Chapter Five #2
“Tell me to stop,” he says. His voice is raw. Not a challenge, or even a dare—just something he feels he needs to say. And I know he would, if I asked.
But I don’t. Because I don’t want him to.
Even though I know I should. I should stop this before it gets harder to pretend it didn’t happen. Before he gets further under my skin.
But instead, I kiss him harder. My tongue sliding against his, my hands fisting in his suspenders as if that might slow us down.
It doesn’t.
He nips at my bottom lip. “I can’t keep pretending what happened between us didn’t mean something.”
I freeze. Just a breath. Just enough for the weight of it to hit.
And then I quietly pull back.
His hands drop from me. Not in anger or disappointment. Just…resignation.
“Right,” he murmurs, stepping away. The air between us shifts. Cooler. Noticeable. Like the spark just got shoved back in the dark.
“I’m not saying no,” I say, voice low, rough.
Jules meets my eyes. “But you’re not saying yes either.”
I nod once. “Not yet.”
It’s not rejection. It’s also not acceptance. Just the messy space in between. The place where feelings get tangled and timing goes to hell.
He watches me for a second longer—studies me, maybe. Then, without a word, he grabs his shirt from the floor and pulls it on, the motion quiet but final.
“I’ll take a cookie to go,” he says gently.
And when I hand it to him, his fingers linger just long enough to remind me of everything I almost let happen.
Everything I still want.
The shop smells like cinnamon and vanilla and something too damn nostalgic.
Mother’s Day always brings in the brunch crowd, grown kids visiting home, couples with toddlers, tired dads juggling pastries and pre-schoolers while muttering, “Her favorite is cinnamon, right?”
Normally I can tune it out.
Normally I don’t notice how many people are holding flowers or calling their moms from the curb out front.
But today, everything lands too loud. Too sharp.
“Two lattes and a cinnamon scone, my mom’s favorite,” a girl says with a bright smile that makes something hollow knock loose in my chest.
I nod, hand her the drinks, and murmur, “Happy Mother’s Day,” like it doesn’t taste bitter coming out.
She thanks me and heads out, the bell jangling behind her.
I watch her walk toward a car parked at the curb, where an older woman climbs out smiling, arms open. They hug like it’s the best part of their week.
Like neither of them’s ever had to learn how fast it can all be gone.
I turn away before I have to watch them drive off together.
The rag on the counter is dry. Doesn’t matter. I grab it anyway and start wiping down the already-clean surface like it might scrub the ache out of my chest.
Aaron glances over from the espresso station. I can feel him hesitating. Wondering if he should say something.
He doesn’t. Good.
“Order up,” I mutter, sliding two more drinks toward the pickup end without looking up. The crowd’s been steady all morning—brunch-goers, flower-carriers, families in matching shirts. I’ve been pretending it’s just another Sunday.
But it’s not.
Mother’s Day’s a bitch.
Especially when yours is gone.
Especially when the last one you had together is the one you can’t forget.
“Favorite muffin today?” a guy asks, tipping his head toward the pastry case.
I clear my throat. “Cinnamon streusel. Fresh batch.”
He smiles. “Perfect. That’s my mom’s favorite. She used to make them with me every weekend.”
Something sharp twists in my chest. “Yeah?”
“She passed a few years ago,” he says, not noticing how my hands go still on the counter. “Still get one every year. Feels like… I don’t know. Like she’s here when I do.”
I nod once, jaw tight.
It’s meant to be sweet. I mean it is sweet.
But all I can think about is my last Mother’s Day.
The hospital room.
The pale blue blanket folded over her lap.
The way she smiled even though the chemo had stolen her hair, her energy, her voice.
The last thing she asked me to do was make her a cup of coffee.
Nothing fancy. Just mine. Just the way I make it.
She sipped it like it was the best thing she’d tasted in months.
Held my hand while the machines beeped too quietly behind her.
“Next year,” she said, breath thin, “you’ll have to drink one for me.”
She didn’t make it to next year.
“Wes.” I blink.
