What If I Stayed - Part Five: What If I Stayed

Some stories don’t end when the goodbye happens, they just pause, waiting for the right moment to start again. What If I Stayed? is a second-chance, high-heat short story about long-distance lovers, the fear of getting it wrong twice, and the quiet kind of love that never really left.

What If I Stayed - Part Five: What If I Stayed

What if the one who broke your heart was still the only place it felt whole?

Eli

The light wakes me first.

It spills across the bed in slow golden streaks, warming the edge of the blanket and catching on the rumpled fabric beneath my hand. I blink a few times, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling and the way the air smells faintly like cedar and him.

And then I remember.

The way his hands moved like he never forgot my body.

The sound I made when he finally touched me like that again.

The way we didn’t speak after, as if words would ruin it.

I shift slightly, careful not to move too much, and feel the heat of Caleb beside me. One arm draped over my waist. His breath soft against the back of my neck. The weight of everything we didn’t say pressing into the space between us.

I don’t move right away.

His leg is warm against mine, his bare skin brushing where the blanket slipped down in the night. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, steady and unbothered, and it hits me how different it feels now.

Not like sneaking out of his dorm room at 3am. Not like pretending it didn’t happen.

Like we’re both still here, in the morning, breathing the same air.

I don't want to wake him.

And I don’t know if I’m ready for what comes next.

Because now that the night is over, my thoughts won’t stop.

What does this mean? Was it just the past pulling us under again? Some nostalgic collapse we’ll pretend didn’t matter when the sun is fully up? I can’t help wondering if he’ll regret it. If I should.

I steal a glance at him. Caleb’s face is soft in sleep, lips slightly parted, one hand still curled around the edge of the blanket. He looks peaceful. Uncomplicated. The opposite of everything I feel right now.

My chest tightens.

I start to ease out of the bed, slow and quiet, trying not to wake him. My leg slides free. Then my arm.

But before I can finish pulling away, his hand finds my hip and grips it, not hard, just enough.

“Don’t go again,” he murmurs.

I stop.

Every breath I’ve been holding rushes to the surface.

His voice is sleep-rough, unguarded, and it slices right through whatever wall I’ve spent the last year trying to rebuild.

“I’m not,” I whisper, throat thick. “I’m right here.”

It’s not the words, really.

It’s the way I say them. Like I’ve been holding them for a long time. Like some part of me has been waiting to speak them out loud.

He shifts behind me, one eye cracking open, gaze hazy but focused. His arm tightens like he’s making sure I’m real. I meet his eyes, searching for something, hesitation, regret, anything to tell me this was a mistake. But it’s not there.

He doesn’t.

Instead, his hand smooths over my back in a slow line. Comforting. Familiar.

We don’t speak.

Not yet.

But something’s shifted.

And instead of pushing forward or pulling away, I let myself sink into the quiet. Let myself believe, just for a minute, that this doesn’t have to fall apart.

I turn toward him and curl into his chest, feel the way his arms wrap around me like they remember how.

His skin is warm, the rhythm of his heart steady beneath my cheek. One of his hands drifts up to my shoulder, settling there without thinking. Like muscle memory. Like instinct.

And for now, that’s enough.

The coffee maker gurgles in the corner, loud in the quiet. I lean against the counter, one hand wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, the other braced on the edge like it might help hold me up.

I’m fully dressed now, jeans, the same hoodie I wore yesterday, but everything still feels exposed. Like my skin remembers last night too well to think it didn’t happen.

I can feel him behind me, hovering in that quiet space between distance and closeness, close enough to notice, but far enough not to crowd.

He’s  in the doorway, towel slung around his neck, hair damp from the shower. His eyes aren’t sharp yet, still soft from sleep and whatever came after. But they’re watching me.

He hasn’t said anything since I got out of bed. Just tracked my movements like he was trying to figure out which way I’d run.

“Coffee’s strong,” I mutter, taking a sip that burns.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” he says, voice low.

I glance up, mouth twitching. “Old habit.”

“You always did spiral before noon.”

“Guess I still do.” I pause, swirling the mug in my hands. “I’m just trying to figure out what this was.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that would’ve broken us once. But he doesn’t let it now.

“It was real.” His voice is steady. “For me.”

I nod, but it doesn’t stop the ache in my chest. “I don’t know how to come back without wrecking it all over again.”

“Then don’t come back.”

My eyes snap to his.

He pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, slow but certain. “Just be here.”

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or something in between. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not.” He shrugs one shoulder. “But maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated either.”

He’s always done that, cut through the noise I build in my head. But this time, it doesn’t feel like a fix. It feels like a choice. One I don’t know how to make without breaking something else in the process.

I look away, stare out the window like it’ll give me answers. The backyard is still wet from last night’s storm. Everything gleams under the morning sun, like maybe the world doesn’t know how wrecked I feel.

The mug trembles slightly in my hand. I tighten my grip.

“I’m scared,” I admit, quiet.

“I know.”

His hand brushes mine where it rests on the counter, a barely-there touch.

“You owe me the truth,” he says. “Not promises. Just the truth.”

The words echo, uncomplicated and steady. Just like him.

I want to ask what happens after today. What if we both fall again, harder this time and it breaks? What if I ruin it by staying the way I ruined it by leaving? But the questions stay trapped behind my teeth. Because I already know he won’t give me answers. Not unless I ask. And maybe not even then.

I don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? I left chasing something I couldn’t name. Came back carrying the weight of everything I didn’t say.

And now… now he’s standing here asking for the truth.

Not forgiveness.

Just one more moment I don’t have to regret.

I look at the door. The handle gleams under the overhead light. Easy to grab. Easy to walk out again.

Then I look at him.

Still steady. Still waiting.

I set the mug down.

“I could stay,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just for coffee.”

His mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah?”

I nod. “I’m not going anywhere. Not if you still want me here.”

The tension that’s been stretching between us softens. Caleb steps forward, and I feel the warmth of him before he even touches me.

“I never stopped,” he says.

Something settles in my chest—an ache that doesn’t hurt anymore. Not the way it used to.

And for the first time since I came back, I don’t feel like I’m one step from running.

I feel like I already stayed.

The porch steps are still cool under my legs, even with the sun pushing higher in the sky. The mug in my hands is warm, and I curl my fingers tighter around it like it might help settle the tremor still tucked somewhere behind my ribs.

Caleb sits beside me, one knee pulled up, the other leg stretched out. His bare foot brushes mine now and then, like he’s not ready to stop touching me, like we’re pretending this is new. Like we didn’t fall asleep wrapped around each other. Or that we didn’t wake up still tangled, and maybe a little scared.

He takes a sip of his coffee and glances sideways. “You always had a thing for porches.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “You always had a thing for making me stay longer than I planned.”

He lifts one shoulder in a slow shrug. “You always made leaving look too easy.”

The words settle between us, unhurried but heavy. Not an accusation. Just… truth.

I turn the mug in my hands and study the swirl of cream still floating on the surface.

“I used to think if I left first, it wouldn’t hurt as much when everything fell apart,” I admit.

Caleb doesn’t say anything right away. He just sits with me in the silence, the way he always used to. Like he knows the difference between when I need answers and when I just need space.

Then, quietly, “I always knew you were scared.”

I blink once. “You did?”

He nods. “I just didn’t know how to make you feel safe enough to stay.”

I reach over and run my thumb along the rim of his mug, just to touch something that belongs to him. “Last night felt different.”

“It was,” he says, no hesitation. “But I’m not asking for anything you’re not ready to give.”

He sets his mug down, then slides his hand over mine, grounding me.“You don’t have to promise anything,” he says softly.

I turn my mug slowly in my hands, letting the words settle.

“Then let me ask you something,” I say. My voice isn’t steady, but it’s honest. “What if I stayed?”

Caleb looks over at me, and he doesn’t smile, yet. He just studies my face, like he’s trying to decide if I mean it.

“Then we’d wake up every day and try not to mess that up,” he says quietly.

The corner of my mouth lifts, just barely. “Then let me. Not because I owe you or because it’s expected. Just because I want to.”

He doesn’t breathe for a second. Then he exhales, slow and steady. “One day at a time?”

I nod. “Every one of them.”

His fingers tighten around mine. “Then stay.”

There’s no pressure in the words. No desperation. Just a quiet certainty that echoes the same one rising in my chest.

I set my mug down and lean into him, let my head fall against his shoulder. He shifts to make room, tucking me in like we’ve done this a thousand times before. Like maybe, in some other version of us, we never stopped.

The breeze picks up, and he reaches for the throw blanket draped across the back of the porch swing. Tosses it over both our laps without saying a word. His arm curls around me.

I breathe in.

And this time, it feels full.

Like air after drowning. Like finally surfacing.

I don’t know what happens next. But I’m not afraid of it anymore.

Not with him.

Not like this.

I tilt my face toward him, just enough that he can hear me.

“Feels like I already did,” I whisper.

Caleb doesn’t even blink. He just smiles like he agrees.

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