I swallow, heart hammering.“Truth or dare?”
He lets out a broken laugh, the sound more breath than humor.His eyes search mine, dark and wrecked and already knowing where this is headed.
“Dare,” he says quietly.
My hands slide to his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like instinct has taken over—like my body knows something my heart is still afraid to say.
“I dare you,” I whisper, barely breathing, “to be selfish.”
Something in him fractures at that.
He looks at me like I’ve just handed him both permission and damnation.
The air between us shifts, charged and fragile, like the moment before a storm.His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears that neither of us remembers starting.His lips find mine again in a kiss that’s soft at first—hesitant, trembling—then desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of my mouth, the taste of goodbye.
When he pulls back just enough to look at me, there’s a tear trailing down his cheek.
I reach up and catch it with my thumb.“Hey,” I whisper, “it’s okay.”
He shakes his head, voice breaking.“No, it’s not.None of this is okay.I hate that this is goodby?—.”
“Don ‘t,” I say, even though we both know it is.“Don’t say it.”
He exhales a sound that’s almost a sob and kisses me again—harder this time.The kind of kiss that says everything words can’t.The kind that burns itself into your memory so deeply it’ll echo for years.
His hands move to the back of my neck, down my shoulders, tracing me like he’s learning a language he already knows by heart.When his fingers brush the edge of my shirt, I nod, and he slips it off me with trembling hands, his breath catching as if he’s afraid the moment will shatter if he moves too quickly.
I tug at his shirt in return, and he lets me, helping me pull it over his head.His skin is warm beneath my palms.
He studies me for a moment, his gaze soft and reverent.
Then, in a voice so low I almost miss it, he murmurs, “I always loved you.”
“I know,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together.
He kisses me again, and this time it’s like he’s done pretending he can walk away.His mouth crashes into mine, hard enough to bruise, like he needs to feel it hurt a little to make it real.His hands are everywhere—gripping my jaw, my waist.
When he pulls back, it’s only to look at me.
Really look.
His eyes are blown wide, jaw tight, breath uneven.There’s something desperate there, something almost feral, like he’s fighting himself and losing.
“Fuck,” he mutters, like my name is lodged in his throat.
Then I’m on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath our weight, the room shrinking down to heat and skin and breath.His body presses into mine and it’s overwhelming in the best and worst way—solid, familiar, terrifying.The kind of closeness that makes your chest ache because you know exactly what you’re about to lose.
He pauses, just for a second.Forehead to mine and both of us breathing hard.Like he’s grounding himself before he crosses a line he knows he won’t be able to uncross.
Every movement after that feels deliberate, heavy and loaded.My hands dig into his back, nails scraping, because I need the proof of him—his weight, his tension, the way he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.He shudders, just once, like my touch hits somewhere raw.
He says my name and it’s not soft.
It’s not a plea.
It’s not a comfort.
It’s torn out of him, rough and cracked, like he’s breaking himself open just to say it.
