I nodded, words lost in my throat. So good.

With that confirmation, he started thrusting harder. Working me up, sweat glistened on our skin, and a high-pitched noise escaped my lips, something else tickling my throat. “Ahh.” I clutched onto his bicep, the one with the inked skull. I was riding a surge of pleasure, the end not even in sight. “Garrison…please don’t stop.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, placing another kiss on my lips. He drove deeper in me and welled up sentiments pricked my eyes.

He let go of my hand and clutched my cheek. His pace and the fullness absolutely annihilating me. In the best way. Obviously worthy of a mental revisit.

I was lost beneath him.

He was lost above me.

We found each other between every staggered breath. Every racing heartbeat. Every aching need. Until we were both sweaty and overcome by an intense, passionate crash. Nerves firing. Breaths heaving. Bodies colliding with blissful pleasure after all those years of waiting.

In my dorm room, I ride the same wave. I reach a peak.

I cry out his name in a soft, aching whisper. He lights me on fire—even when he’s miles away. But there’s a difference.

I come down, and I roll on my side. No one else tangled in the sheets with me.

He’s not here to pull me in his arms. He’s not here to say I love you. He’s not here so I can say I love you back.

He’s not here to ask if I’m okay. To push the sweaty pieces of hair off my face. To kiss me one last time before we fall asleep.

So I fumble for my phone. And I try to call him again. “Please answer,” I mutter alone in London. “Please answer.”

It rings.

And rings.

“Please, Garrison.” It stops ringing.

Beep.

“Voice-mailbox full,” an automated voice replies.

I roll onto my back and hold my phone to my chest.

16 PRESENT DAY – October

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

GARRISON ABBEY

Age 20

Halloween.

Also known as Loren Hale’s birthday. He already texted me about some “surprise” party he’s throwing himself. Only it’s a surprise for all his guests, not him—the guy with the birthday. It’s so Loren Hale, you really can’t make this shit up.

The elevator at Cobalt Inc. is slow as fuck today. Maybe it’s broken? It goes down and down and down like the ticking of a clock, and I’m worried that I’m not ditching out of here early enough to avoid the party. I glance at the text again.

Loren Hale: I’m picking you up at 9:45 p.m. for my birthday party. The outing is a surprise. No questions will be answered. Participation is not optional.

He’s such an asshole, even in text. He didn’t even ask where I’d be, so I assume Connor tells him I work until midnight. But joke is on him because I’m out of here at 9:30 p.m. tonight.

The elevator finally makes it to the lobby, and I pull out my phone to call an Uber. Just as I exit the revolving doors, shoes landing on the sidewalk, a black limo slows at the curb.