5. Porter
five
Porter
His store is peaceful away from the busy festival. The overhead lights are low, the display case lit from inside, the smell of metal and cedar and something I've been breathing in for twelve years. He locks the front door behind us and doesn't turn on any more lights. That feels right.
We stand at the counter.
I'm not looking at the counter. I'm looking at him.
He hasn't shaved in a few days, and there's a shadow along his jaw I've watched come in a hundred times over a hundred visits and somehow never let myself actually see before today.
His hands are flat on the counter, and they're the same hands that fixed my grandmother's porch step without being asked.
His shoulders fill out his shirt in a way I've clocked a thousand times and filed under just Walker.
Nothing about him is just anything. I don't know how I missed that.
"So," I say.
"Yeah?"
"I have to say something out loud, and it's going to be awkward."
"Go ahead."
I press my hands flat on the counter, mostly so I have somewhere to put them that isn't him. "I don't know how to do this and also keep what we have. And what we have is the most — it's the most important thing. You know that."
"I know."
"If this doesn't work, we're not just breaking up. We're losing a lifelong friendship."
He moves around the counter so he's on the same side as me, leaning against it.
"I know that too," he says.
"So how are you not scared?"
"I am scared."
"You don't look it."
"I've had more time to get used to the fear.
" He holds my look, steady, and there's something in his eyes I've never let myself name before — not once, not in fifteen years of phone calls and diner beers and shoulders bumping on the ridge trail.
It's been there the whole time. I think I've been choosing not to read it.
"Porter. I can't go back to pretending."
The words stick in my throat, blocked by a sudden wave of emotion. I swallow hard and find my voice. "I don't want you to."
Both of us are terrified. I can see it on him now that I know to look.
At least we're not doing it alone.
His apartment is above the store. I've been up here a hundred times. I’ve sat at his kitchen table, used his bathroom, borrowed his charger, fallen asleep on his couch during a late film neither of us was really watching.
I know where the light switches are. I know the third stair creaks.
I know he keeps a spare key on the hook by the door because I told him once that hiding a key in a planter was the first thing a burglar checked, and he moved it.
I've never been in his bed.
Standing in his bedroom doorway, I'm aware of how many things I know about Walker Danes and what specific thing I don't. I know how he takes his coffee — black, one sugar, brewed strong, and he'll drink it lukewarm without complaint.
I know the scar on his left knee from the summer he was twelve and fell out of the pine tree in his backyard.
I know the low sound he makes when something is genuinely funny, different from his regular laugh, a longer note.
I don't know how he sounds when he wants something.
He comes in behind me and his hands settle on my shoulders, careful, like he's checking whether they're welcome. They are. I reach up and cover them with mine and he turns me around.
He kisses me slower here than he did at the festival grounds, deep and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the taste of me. His hand cups the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair as he tilts me exactly where he wants. I melt into it, letting him take control.
“Tell me what you want,” he says against my mouth, voice low and rough.
“Everything. All of it. I want you to fuck me, Walker.”
He makes a rough, hungry sound that vibrates through me and walks me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed.
He doesn’t push. His hands stay at my waist, steady and patient, waiting for me to sit.
Only then does he strip my shirt off in one smooth motion.
His gaze drags over my breasts, down my stomach, over every inch of me like he’s starving for the sight.
“I’ve thought about this,” he says, voice gravel-rough. “For years.”
“How many?”
“You don’t want the real number.”
He reaches behind me, unhooks my bra with the same quiet competence he does everything else, and lets it fall.
His mouth closes over my nipple—hot, wet, sucking hard enough to make me gasp before softening into slow, teasing licks.
He watches my face the whole time, eyes dark, like he’s savoring every shudder and whimper.
I yank his shirt off, then fumble with his belt, desperate to feel him. When I wrap my hand around his cock, he’s already rock-hard, thick and heavy against my palm, the skin fever-hot and silky. I stroke him root to tip and he exhales sharply through his teeth, hips twitching.
“Careful,” he warns, the word strained.
“Or what?” I squeeze him tighter, thumb swirling over the slick head.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he peels my jeans and underwear down in one rough tug, then sheds the rest of his clothes. His hand slides between my thighs, two thick fingers parting my soaked folds and pushing deep inside me. He groans at how wet I am.
“Yes,” I gasp before he can even ask. “God, yes—don’t stop.”
He works me with those fingers, slow and curling at first, then faster, deeper, the wet sound of it filthy in the quiet room. When I reach for his cock again he catches my wrist and pins it to the mattress above my head.
“Not yet.”
“Walker!”
“I told you I’d take my time.” His mouth trails down my stomach, leaving open-mouthed kisses, until he settles between my spread thighs.
The first slow drag of his tongue over my swollen clit makes my back arch off the bed.
He’s relentless—long, thorough licks, then sucking my clit into his mouth while two fingers thrust inside me, stroking that perfect spot until my thighs shake.
I fist my hands in his hair, hips rocking against his face, and come hard against his tongue, crying out loud enough that the sound echoes off the ceiling I’ve never noticed before tonight.
He rises up my body while I’m still trembling and gasping. I reach for him again, wrapping my fingers around his throbbing cock, stroking him slick with my own wetness. He drops his forehead to my shoulder with a deep groan.
“Now,” I beg, voice wrecked. “Now, Walker. Please.”
He stills, framing my face with both hands, eyes locked on mine.
“Fifteen years,” he rasps. “I’m not rushing this.”
Then he pushes inside me—slow, thick, inch by inch—until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch is so full, so perfect, I have to squeeze my eyes shut against the overwhelming pleasure. He holds there, letting us both feel it, pulsing deep inside me.
“Fuck, Porter…” he breathes.
“Like that,” I whisper, hooking my leg higher around his waist. He groans and starts moving—deep, unhurried thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside me.
His eyes never leave my face. When I start meeting his thrusts he gives me more, hips snapping harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.
“You feel—” He cuts himself off, burying his face against my temple and groaning my name.
The rhythm builds, steady and devastating.
He reaches between us, pressing his thumb to my clit, circling it in perfect time with every thrust. I come apart around him again, clenching tight, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through me.
He follows right after, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to mine as he spills deep inside me with a broken groan against my skin.
We stay locked together, breathing hard, hearts hammering.
Somewhere down at the festival grounds someone's playing guitar, faint and unhurried.
He turns his head and looks at me, and I'm crying before I know it's happening. Not sadness. Just fifteen years landing all at once, right here, in his bed, in his arms.
He doesn't ask me to explain it. He just pulls me in, tucks my head under his chin, and holds on like he's been waiting his whole life for permission to do exactly this.