"Yeah, I'll follow you. The weather's perfect for riding."
We stand in the parking lot, the truck loaded, the bike waiting. But neither of us moves toward our vehicles.
"You're going to think this is crazy, but I want to go back upstairs," I say. "One more time. Before we leave for good."
Ivan doesn't ask why. He just takes my hand and follows me up the stairs.
The room looks different now that it's empty of my things. Barer. Sadder, somehow. Just a bed and some worn furniture and years of memories soaked into the walls.
"This is where you found me," I say, standing in the middle of the room. "That first night. You walked through that door and you didn't run. You could have, but you didn't."
"I almost didn't recognize you," Ivan admits, his voice quiet. "You were so lost. You looked like you were already halfway gone."
"I was dying. Slowly, but I was dying." I turn to face him. "And then you showed up, and everything changed. You changed my life."
"Jay—"
"I want to remember this place," I say. "Not as the place where I almost gave up, where I almost ended it. But as the place where I found you again. Where we found each other and started over."
I pull him toward the bed—that terrible, sagging, wonderful bed—and kiss him.
It starts slow, almost reverent. A goodbye and a thank-you wrapped up in one. Ivan's hands cup my face gently, tenderly, and I lean into his touch like I've been starving for it.
"We don't have to do this," he murmurs against my lips. "If you just want to go, we can—"
"I want this." I pull back enough to meet his eyes. "One more time. Here. Where it all started. Where you saved my life."
He doesn't argue. He understands.
We undress each other slowly, letting the clothes fall to the floor piece by piece. There's no rush, no desperation this time. Just the two of us, skin against skin, breathing each other in, memorizing this moment.
Ivan lays me down on the bed, and the mattress dips in all the familiar places, the broken springs creaking. He settles over me, his weight warm and grounding, his pale blue eyes locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too. So much."
He kisses down my neck, my chest, my stomach. Takes his time, like we have all the time in the world. I let my eyes fall closed and just feel—his lips, his hands, his breath against my skin, his hair brushing against my stomach.
When he takes me in his mouth, I arch off the bed with a groan, my hands flying to his hair. He knows exactly what I like now, knows my body like he knows his own. Knows how to build me up and ease me back, keep me hovering right on the edge until I'm begging incoherently.
"Ivan. Please. I need—"
He pulls off and crawls back up my body, reaching for his jeans on the floor to grab the lube. I open for him easily now, my body remembering the stretch, welcoming it eagerly. He works me open with his fingers, patient and thorough, watching my face the whole time, checking in silently.
"Ready?" he asks when I'm loose and desperate.
"Fuck, yes. Always ready for you."
He pushes inside, and we both exhale at the same time, breathing out the tension. This bed has felt me cry and shake and fall apart. Now it feels something different. Something whole. Something healed.
Ivan moves slow and deep, perfect strokes that hit every nerve, every sensitive spot. I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him, wanting to remember this forever.
"This is where we started over," Ivan says, his voice rough with emotion. "This room. This bed. Everything we're building, it started right here."
"And now we get to leave together. We get to walk out that door and never come back."
He picks up the pace, and I stop thinking about the room, the bed, the past. There's only Ivan—his body moving against mine, his breath in my ear, his hand wrapping around my cock and stroking me toward the edge with perfect pressure.
