No Lasts
What real sportsmanship looks like!
I’m not crying, you’re crying…
This is the @CassianVale we need to see more of!
Beautiful moment between generations.
THIS is why he’s always been my favorite rider!
Made my day seeing an elite athlete take time for the little guys.
My son has his poster on the wall. Now I know he picked the right hero.
What a hero. Curling in bed, choke-holding a pillow, hiding his face in it. Peeking over just enough to trail through each word, then slide to the next. The counters increase by the minute—likes, shares, comments. No big news alerts yet.
My room is dark. The screen is not, but I don’t turn down the brightness. Just scroll and read and let it burn my eyes. So I can blame the sting on the light.
If all these people could see me now…
This hero has been hiding in bed since he left Ruin in his stall this afternoon. Skipped shower, skipped dinner. My greatest achievement today was taking off my boots before dropping onto the mattress, and that’s been my life for the last— Wow, almost five hours. Outstanding.
Why didn’t I kiss him?
No one was looking at us. And even if they were, I know everyone in Riverlight, and no one would snitch about us on social media. I’m certain of it.
None of this is Eli’s fault. He didn’t deserve me lashing out like that.
But…
Does he really not care? I know he cares about me, but my job is my life, so if he doesn’t care about that, then…
No, shut up. He never said he didn’t care, just that he didn’t have an opinion about what I should do.
And then that he did have one but couldn’t share.
But if he cares and sees me struggling, why wouldn’t he share what he’s thinking?
Is he afraid I won’t like it? That I’d stop liking him if he told me how he feels? Why would I?
We’re both grown-ass men, we’ve both been working on our own shit for literal decades. I don’t need him to solve my life for me. He knows I don’t.
But couldn’t he pretend he wished he could?
My eyes fall closed. The sting is even worse, eyelids grating going down, itching. I let the phone drop to the mattress, thumb the screen off. I know sleep won’t come, but the tears will. They’re boiling already, locked down in my throat. It’s just a matter of time.
So I just lay here, perfectly still, half breathing. Rerunning Eli’s hurtful words, Eli’s panicked yell. And his gorgeous smile, his genuine eyes. The way his tongue peeks out when he’s focused on something. The way he sneezes—tiny like a kitten.
Fuck, the way he kisses. With everything he has.
Yeah, here they come—the tears. I don’t stop them.
Then I do. Stop them, gulp them in. There’s a knock on the door.
The knock. His knock.
My heart stutters in my chest. I sit up, rub my face. Nothing wet yet. Good. It’s fine.
My legs swing over the edge of the bed. I turn on the bedside lamp, place my phone next to it, and get up.
All my muscles groan from being stuck for so long, but I power through, four long strides to the door.
Hand on the knob, I pause just enough for a breath, so I don’t yank it too desperately. Somehow, I manage to open it slowly.
And there he is, looking as exhausted as I feel. Soft flannel pants as if he’s ready for bed, but the same t-shirt he wore during the day. His hair is all over—not even hand-combed, just forgotten. There are shadows on his face I’m not sure were there this afternoon.
Our eyes meet but don’t stay. Mine glued to his chest, his on our feet.
I hate this. So much.
So I step back, pull the door wider. For a moment, he hesitates, leaning forward but not following through. Then a few steps, careful, small, just enough to get him inside. He stops again, stiff as steel if steel could hunch, as I close the door behind him. He flinches at the click.
Maybe it’s why I reach for his wrist, awkwardness be damned, circling it gently but also tight, sure. I tug him toward the bed, not asking, not checking, just knowing or choosing to ignore any sign that he wouldn’t want this.
But he follows without resistance. I sink down first onto the mattress, releasing his wrist only at the last second, sliding back until there’s enough space for him. He joins me a moment later, settling beside me, shoulder to shoulder, eyes on the ceiling.
And then silence. No air conditioning humming, no creaks from the bed frame. No breaths. Not even my heartbeats.
Just the lamp casting amber shadows across the room. Just the scent of his body, musky, sweet, inebriating. Just this need in my throat that used to be tears but got thicker now, sticking to words and blocking their way out.
What would I even say?
That I don’t know what to do? If I should do anything at all, defend my actions with Zane, defend myself? That all I needed today—all I ever need from him—is his presence so I can see where the light is, so I can hang onto it to crawl out of this dark cave my mind always sinks into?
That I didn’t mean to step back? That I wish I’d kissed him, this afternoon? That I’m scared?
Fuck, I’m so scared.
Because that kiss I didn’t take… It feels like our last.
And I want no lasts. Not with him.
But they’re coming. Too soon.
Eli hears me. He must. Because right then, the linens rustle between us.
And then his hand is over mine.
Instantly, I turn it, palm to palm. My fingers force themselves between his and then curl, clamp, claw into his knuckles. He does the same, keeping there for just a moment before bringing us against his chest, covering both our hands with his other one.
I glance at him. He’s biting his lower lip, eyes still on the ceiling, glassy and red and not blinking even once. As if it takes all his focus to do just this, just lying and being silent. And I get it. I really do.
Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts. Everything. Torture.
Then, with both his hands, he cups mine, brings it to his lips. And kisses it, long and deep. Does he feel it too? That, from now on, that’s all we’ll have ?
Lasts. One after the other.
No. I’m not ready.
When he’s done, he stares at my hand, tiny in between his. Then he turns away, not letting go but stretching to reach the bedside drawer, rummaging inside.
Then I hear a click. A pen, the plastic one that came with the room.
And when I realize what he’s doing, I crumble.
The tip touches my wrist, and my vision blurs.
When he moves it, tracing the faded heart he once drew around my scar, tears finally topple down my temple, my cheek.
His do, too—he pauses a second to wipe them off.
The pen quivers in his hand. His chin does the same, even through the bite to keep them still.
He traces the heart more than once, hard enough to scrape my skin. I don’t flinch. Wish it’d cut. Wish it’d scar so it’s forever.
When he’s done, he tosses the pen into the drawer again, then hugs my hand harder against him. I don’t let him, slipping it away from his hold.
My body jerks up and drops onto his. Before my cheek ever touches him, strong arms are already surrounding me, squeezing me into my place. His heart is so loud, his skin feverish.
“I’m sorry,” he says into my hair.
My head shakes against his chest. It’s my mess, and I can’t expect him to jump through emotional hoops trying to figure out what I need when I don’t even know how to ask. “You did nothing,” I tell him.
His whole body heaves like I shot him, three words in a bullet. Just once, a singular sob that escapes before he can lock it in. He holds me tighter, curls around me.
Then he whispers, “Exactly. Again.”
And it takes me a second to understand, to hear the words he didn’t say.
It’s a tidal wave when I do, robbing me of my footing, my breath.
Again, he said. Again, he did nothing. Like when we first kissed.
I’ll fight harder next time.
That day, he tried so hard to do something, to kiss me like he wanted to. But he didn’t. I did. I kissed him. But I did it for us.
And maybe…that’s the point? Maybe this is what we’re doing, every night, every fucking day. Picking up each other’s slack when we falter. Me, kissing when he can’t. Him, steady as I spiral.
I failed us this afternoon. He did too. Doesn’t mean we’re doomed.
I hug him. Tight. He shakes, breaths quick and shallow, holding on to keep from crying. I wish I could solve this for us. But I can’t. Because it’s not about us.
Because the doom is outside, waiting. Inevitable.
And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.