What if he was mine - Part Five: Avoidance Is a Language

After days of silence and one drunk confession, everything is on the line. In this final part, Drew admits what he’s been too afraid to say—and Jamie finally hears the words he’s been waiting for. A story of longing, first times, and letting yourself be loved exactly as you are.

 Part Five: Avoidance Is a Language

They were just best friends—until they weren’t.

Jamie

It’s been three days since the storm.

Three days since Drew almost kissed me.

Three days since he didn’t.

I know exactly how long it’s been because I’ve counted every hour he’s avoided me since. Not that he’s vanished, he’s still around. Still sleeps in his bed. Still drinks his coffee. Still drops one-syllable answers like breadcrumbs I’m supposed to be grateful for.

But he doesn’t look at me. Not really. Not the way he did that night, when we were under the same blanket, when I thought maybe—

I stop the thought before it finishes. It’s too dangerous.

Instead, I rinse out my mug and pretend it doesn’t sting that he hasn’t asked about Matt. That he hasn’t brought up the call. Or the way his voice broke when he said I wasn’t supposed to fall for someone else.

I pretended not to hear it. I let him pretend he didn’t say it. And now we’re stuck in this limbo made of missed chances and unsaid things.

I drop onto the couch and pull my knees up, flipping aimlessly through some streaming menu like it’ll fix the tension in the room. He’s across from me, scrolling on his phone, silent. The TV plays but neither of us watches.

Avoidance is a language we’ve both become fluent in.

And right now, we’re practically screaming it.

“I was thinking about going out tonight,” I say, keeping my voice light, testing the weight of the words.

Drew doesn’t look up. “Cool.”

That word again. The one that means everything and nothing.

My throat tightens. “Not with Matt. Just… out.”

“Didn’t ask.”

Now he looks up. His eyes meet mine, and for one second, the air shifts, like we’re both seconds from breaking.

But then he blinks, and it’s gone.

“Right,” I murmur, curling tighter into the throw blanket. “You never do.”

…………

He catches me in the kitchen.

Late. Quiet. Like we’re both pretending the other one might not be there.

I don’t hear him come in. I’m halfway through wiping down the counter for the third time, because apparently avoiding feelings turns me into a clean freak, when I hear his voice behind me.

“Don’t go out tonight.”

I freeze.

The cloth stills in my hand. The tension, the silence, the avoidance, it all builds like a storm in my chest, and for once, I don’t turn it into a joke.

“Why not?” I ask, keeping my back to him.

There’s a pause. I can hear him breathing.

Then—

“Because I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t destroy me every time you talk about someone else.”

My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. Slowly, I turn around.

He’s standing there, hoodie half-zipped, barefoot again, looking like he hasn’t slept in days. His eyes are red, but not from crying, at least not recently. He just looks tired. Like he’s been carrying something too heavy for too long.

“I’m not confused,” he says, voice low. “I used to think I was. I told myself I was. But I wasn’t. I was just scared.”

I blink, unsure how to move, how to breathe.

“Scared of what?”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it costs him everything. “Of losing you. Of wanting you so much it changes everything. Of not being enough.”

And there it is.

The thing I’ve wanted to hear.

And the thing I never thought he’d say out loud.

I step forward once. “So what now?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t see you. That I haven’t seen you this whole damn time.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t—not yet.

So he does what he’s never done before.

He takes the final step. Closes the space between us. Reaches for me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

“I want you, Jamie. Not just as my best friend. Not just in secret. I want all of it.”

He waits, eyes locked on mine, chest rising and falling like he’s bracing for impact.

And I let him see it.

All of it.

The wanting.

The fear.

The ache of all the years I’ve tried to bury this exact moment.

“I never stopped,” I whisper.

His hand finds my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “Then don’t start now.”

It starts with a breath.

His. Then mine.

And then his mouth is on mine, careful at first, like he’s afraid to press too hard and shatter something fragile. But it’s not fragile. Not anymore. It’s fire wrapped in memory, want laced with years of silence.

I grip his hoodie, and tug him closer.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hands find my waist, then my back, then higher, like he can’t decide where to settle because none of it feels like enough. We’re kissing like we’re starving for it, like we already know how the other tastes but want to relearn it anyway. I feel his tongue slide against mine, deliberate and slow, and I moan into his mouth.

It’s like that sound flips something in him.

He lifts me onto the counter without warning, standing between my legs, pressing against me so I can feel just how hard he is. My hands move under his hoodie, dragging it up and over his head.

“Fuck,” he breathes when he looks at me. “You’re so—” He stops. Shakes his head. “You have no idea, do you?”

“Tell me,” I whisper.

He leans in, lips brushing my jaw, my neck. “You drive me crazy,” he murmurs. “Always have. With the way you smile. The way you laugh too loud at your own jokes. The way you talk with your hands and bite your lip when you’re thinking. You don’t even try, Jamie. And I’m fucking gone.”

My heart lurches. My thighs tighten around him.

He pulls back just long enough to say, “Bedroom.”

I nod, breathless.