Aaron’s voice cuts through the memory, but the image in my head lingers unwanted.
I set down the plate I hadn’t realized I was still holding.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod once, maybe too sharp. “Yeah. Fine.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his eyes narrow, in the hesitation before he steps away. But he leaves it alone, which I appreciate more than I’ll ever say out loud.
I try to focus on the sound of the espresso machine. The low hum of customers chatting by the window. The faint clink of silverware and mugs.
Normal things. Solid things.
But none of it feels real when grief’s got its claws in you.
The bell over the door chimes again.
I don’t look up right away.
It’s a couple with a stroller, a toddler wobbling between them in sneakers that light up. The woman’s carrying a daisy bouquet and a bright pink card that says “Best Mom Ever.” She laughs as the kid grabs a muffin from the counter like he owns the place.
It should be cute.
It probably is.
But all I feel is that same hollow ache in the center of my chest, the one that always shows up this time of year and takes its time leaving.
Aaron rings them up with a smile, completely unfazed. I envy that.
I disappear into the back for a few minutes, just long enough to pretend I need to check stock. Really, I just need a breath that doesn’t taste like memory.
When I come back out, the front’s cleared a little. There’s just a late morning lull.
And that’s when I see Jules.
He’s standing just inside the door, looking like he’s debating whether or not to stay.
Not in uniform today. He’s just wearing a black T-shirt that fits way too well and jeans that do nothing to make him easier to ignore.
His eyes find mine.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
Eventually, he gives a slight nod—respectful, distant—and walks back out. No words. No wave. Just quiet.
Just like I wanted.
Except it doesn’t feel good.
It doesn’t feel like relief.
It feels like one more thing I’ve taught myself to push away.
I return to the counter and stare down at the steam rising from a fresh batch of brewed coffee.
The smell hits me hard, it’s rich and familiar.
The same roast I made mom that last day.
I pour a cup, but I don’t drink it.
I just set it on the back counter, out of the way—where no one will touch it.
And I leave it there, like a promise I never got to keep.
The café is quiet now.
Too quiet.
Even the fridge sounds too loud in the silence, humming like it knows how off I am.
I’m standing at the counter, one hand braced against the edge, the other wrapped around my phone like it might crack if I squeeze too tight.
The message I’m staring at isn’t long.
Me: You still up?
It’s not loaded, filthy, or even flirty. But it feels like a landmine anyway.
I hit send. Then regret it.
Me: Nvm.
I stare at the screen, pulse ticking, and wish I could take it all back.
I haven’t touched anything stronger than espresso since noon. Doesn’t matter.
My head’s still buzzing from the ache of today, from all the sugar-sweet family moments I had to smile through like they didn’t gut me.
It’s not that I want Jules here.
It’s that I don’t want to feel this way anymore.
And somehow, those two things are starting to overlap.
The counter feels cold under my palms. I close my eyes. Try to breathe.
I almost make it out the door without sending anything else.
Almost.
But at the last second, I tap out three words.
Me: You busy tonight?
And I hit send before I can second-guess it.
I don’t pace the floor or wait for a reply.
I just lock up the café and head home like that message wasn’t a fire I shouldn’t have lit.
I leave the lights off when I get inside and toss my keys into the bowl by the door.
The quiet is heavier here. No customers. No baked goods. Just me and the kind of loneliness that doesn’t feel noble, it just feels fucking hollow.
I’m still standing in the living room when I hear the knock at the door and my heart starts to race.
I know who it is before I even open the door.
Jules.
There is no teasing or a cocky line about missing him. It’s just him, shoulders tense, eyes searching mine like he already knows something is off.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
No.
But I nod anyway.
He steps inside without being asked. Closes the door behind him.
Neither of us speaks.
I reach for him and he comes willingly.
The kiss starts slow—too slow for what I need. But he reads it instantly, deepening it with a kind of soft urgency that cuts deeper than anything rough ever could.
His mouth meets mine in a slow brush, like he’s testing the temperature of something that might burn.
