He doesn’t. He drives deeper, faster, our joined hands gripping tighter as the tension coils unbearably tight in my core. Every thrust winds me higher, every ragged breath in my ear pushing me closer to the edge.
His rhythm falters, becoming urgent. “I’mclose—”
“Me too—”
When it hits, it crashes over us together, a crescendo that shatters us both. I cry out his name as waves of pleasure roll through me, clenching around the thickness of him, pulsing and squeezing with ecstasy.
“Christ,” he gasps.
He follows a heartbeat later with a broken groan, his body shuddering as he spills inside me. He gives one last thrust before going still, holding himself deep as he presses an adoring kiss to my throat.
We collapse together, panting and trembling as we drift back down.
He shifts his weight to his elbows but doesn’t pull away, our bodies still joined. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, neither of us ready to break the connection.
We stay like that, breathing in sync, his forehead resting against mine. The air cools on our damp skin, but where we’re pressed together, I’m still warm.
His lips press softly to my temple, lingering there.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to. Our silence isn’t empty—it’s full of everything we’ve just shared, everything we’ve just become to each other. It wraps around us like a blanket, comfortable and complete.
I trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath my fingertips as sleep begins to tug at the edges of my consciousness.
This is where I’m meant to be.
We’ve finally found our harmony.
51
Always
Lily-Anne
Brandon’s in the shower after returning home from work. It’s our last night before we embark on the road trip together.
I sit cross-legged on our bed with his laptop, chewing my lip as I scroll through the social media page I made last week—a tiny corner of the internet where I post diary-like videos. Not polished performances, just fragments: me humming a new melody over a cup of tea, strumming half-written chords, talking about what music feels like and the things that have inspired me.
It’s a portfolio riddled with unpolished, imperfect moments. I made it to remind myself that creating doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.
A new notification flashes.
Jack Willoughby liked your video.
My stomach tightens—not with panic, just with sadness. This small gesture feels like his version of an apology—the closest he’ll come to one.
It’s not the end of his repentance, however. Desperate to be back at the café, he’s busy clawing his way back into Daisy’s good graces, and she has him starting from the bottom—cleaning toilets, she informed me with a smirking emoji.
Brandon made some calls after we saw him at the café a few days ago, including an extended phone call with Dustin Willoughby I took part in, and finally confirmed everything: Jack’s latest version of the truth checks out. He really did break things off with Nova days before she died. She hadn’t been using hard drugs, as the media implied, nor was there any foul play. She’d simply been alone and heartbroken, sinking under the weight of it all.
Jack didn’t commit a crime, but his callousness felt like one. His lies tous—and himself—only caused more pain. I hope he grows up and learns to be gentler with the hearts he’s handed.
And though we’ll never know the full details of what happened in Nova’s final days, we know enough that Brandon finally has the closure he needed.
I don’t block Jack—I just filter him out, letting his name slip quietly out of my view. I don’t need him in my life. Not as a friend, not as a shadow, not as anything.
I close the tab, exhale, and open my draft email to Hilary.
At first, I thought I’d wait until I had something polished to show her, like the perfect song or an impressive social media following. But maybe honesty matters more.
