Page 55 of Until Forever Falls

“Dylan?”

“Yeah?”

He takes a deep breath, his thumb moving softly over the back of my hand before continuing. “I love you.”

20

Dylan

Now

“You’re devastating,” Brooks murmurs, his lips trailing along the curve of my neck. “I’ve been starving for you. For us.”

A part of me aches to believe this isn’t just a spark destined to burn out. That pulling him back into my space, into my orbit, wasn’t a reckless mistake. But the doubt sinks its teeth in deep, tearing at the edges of my resolve. I can’t.

I edge back, the space between us too small to matter but I just enough to keep me from unraveling. My pulse thrums, my chest tightens. “Please,” I rasp. “Just stop talking. I’m done talking.”

For once, he listens without protest. His lips drag lower, searing a path across my skin, settling against my breast. I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting to maintain control as his lips close around me, drawing me into a rhythm I can’t ignore. The sensation is overwhelming, the deliberate way his tongue traces circles around my nipple feels incredible.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only amplifies my awareness of him—his hands, his breath, the sheer pull of him against every one of my defenses. His hand slides down my stomach, the touch both familiar and electric. A single finger dips between my thighs, exploring, teasing. The pressure builds as he moves with an agonizing precision.

For a fleeting moment, I lose myself to the sensation. But the reprieve is brief. The shame seeps in almost instantly, sharp and unforgiving.

What am I doing?

What about Aaron?

My hands clench into fists at my sides, nails pressing into my palms like some feeble attempt to ground myself. I hate the way my body responds to him, betraying everything my mind knows to be true. I hate the way I let him pull me into this, as if I haven’t spent years building walls strong enough to keep him out.

Because this isn’t strength. It’s weakness. It’s the same vulnerability that let me fall for him in the first place—the fragility that still holds, no matter how much I try to convince myself I’m over it.

This moment isn’t a reunion. It’s not a second chance. It’s the fucking end.

And yet, I still let him touch me.

I despise him for making me love him. For the way his presence digs into my soul and refuses to let go.

I resent myself more—for holding on all these years, for letting the memories of us haunt the hidden recesses of my mind.

I loathe how being with him feels so perfect now, like this is exactly where I’m meant to be, even though I know it shouldn’t.

No matter how hard I try to fight it, I can’t escape the pull he has over me. It’s as though every piece of me is tuned to him, aching to fall back into what we once had.

And I hate it. I hate that part of me still aches for a future with him, a part that clings to a hope I thought I’d buried long ago.

But despite the storm brewing inside me, my body betrays me, responding to every touch, every brush of his fingers on my skin. My hands move to his shoulders, nails pressing into his flesh as if securing myself to reality. My toes curl, and I cry out his name as the currents of pleasure crash over me.

“God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he breathes. “How many years…”

“Don’t,” I plead, my voice breaking. I can’t hear this. I don’t want to.

But this time he doesn’t stop. “No, you have to know,” he insists, his words cutting through my resolve.

I turn my head away, continuing to squeeze my eyes shut as if I can block him out. As if refusing to look at him will somehow protect me.

When I finally turn back, my bed is empty. There’s no trace of Brooks anywhere. Just the faint scent of rain seeping through the window and the soft patter of drops against the glass.

I roll onto my side, every inch of me thrumming with an ache I can’t name, only feel. The sheets cling, chilled and stifling, twisting around me like they know I don’t belong anywhere else.

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