It’s careful. But the second my fingers tighten in his shirt, he shifts, tilts his head, presses closer, and kisses me like he’s not afraid to break something open.
Not hard and fast. Just deep and all-in, the kind of kiss that leaves no place to hide.
His hands find my waist, and I pull him toward the couch.
I don't want this to be sex to scratch an itch.
I just want to feel something else. Something that isn’t grief.
I sink down into a sitting position and pull him with me, my fingers curling into the hem of his shirt before I even realize what I’m doing. He helps me strip it off, then drags mine over my head like it’s instinct. Maybe it is.
Maybe we’re both done pretending.
His hands are warm on my chest, grounding and reverent. Like he knows this isn’t about fun or flirting tonight. This is me coming apart. Letting someone see it and helping to put it back together again.
His lips brush along my jaw. “You sure?”
I nod. “Don’t want to think.”
“Then don’t,” he murmurs, and kisses me like he means it.
There’s no hesitation this time. No pushing him away. I open to him fully, desperate for the kind of burn only he seems capable of giving me. One that lives in his mouth, in the way he bites and kisses and breathes like I’m oxygen. One that ignites every buried part of me I thought I’d sealed shut.
I fall back flat against the cushions, dragging him down on top me. My hands are on his back, his chest, his waist, anywhere I can reach. He’s not rushing me and he’s not just taking. He’s feeling.
And fuck, I feel it.
His hips press against mine, the friction enough to punch the air from my lungs. He ruts against me once, twice, groaning low against my neck when I grind back harder.
“Jesus, Wes,” he pants. “You’re not making this easy.”
“Good,” I breathe, tilting my chin so he can mouth at my throat. “I don’t want easy.”
His teeth scrape my skin. “You want rough?”
I drag my nails down his back. “I want real.”
That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes to mine again, hot and hungry, his body grinding against mine like he’s trying to crawl inside. I hook my leg around his, pull him tighter.
Hands fumble at waistbands. We don’t undress fully, just enough. Pants shoved low, underwear pushed aside. No time. No patience.
I reach for him. He swears when my hand closes around him, head dropping to my shoulder. He’s hard, hot, already leaking and I want every messy, breathless part of this.
Of him.
He grabs the arm of the couch beside my head, body shuddering as he rocks into my hand like he can’t stop.
“Fuck—Wes.” His voice is wrecked. “This what you needed?”
I nod, throat tight. “Just…don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
I wrap my hand around both of us, stroking in sync, our cocks sliding together—slick and desperate—as he groans against my throat. It’s hard to tell where my body ends and his begins. He grunts low, head dropping to my neck again as I work him toward the edge.
I continue to stroke us both. My palm gliding over the heat of our cocks pressed tightly together. His breath catches, hips stuttering like he’s already on the edge. His fingers move to my shoulder and dig into the muscle there.
I feel the exact second he breaks.
Jules comes with a raw gasp, burying it in my neck like he’s trying not to be loud. His body jerks in my hand, warm and shaking, and the moment feels way too intimate for something this fast and filthy.
But I don’t regret a single second.
Not when he sags against me, panting.
Not when I kiss his shoulder.
And not when he curls his fingers around me, stroking me through the edge until I come with a broken sound I don’t mean to make.
Because this time, I let him.
And it’s not just need, it’s comfort.
Relief. Clarity.
We clean up in silence, limbs tangled, breaths slowly evening out. Jules reaches for his shirt but doesn’t put it on. I tug on mine because I suddenly feel bare in more ways than one.
I move toward the kitchen without looking at him, mumble something about needing to set the alarm.
When I glance back, he’s still watching me. Like he knows I just put the walls back up.
He watches me for a second longer, studies me, maybe. Then nods back.
“Guess I’ll let you sleep,” he says quietly, lingering in the doorway.
His fingers brush mine when I open the door for him. Just a second too long. Just enough to remind me this thing between us isn’t over.
The door clicks shut behind him. I stare at it for a long time. Long enough for the silence to creep back in.
I drag my hand through my hair and whisper to no one:
“Wanting him shouldn’t feel like grief. But it does.”