My Forever Valentine: Short Story - Theo and Memphis
Valentine’s Day
Theo
Memphis knows it’s Valentine’s Day.
He just pretends he doesn’t.
He walks in at six-thirty sharp, drops his keys in the bowl by the door like he always does, shrugs out of his jacket with that low exhale he makes when the day’s been long.
“Why does it smell like sugar in here?” he calls out.
“Because it is sugar,” I answer from the kitchen.
He rounds the corner and stops.
He doesn’t react with anything dramatic or wide-eyed; he simply goes still, caught in the sudden, quiet gravity of the room.
The table is set with a simple, understated elegance, featuring two plates and a bottle of wine beside flickering candles that cast a warm glow while soft music plays low in the background.
He drags a hand over his jaw.
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s February fourteenth.”
“We discussed this.”
“You gave me a monologue about capitalism.”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “I said we don’t need a holiday.”
“We don’t,” I agree calmly.
“Then why this?”
Because sometimes I want to look at you across a table and know you’re choosing to sit there.
Because loving Memphis has never been loud, but it has always been intense.
Because last year at this time we were still figuring out how to exist without setting each other on fire.
Instead, I shrug lightly. “Because I felt like it.”
He studies me a long moment. Then he walks closer.
There’s something about the way Memphis approaches when he’s thinking. Slowly, deliberately, like he’s measuring distance and impact at the same time.
He stops a breath away.
“You didn’t have to,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
One hand slides to my waist, warm and firm. The other comes up to cup the back of my neck. There’s nothing forceful or demanding about it, just steady and grounding.
His kiss isn’t rushed.
It’s slow and familiar, his mouth settling against mine like it belongs there, like it always has.
He hums faintly when I lean into him. His grip tightens slightly at my waist.
“You lit candles,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Yes.”
“You made dessert.”
“Yes.”
“Heart-shaped?”
“Yes.”
He exhales through his nose. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love me.”
His eyes soften before he can stop them. “I do.”
It’s quiet and matter-of-fact, absolutely no doubt behind it.
And somehow that makes it heavier.
His hands slide under my shirt, palms warm against my skin. He moves slowly, thumbs brushing over my sides, mapping out places he already knows. I react automatically, breath catching when his fingers drag just slightly lower.
“That still works?” he asks, amused.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He backs me gently toward the counter, controlled rather than aggressive, because somewhere along the way he learned we don’t have to set everything on fire to prove it’s real.
I hop up onto the counter without being told and he steps between my spread legs like it’s instinct. His hands roam my body in slow passes over my thighs, up my back, settling at my hips. He leans in, pressing the heavy, insistent length of his body firmly against the junction of my thighs. The friction of his denim against my thin slacks is a sudden, sharp electricity, and I can feel how much he wants me—the solid, unmistakable hardness of him branding my skin through the fabric. My breath hitches, my legs instinctively hooking around his waist to pull that heat even closer.
His mouth slides along my jaw, down the side of my neck, not frantic. Intentional. The heat builds differently now.
Not explosive, but a steady thrumming.
“You’re staying up late,” he murmurs.
“It’s a weeknight.”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
His mouth brushes just below my ear. “And I plan on keeping you awake.”
My pulse jumps.
His hands tighten slightly at my waist, pulling me closer. I feel his solid muscles through our clothes. The familiarity only makes it hotter.
We don’t rush because we don’t need to.
Shirts disappear somewhere between kisses, and suddenly it’s skin against skin, warm and solid and familiar.
His hands trace the curve of my back, nails barely grazing. I drag my fingers through his hair and he exhales like that still does something to him.
It always does.
There is no hesitation when he lifts me off the counter, carrying me toward the bedroom with a quiet, unwavering certainty that makes the rest of the world feel miles away.
The candles flicker behind us, casting uneven light across the hallway as he carries me, his hands steady and certain against my skin. Dinner is definitely forgotten the second my back hits the mattress and he follows me down.
Memphis settles over me slowly, bracing himself on one forearm while the other hand slides over the line of my ribs like he’s reacquainting himself with something he already owns. His touch is a deliberate, slow exploration of familiar ground.
“You planned this,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Maybe,” I breathe, my heart hammering against my ribs, “or maybe I just wanted to see if I could make you look at me the way I described in my journal this morning.”
Memphis pulls back just an inch, his dark eyes searching mine with a look that is both possessive and deeply tender. “You mean the entry where you said you never get tired of the way I touch you?” He doesn't wait for an answer, his hand sliding from my ribs to grip my hip with a new, heavy intensity as he drags his body over mine until the friction makes my head swim. “I’ve been thinking about those words since I left the house today, Theo—about proving to you that I feel exactly the same way.”
