Page 67 of Until Forever Falls

I rummage through my dresser, pulling out an old hoodie and some well-worn sweats. She doesn’t comment when I hand them to her, just smiles before disappearing into the bathroom.

Quickly, I return to my room, slip off my dress shirt, and change into a Rockport Titans T-shirt and joggers, doing it as fast as I can—just enough time for a brief glance at the TV in the living room before she’s done.

When she returns, my clothes hang on her frame in a way that makes her seem smaller, but not fragile—like they were always meant for her. She tugs the sleeves over her hands, crosses the room, and drops onto the couch next to me, her knee bumping mine.

We put on She’s the Man, but it’s just background noise. After a few minutes, she leans against my shoulder. It’s careful, almost as if she expects I’ll pull away. But I don’t. Of course, I don’t. She exhales, and I feel her start to relax, like she’s letting go—maybe not entirely, but for now, she lets herself rest.

“This is nice. Thanks for inviting me to stay tonight.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, but the word doesn’t come close to capturing the way she makes the night feel endless.

The screen fades to black, and I glance down, memorizing the way she fits against me. Wishing time worked differently. “You want my bed?”

“I’m fine here.”

“Humor me. It’s better than the couch.”

She breathes in like she’s about to argue, but then lets it go. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

I guide her into my room, grabbing an extra blanket from the linen closet and spreading it across my bed. She sits beside me, her fingers slowly removing her rings, each one swirling between her fingertips before she places them gently on my nightstand.

“I just need a break from thinking,” she says, pulling at a loose thread on my duvet.

“Then take one.”

The next breath she takes is different—deeper, like she’s choosing to let it go. And then she moves, climbing over my lap, her hands in my hair as she kisses me. She tastes like cinnamon, and I don’t think, just pull her in. She exhales against my mouth, nails dragging slightly down my neck, and everything else—everything that brought her here—unravels.

My grip tightens at her waist, dragging her flush against me. She doesn’t just take it, she meets me there, wild and unafraid. The kiss turns feverish, all tongues and teeth, and when I pull back to catch my breath, she follows, chasing me like she can’t stand the distance.

“Say the word,” I murmur, my fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. “And I’ll stop.”

Her answer comes in the form of pulling my hair, her lips against mine as she whispers. “I don’t want you to.”

That’s all it takes.

I roll us back, and she follows me down, her body pressing me into the mattress like a force I never want to fight.

Her touch is an ache, a need that spreads inside me, relentless. When she kisses me again, I swear I taste devotion on her lips.

Her fingertips graze my cheek, and I snatch them, pressing them against my racing pulse, needing her to feel what she does to me. “I love you.”

Something in her breaks free, something feral. She tilts her head, her breath shaky, her pupils blown. I feel the second she gives in.

“I love you too.”

The world ceases to exist. I flip us over, pinning her beneath me, and the moment spirals into heat, into surrender, into something neither one of us will walk away from unchanged. If she’s mine, then I am hers—entirely, recklessly, without end.

25

Dylan

Then

The worst part about tragedy is that it blindsides you. There’s no warning, no slow buildup to let you know it’s coming. One second, you’ve got the world by the throat, drunk on the illusion you’re in control. The next, it’s torn from your grasp, ruined. You’re left gasping for air, but there’s nothing but the brutal freefall, and the taste of your own goddamn carnage.

I step out of the bathroom, still floating, tasting Brooks on my lips from the night before—and then I see him. He’s on the bed, gripping his phone like he’s seconds from putting it through the wall, face blank in that terrifying way that tells you everything is already over.

“Brooks?” His name tastes like blood in my mouth. He looks up, and I know. I fucking know. The way he looks at me—like I’m glass about to hit the floor. It’s a warning, a fucking eulogy.

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