Page 16 of Sadistic

I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't.

But Dalla gave me thirty minutes and I'm already here and Monday I'll belong to someone else and?—

"Okay."

His apartment smells like coffee and him—that mixture of leather and coconut, and the cologne I bought him last Christmas.

My toothbrush is still in the bathroom holder, purple and reminding me of a different life.

My favorite mug sits clean on the drain board, the one with the stupid chemistry joke only he thinks is funny.

Evidence of a relationship we never named scattered everywhere.

The walls are covered in photos—his family, the club, us.

One from last New Year's, me on his lap at Bubba's, both of us laughing at something Oskar said.

Another from the beach trip we took in secret, my hair wild from salt water, his arms around me from behind.

We look happy.

We look like a couple.

We look like what we could have been.

"I kept thinking we had time," he says, closing the door. "After school, after the club shit settled, after?—"

"There was never going to be an after."

"I could have tried. Could have talked to your dad, made a case?—"

"Based on what? Two years of fucking in secret?"

He flinches. "It was more than that."

"Was it?" I'm being cruel but I need him to let go. Need us both to let go. "We never went public. Never met each other's families officially. Never?—"

He kisses me.

Hard, desperate, tasting like goodbye and everything we never said.

My hands tangle in his hair against every better judgment, muscle memory taking over.

He backs me against the door, and I let him, let myself have this last moment with him.

"One last time," he breathes against my mouth. "Rev, please. I know it's selfish?—"

"Yes."

It's frantic, clothes scattered between the door and his bedroom.

Two years of knowing each other's bodies makes it easy and heartbreaking at once.

His hands shake as they undress me, like he's trying to memorize every inch.

I trace the scar on his ribs from the bike accident when he was seventeen, the tattoo on his shoulder he got when drunk last year—my initials hidden in the design, something I pretended not to notice.

"I love you," he whispers against my throat. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

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