Memphis pulls back just an inch, his dark eyes searching mine, blown wide and hungry.
My face is heating for a reason that has nothing to do with the candles. “I didn't think you'd seen it.”
“I saw it, Theo,” he growls, his hand sliding from my ribs to grip my hip with a new, possessive intensity. “I read every word you wrote. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head all day.” He shifts, dragging the heavy, solid weight of his body over mine until the friction makes my head swim, his voice dropping to a low, rough vibration against my skin. “If you wanted me to prove that I’m still just as consumed by you after a year, all you had to do was ask.”
His lips curve faintly before he kisses me again, deeper this time, the kind that builds instead of explodes. My hands move over his back, memorizing the solid weight of him, the warmth of his skin under my palms. He shifts slightly, pressing closer, and the friction alone is enough to draw a quiet sound from my throat.
He notices.
He always notices.
His mouth drifts lower, unhurried, leaving heat in its wake. The contrast of his breath against my skin makes me arch toward him without thinking, and he responds with a low, approving hum that settles somewhere deep in my chest.
“Still impatient,” he says softly.
“You talk too much.”
He smirks against my collarbone and adjusts, dragging me closer until there’s no space left between us. The slow rhythm that follows isn’t wild or chaotic. It’s steady. Intentional. Built on knowing exactly how the other one reacts.
The room fills with quiet sounds, breath catching, sheets shifting, the muted scrape of skin against skin.
He moves with a slow, agonizing precision, his hands sliding beneath me to lift my hips, meeting every desperate arch of my back with the steady, punishing heat of his own body. Every slide of skin against skin feels like a slow-motion burn. I’m lost in the sheer weight of him, the way he seems to fill every space I have, his breath ragged and hot against my throat as he loses that famous control. My fingers graze the tense, sweat-slicked skin of his shoulder, feeling the way his muscles coil and snap under the pressure of his own arousal.
His fingers tighten at my hips when I pull him closer, and he exhales sharply like he felt that deeper than he expected.
There’s heat, yes.
But there’s also something heavier underneath itthe kind of connection that doesn’t need fireworks because it’s already burning steady.
Instead, he shifts just enough to pull me flush against him, one arm heavy around my waist, his palm settling low on my back like he’s making sure I’m real. His leg hooks over mine, keeping me pinned in the kind of hold that isn’t about control so much as connection. His mouth brushes my temple, then my cheek, slow lingering touches that say he’s not done yet.
I tilt my chin up, catching his lips again. Not urgent this time. Deep. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that lingers until it feels less like heat and more like belonging. His hand slides from my lower back to my hip, fingers flexing once before drifting down the curve of my thigh. Not pushing. Just reminding.
My hand traces idle patterns across his chest, following the steady beat of his heart, dipping lower just to feel the way his breath shifts in response. He exhales against my mouth, a quiet sound that’s half laugh, half surrender.
“Still with me?” I murmur.
His thumb presses into my hip, deliberate. “Always.”
He kisses me again, softer now, like he’s sealing something instead of starting it.
The candles burn out somewhere in the apartment.
Dinner is definitely ruined.
And neither of us care.
—
Later, when we’re tangled up in sheets that smell like detergent and skin and us, Memphis traces slow circles on my back and says, almost absently—
“You’re smug.”
My cheek rests against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear.
“I’m not smug.”
His fingers drag down my spine and back up again, slow enough to make me press closer.
“You set this up knowing I’d cave.”
“You didn’t cave.”
He huffs. “I absolutely did.”
But his arm tightens around me like he doesn’t regret it.
Silence settles. Not awkward. Just full.
“I don’t hate it,” he admits after a minute.
“The candles?”
“The coming home part.” His thumb moves lazily over my skin. “You waiting. The table. All of it.”
I tilt my head to look at him. His hair is messy. His mouth softer than usual.
“You don’t need a holiday,” he says.
“I know.”
“But I like that you’re mine on it.”
There’s no arrogance in it. Just quiet certainty.
I slide my hand up his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
“You’re mine too,” I say.
He goes still for a fraction of a second.
Then he leans down and kisses me — slow, deliberate, not heated this time. Just warm. Anchoring.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“Next year,” he murmurs, “skip the heart-shaped plate.”
“You finished the dessert.”
“It was too sweet.”
“You still ate it.”
A faint smirk curves his mouth. “I finish what I start.”
I laugh softly and settle back against him.
His hand resumes its slow, steady path over my back.
The room is dim. The music in the other room has stopped. The world feels smaller here. Contained.
Solid.
After a long moment, he presses a kiss into my hair and says quietly—
“I always stay.”
And this time, there’s no hesitation in it.
No edge.
Just truth.
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: February 2026
Cover Design by LS Phoenix
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