I'm counting down every day, every hour, until I see you again.Until I can wake up in your space, meet your people, see your life. Until I can figure out if I can build something there. With you. Until I can prove that this wasn't just a week—it's the beginning of something neither of us expected but both of us need.
Miss you already,
Brent
I read it three times, my vision blurring on the last pass. My chest ached—not hollow anymore, but full to bursting. Too full. The kind of full that made it hard to breathe.
He'd written this while I was in the shower. While I was washing away our last morning together, our last touches, preparing to say goodbye. He'd been sitting at that desk planning how to stay connected, how to make sure I knew this mattered.
I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and texted him:Found your note. You're trying to kill me.
His response came immediately—he must have just landed:Good. Wanted you to know this is real.
It is. For me too. I just told my friends. They want to meet you to make you’ll treat me right.
I will. Treat you right, I mean. I'm going to try so hard, Jason.
My throat went tight.I know. Me too.
Get some sleep. Long drive. I'll call you tomorrow?
Please.
Goodnight, Jason. Dream of me.
I smiled through the pressure in my chest.Already am.
***
I got ready for bed in my too-quiet cottage, brushing my teeth at the sink where I didn't have to negotiate space with anyone, changing into sleep pants without worrying about anaudience. The sheets on my bed were cold when I slid under them—the flannel ones I'd bought last winter, soft from washing but empty of body heat, smelling only of my own detergent.
Sleep felt impossible. I lay there staring at the ceiling, the streetlight outside casting familiar shadows, and my mind wouldn't stop replaying the week. Waking up beside him in the morning, the warmth of his body against mine. The sound of his breathing evening out after we'd exhausted each other. The way he'd touched me like I was something precious and claimed at the same time.
The way his mouth had felt on me. The sounds he'd made when I'd taken him apart. How right it had felt to be wanted like that—not despite my awkwardness or overthinking, but including all of it.
My body was already responding to the memories, heat pooling low in my belly. I shifted under the sheets, trying to ignore it. This was pathetic, wasn't it? Getting worked up alone in my bed less than twelve hours after leaving him?
But my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Brent:Can't sleep. Keep thinking about you.
My breath caught. I grabbed the phone.Me too. Miss you.
What are you thinking about?
Heat flooded through me, my pulse picking up. Was he asking what I thought he was asking?
The retreat. Waking up with you. Your hands on me.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then:Jason.Just my name, but I could hear the rough edge in it even through text, could picture exactly how his voice would sound.Are you in bed?
Yeah.
Me too. Been lying here trying not to think about how good you felt. How you taste. Failing miserably.
My hand moved beneath the sheets almost without permission, palming myself through my sleep pants. Already half-hard just from his words.I'm thinking about it too. About your mouth on me. The sounds you made when I touched you.
Fuck.Then:Tell me you're touching yourself.
Yeah.My face burned even alone in the dark, even though we'd done so much more than this.Can't help it. Keep remembering.
