Page 47 of Spilled Coffee

Still nothing.

Unease spiraled in his gut that had nothing to do with his hangover and he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the sheets snagging one knee before falling away entirely.

The wood was hard beneath his bare feet, and as he steadied himself on shaky legs, his gaze fell instinctively to the floor beside the bed where Logan’s discarded tee shirt had lain. That space was empty too.

Ethan took a breath as realization sunk in—a slow-burning dread that crept through his veins like a winding river.

He staggered to the door, one hand gripping the frame to steady himself as he leaned into the lounge. “Logan?” he called more loudly despite how much his head hurt when he raised his voice.

The apartment offered the same oppressive silence, and he shuffled to the kitchen. The counter was bare save for two mugs and an empty bottle tipped lazily onto its side.

In the living room, empty beer bottles were scattered across the tabletop, courtesy of Brick.

Ethan stood for a long moment, hands clenched into fists at his sides, not out of anger but out of frustration.

Why hadn’t Logan said goodbye?

Then he smiled—a faint curve that lifted his dry lips. They’d done it. They’d crossed the line, and it had been great. No, it had been more than great. It had been perfect.

Ethan’s chest warmed at the memory, a glow that spread upward, threatening to steal his breath. He’d loved it. Loved Logan’s weight pressing him into the mattress, the rough, commanding pull of his hands, the way their bodies had fit together like they were built for this—for each other.

It meant they could do it again. Theywoulddo it again.

He dropped to the couch and let himself sink into the pillows, replaying every moment in his head, letting it spool out like an old film reel: Logan’s steadying hands, his thrusts, slow and deliberate at first before quickening into something raw and urgent, that fullness inside him that still lingered like a phantom ache.

His cock stirred, stiffening slowly beneath the blanket he draped haphazardly over his lap.

He glanced down, cheeks heating, when he realized he was still completely naked. A shiver prickled across his chest, and he pulled the blanket up around his waist even though he was alone.

“Shower,” he muttered. His body protested; there was an ache, deep and insistent—a pulsing reminder of last night. It flared with every movement, and he winced slightly.

It was a good ache. An ache he wanted. But an ache nonetheless.

A slow smile tugged at his lips as he stood up.

Padding back to the bedroom, his thighs felt sore, his lower back tight from arching under Logan’s relentless pace.

Ethan’s phone lay on the dresser. Picking it up, he brushed a smear from the screen with his thumb and watched it light up. The battery icon glared red in the corner, and he frowned as he checked the time.

He rubbed at his temple, soothing the dull thud that had taken up residence, and swiped aimlessly through the notifications until there was nothing left to distract him from what wasn’t there…

… a text from Logan.

Ethan stared at the empty screen, scrolling through old messages as if a text might magically appear. It didn’t, but what did was his own string of texts from last night—sloppy and desperate in hindsight.

He cringed, thumb hovering over the delete button before deciding against it. Let them stay—they were a visual reminder of last night.

Chewing his lower lip, he started typing…

Thanks for last night. I really enjoyed it.

Why didn’t you say goodbye?

Where are you? Maybe we could grab breakfast? x

He stared at the words until they blurred together. He couldn’t decide if they sounded needy. His thumb hovered with indecision before he went back and erased the small ‘x’ at the end of the message. He then decided to add it back again before he deleted it once more.

“Do guys even add kisses to texts after sex?” he muttered aloud to no one but himself, before tossing the phone onto the mattress with an exasperated sigh.

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