Chapter 39 Never Goodbye, Just See You Again Soon #2
“Will you tell me where you’re going—”
“Len, I think it’s best you don’t know. And it’s best we don’t contact each other until I can get my shit together.” He looks at me and I see the heartache in his eyes. “I can’t bear the thought of letting you down anymore. It kills me.”
“Okay.” I say, trying to hide the hurt and the fear of not knowing when and if I’ll see him again.
He hesitates, then crosses the room.
For a second, I’m sure he’s leaving. His hand drops. He turns away, shoulders tight, like he’s bracing for impact.
Then he stops.
He looks back at me—and something in his face breaks. Not loud or dramatic. Just this raw, unguarded want he’s been fighting the entire night. His eyes search mine like he’s memorising me, like he’s terrified this is the last time he’ll ever be allowed to look.
And then he’s in front of me, his lips crashing onto mine.
It’s aching. It’s everything we’ve been holding back—his mouth pressing into mine like he’s trying to stay, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid thing into the space between us.
His hands come up to my waist, gripping hard, like if he doesn’t anchor himself to me he’ll come apart.
My chest tightens painfully, my whole body lighting up and caving in at the same time.
When we break apart, it feels like tearing skin from bone.
“It’s so fucked up,” he murmurs, voice breaking as he leans into me. “How selfish I am—to want you this much. Right now.”
His breath ghosts my mouth, shallow and uneven. I can feel the tremor running through him—the war between wanting me and doing the right thing ripping him open from the inside.
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.
“Nora—”
The sound of it hits me low, deep, undoing something in my chest. My hands dig into his back, feeling the tension there, the way his muscles lock like he’s holding too much inside himself. Like if he loosens his grip for even a second, everything will spill out.
“Look at me,” he says, breath wrecked, forehead dropping to mine. “Please.”
I do.
And the look in his eyes almost breaks me—dark, desperate, aching with the kind of wanting that knows it doesn’t get to keep what it loves.
The world narrows to heat and motion and the sound of our breathing, uneven and sharp. The bed creaks beneath us, a steady reminder that this is real, that this is happening, that this moment is burning itself into us whether we’re ready or not.
He moves like he’s trying to say everything he never learned how to put into words.
Every shift of his body feels deliberate, controlled, like restraint is the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
I feel it in the way he holds me—too tight, almost desperate—as if this is the last place he’s ever felt safe.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice breaking. “You feel—”
He doesn’t finish. He can’t.
I pull him closer, my mouth at his ear.
“I’m here,” I say, because it’s the only thing I know how to give him.
Something in him snaps—not violently, but completely.
His breath stutters, his forehead drops to my shoulder, and he says my name again, this time like it costs him something. Like he’s giving away a piece of himself he doesn’t know how to get back.
It’s not gentle but it isn’t careless.
It’s contained intensity.
Controlled collapse.
Two people holding each other at the edge of something they can’t stop, can’t save, can’t survive untouched.
And for this moment—just this one—we let it be enough.
Afterward, neither of us moves. He stays close, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard, like he’s still bracing for the fallout. Like if he looks at me too long, he’ll change his mind about leaving.
Then he rolls to the side and pulls me with him, tight and instinctive, arm locked around my waist. His grip is almost possessive, almost panicked. Like he’s holding onto the only thing keeping him upright.
And I let him.
Silence wraps around us.
His heart beats beneath my ear, steady but fragile, like it’s holding itself together out of sheer will.
“I wish time would stop,” he says quietly.
“It did,” I whisper, tracing lazy circles over his chest. “Just for a little while.”
He kisses the top of my head, his lips lingering there.
“Then I hope I never wake up from it.”
I close my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“You have to,” I whisper. “You promised me you’d keep going.”
He presses a final kiss to my temple.
“I don’t know how to leave you.”
“You don’t have to know how,” I say. “You just have to do it.”
The light fades, and neither of us moves because we know this is it.
It might be one of life’s hardest lessons—learning when not to hold on, and when letting go is the deeper act of love. Loving someone enough to believe in their tomorrow more than you want them in your today.
Maybe, someday, time will be kinder.
Maybe the universe will remember us and find a way to circle back and give us an eclipse.
Because some stories don’t end.
They just change shape.