We don’t make it neatly. We stumble down the hall, tangled in each other. When we finally hit the bed, he lands above me, bracing himself on his forearms as he kisses me again, slower this time. Like he wants to savor it. Like I’m not just someone he wants. I’m someone he already knows.

He undresses me like he’s done it before in a dream. Fingers grazing skin like I’m something precious. Like I’m his.

When he slips his hand between my thighs, I gasp, sharp and instinctive, because it’s not just the touch. It’s him. It’s how he moves like he knows me. Like he’s memorized every place I’ve needed to be wanted and waited until I let him close enough to give it.

“Okay?” he asks, voice rough against the side of my neck.

I nod, breath shaking. “More than.”

He doesn’t rush. Just slides down, kissing a path along my jaw, my chest, my stomach, until I’m trembling with how slow it is. How much he’s not teasing. Just taking in.

More clothes disappear, one piece at a time, until there’s nothing left but bare skin and held breath. Bodies shift. Knees brush. Fingers curl. The air changes.

He slicks his fingers with lube and preps me gently, murmuring between kisses. Praise and filth, comfort and hunger, all tangled in a voice that feels like heat on my spine.

And then, he presses in. Slow. Steady. Stretching me open until I can’t think, can’t speak, can’t be anything except his.

It’s not just my body that arches toward him, it’s everything.

My chest. My breath. My whole damn soul.

Like every part of me has been aching for this. For him.

“Fuck,” he breathes against my throat. “You feel like heaven.”

But then he stills for just a second, his breath catching like he’s bracing himself.

His voice drops, quieter. “Is this okay? I mean—does it feel right?”

He’s asking more than the obvious. It’s not just about comfort. It’s about this. Us. All the years of silence between us breaking open in the space where his body meets mine.

I lift my hand to his face, fingers tracing his jaw. “Yeah,” I whisper. “It feels like everything I’ve always wanted.”

He exhales, something soft and relieved in it. And then he moves.

He sets the pace—deep, rhythmic, grounding. Each thrust deliberate. Each breath broken. My hand clutches his shoulder, then his waist, fingers dragging down his back like I don’t know where to hold on because it’s too much. Because it’s him.

He leans over me, foreheads brushing. His voice is ragged, reverent, but filthy as hell.

“Been thinking about this every night since you went on that date.”

A whimper breaks in my throat.

“You’re mine now. Say it.”

The words burst from me. “I’m yours.” 

“You look so fucking good like this. Open for me. Taking me.”

He kisses me hard, messy and aching, hips rocking deeper. I moan into his mouth, legs tightening around him.

“Drew.” I say his name like a prayer. Like it’s a truth I was too afraid to claim. “Drew.”

“Say it again,” he growls, pace faltering just slightly as he reaches between us and strokes me with the same reverence he fucks me with.

“Drew. Fuck. I’m—”

He crashes with me, both of us unraveling at the same time—breathless, wild, and wrecked.

And when we fall apart, it’s not loud. Not frantic.

It’s soft. Deep. The kind of release that steals everything and gives it back gentler. Like exhaling a secret.

Like coming home.

It’s a quiet kind of breaking. The kind that fills in every cracked piece we didn’t know was still bleeding.

He collapses beside me, pulling me in, breath still ragged.

Neither of us speaks at first.

Because what the hell do you say when the thing you’ve been afraid to want finally becomes real?

The silence isn’t heavy.

It’s soft. Lingering. Like the air’s still humming with everything we just said without words.

Drew’s chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, his arm tucked around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

I don’t move. Not yet.

Because if I do, I’ll start thinking. And if I start thinking, I’ll remember how many times I’ve imagined this only to wake up alone.

I feel his lips brush the top of my head. Gentle. Real.

Still, something inside me braces.

Because this felt like everything. And that’s exactly what makes it terrifying.

“Hey.” His voice is scratchy with sleep and something quieter. “You okay?”

I nod into his chest before I answer out loud. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He tilts my chin until I have to look at him. Eyes soft, but searching.

“Don’t pull away,” he whispers.

I want to promise I won’t. I want to tell him I believe this won’t fade in the daylight. That I trust him. That I’m not scared.

But I don’t say any of those things.

Because even now—wrapped in him, still aching from the way he kissed me like I mattered—I feel it creeping in. That little voice that says things this good don’t last. That I’ve been here before, and I didn’t get to keep it.

So instead, I offer the only truth I have.

“I’m not trying to,” I whisper back. “But I already am. And I don’t know how to stop.”

His brow furrows. Not angry, just aching. “Then let me remind you.”

He shifts, just enough to pull me on top of him, arms wrapped tight like he’s grounding us both. “We’re not going backward. Not pretending it didn’t happen. Not acting like it didn’t mean something.”

I press my forehead to his. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes, half a breath of a laugh.

I nod, lips brushing his as I speak. “You said you see me. So don’t let me disappear.”

“I won’t,” he says without hesitation. “Not again.”

And maybe we don’t know what happens next. Maybe we’ll mess it up a hundred ways before we get it right.

But right now—this moment, this promise—I know exactly what it is.

It’s real.

It’s us.

And it’s just the beginning.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix