It’s 2am again, and I’m burdened by the thought of returning to my empty bed. Everything has closed. Even though I want to prolong the night, my friends have reached their limits, and I can’t help but notice how old they’ve become. I chuckle at the thought.

Endings, though necessary, have never made sense to me. Maybe it’s the loneliness they bring, or how they force you to release the joy the night arrived with.

I call him again. He’s used to it by now. Almost anticipating my call, given how quickly he answers, half-awake, saying only,

“Tell me when you arrive.”

It’s the intimacy I crave. Just enough. Never too much. Exactly what he’s always given me.

By the time I get there, he’s already at the gate. I stumble inside, craving, longing, yearning for something I can’t yet name. He had just gotten into bed before I called. His whiskey glass sits half-empty on the bedside table, as if sleep had almost claimed him.

He offers me a glass as I stretch out on his bed, then walks over to his vinyl collection to play one of his favourite records, one he introduced me to. He rests the needle into the grooves, and the room fills with sound. I take a sip as he hands me the glass, and his hand traces the edge of my thigh.

The glass hit the floor with a soft crash, but neither of us paused. His fingers traced the line of my collarbone, mapping it as if memorizing its curve. My hand brushed against the broken rim, feeling the cool edges through the sheets, but I didn’t flinch.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear, and the sound of his breath made my chest rise and fall faster than the record spinning behind us. The lamp cast a shadow across his face, half-hidden, half-revealed, and I could see every flicker of intent there.

The bed shifted beneath us; the sheets crumpled and stuck to our skin. I tried to pull back, just slightly, but he anchored me with one hand on my hip, the other still holding me close enough that I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.

Music, broken glass, the lamp’s uneven glow — it all merged into a rhythm I didn’t know how to escape. And for a moment, neither of us tried. The room existed for nothing else but this: heat, proximity, breath, and the quiet pull of everything unsaid.

And finally, he kisses me. His lips, softer than before, meet mine, lingering just long enough for the world to blur around us. I taste the sweet, creamy, vanilla-oak notes of his favourite bourbon on the tip of his tongue. His fingers find the most sensitive places, moving slowly at first, almost waiting for me, until I shiver and arch into him.

He shifts, tracing the curve of my inner thigh with gentle insistence, and the sensations accelerate, urgent, almost violent, building in time with my gasps and quiet screams. I reach blindly for anything; the sheets, the pillow, the edge of the bed, something to hold onto as everything inside me gathers and finally spills.

“Right there,”

I cry, and he responds as if I’ve handed him the power, matching every movement, every pulse. And then, finally, release, everything pouring out until I tremble beneath him.

He stands, pulls me close, pressing a quiet peck to my cheek. My hand still lingers where it had clutched the sheets, sticky and warm, but the room has softened. He lifts the fallen glass, pouring another drink, and we settle back into the bed.

He holds me without words as the next record spins on, and the slow, golden light of sunrise seeps through the window, promising a new day, still intimate, still ours, for now. 

Till next time.