like I’ve just handed him a gift.

Like being sharp-tongued and hungover is something worth noticing.

He chokes on his taco and grins at me like I’m the most interesting thing in Nevada.

Everywhere we go, people assume we’re newlyweds.

A woman in rhinestone cat ears offers to take our picture in front of a fake Eiffel Tower. Nate throws an arm around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Say ‘morning regrets!’” she yells.

His arm stays there a second too long, fingers warm against my waist. We’re playing pretend—but I’m starting to forget the script.

I glance at him after the picture. He doesn’t look like he’s pretending at all.

I fake a smile. He doesn’t.

He buys me a ridiculous floppy sun hat from a street vendor. Says it’s a honeymoon gift and insists I wear it the rest of the day.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It brings out your eyes.”

“It brings out my rage.”

“Also a good look on you.”

Later, at a quiet slot machine lounge off the strip, I finally ask the question that’s been sitting on my tongue all day.

“Why me?”

He’s nursing a drink, watching the lights flicker across my face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… why go along with it? The wedding. This.” I gesture vaguely around us. “You could’ve said no. Could’ve run the other way.”

He looks down for a second, then back at me. The grin is gone.

“I saw you three nights ago. You were at the same bar. Hair up, red lipstick, laughing at something the bartender said.”

My stomach dips.

“I was gonna say something. Walk over. Ask your name. But you left before I got the nerve.” He smiles softly. “Didn’t think I’d get one night with you, let alone a wedding.”

The words settle between us, quiet and electric.

“I’m not some romantic story,” I murmur.

“Good. I hate predictable endings.”

I open my mouth to say something, what, I’m not sure, but the lights above us flash, and someone wins on a nearby machine, drawing attention away.

We both look. When I glance back, he’s still watching me.

His hand is on the armrest between us. Not touching. Just close.

I could lean in.

My pulse kicks up. I stare at that hand like it’s a line I’m not sure I’m allowed to cross.

One inch. That’s all it would take.

One inch, and this would stop being a mistake and start being something else entirely.

I almost do.

But then he stands, reaching for my hand with a boyish grin. “Come on, wife. We’ve got a whole city to disappoint.”

And just like that, the moment passes.

But it lingers.

And I’m not sure I want it to go.

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: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix