Chapter 14: The Aftermath
The Sunday morning light was a liar. It sliced through the gaps in Matthew’s blinds, painting cheerful stripes across the disaster of his bedroom floor. His own shirt from yesterday lay in a crumpled ball near the door. He was alone. The other side of the bed was cold, the sheets taut where Oliver had never slept, only fucked and fled.
His head throbbed with a low, persistent ache—not a hangover, but a humiliation hangover. The chemical crash of shame. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, the movement triggering a memory of Oliver’s hand doing the same. The screen was blank. No notifications. He’d sent a text last night, after Dominic had finally left him to stew in his own silence.
Matthew (10:47 PM): We need to talk. About what happens now.
It had been read. No reply. The gray checkmarks were a verdict.
He opened Instagram, a masochistic reflex. His feed was a stream of other people’s brunches, hikes, curated happiness. He tapped through stories absently, his stomach already a tight fist.
Then he saw it. Toby’s username. A story posted two hours ago.
The first clip was a close-up of a cast-iron skillet, sizzling with what looked like mushrooms and thyme. Toby’s voice, that warm British cadence, off-camera: “Reunion breakfast for the traveling man.” The camera panned up. Oliver stood in their sun-drenched kitchen, wearing soft-looking pajama pants and no shirt, his hair mussed from sleep. He was laughing, his head thrown back, one hand rubbing the dense hair on his chest. He looked home. He looked owned.
Toby’s hand, marked with a faded burn scar from the kitchen, entered the frame and slid around Oliver’s waist, pulling him close. Oliver leaned into the touch, his smile easy, genuine. The caption read: Nothing better than having him back. #grateful
Matthew watched it three times. Each viewing was a precise, surgical cut. The intimacy was casual, unforced. This wasn’t a facade for the grid. This was the mundane, daily truth of their life. The dog bowl in the corner of the shot, the shared mortgage, the history in the way Toby’s thumb stroked Oliver’s hip bone. A life.
Dominic’s voice echoed in his skull, clean and sharp as a scalpel: You’re an idiot for throwing Conrad away for this fantasy.
The phone slipped from his hand, hitting the mattress with a soft thud. He stared at the bright ceiling. The hurt was immediate, a hot, childish sting—he’d been discarded. But washing over it, colder and deeper, was the profound wave of his own stupidity. He hadn’t been chosen. He’d been used. He’d been a convenient, secret adventure, a ego-stroke for a bored man in a neon city. He’d handed Oliver a thrilling story to tell himself: I’m still wanted, I can still conquer. And Matthew had believed, desperately, that he was the conquest that mattered.
He was a cliché. The pathetic work crush who thought he was special. The mark.
A sound escaped him, something between a laugh and a choke. He felt peeled raw, exposed even in the empty room. The phantom sensations from yesterday—the raw friction, the possessive words—curdled in his memory. He could almost smell Oliver’s sweat, and now it made him want to vomit.
He shoved himself out of bed. The apartment was silent. Dominic’s door was closed. He padded to the kitchen, his body feeling like it belonged to someone else. He made espresso, watching the dark liquid stream into the tiny cup, a ritual of normalcy. He took a sip. It tasted bitter, like ash.
He scrolled to Conrad’s messages. Re-read them. The city feels quieter. Missed you. For whenever I see you. No games. No hidden audiences. Just a direct line to something solid.
His fingers hovered over the screen. Pride was a luxury he’d forfeited. Dignity wasn’t something he could regain by hiding. It was something he had to build, brick by shitty brick, and it started with facing the one good thing he hadn’t fully ruined yet.
He typed slowly, erasing and starting over twice.
Matthew (11:14 AM): Hey. Last few days were a lot. Conferences are weird. I’m back, and I’d really like to see you. Dinner tonight? Anywhere you want. I’ll get the wine.
It was too eager. It was a lifeline. He sent it before he could dissect it further.
He stood in the quiet kitchen, holding his phone, waiting. The seconds stretched. He watched the three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Finally, the reply came.
Conrad (11:17 AM): I was hoping you’d ask. My place? 7:30. I’ll cook.
Relief, so potent it felt like weakness, flooded his veins. He leaned against the counter, closing his eyes.
“He’s cooking for you?” Dominic’s voice, gravelly from sleep, came from the hallway. He stood there in boxers, holding a glass of water, his expression unreadable. “You’re going?”
“Yeah,” Matthew said, his voice rough. “I’m going.”
Dominic took a long drink, studying him over the rim of the glass. He nodded, once. “Good. Shower first. You look like you’ve been through a war. And for god’s sake, wear the shirt Conrad likes. The blue one.”
Matthew almost smiled. “Yeah. Okay.”
In the shower, he scrubbed his skin until it was pink. He tried to wash the feeling of Oliver’s hands away, the memory of his mouth. He focused on the concrete details: Conrad’s apartment, with its view of the Bay Bridge. The way Conrad listened, his full attention a physical thing. The steady weight of his arm around Matthew’s shoulders.
He dressed carefully in dark jeans and the soft blue henley Conrad had once complimented. He avoided looking at the bed.
At 7:15, standing on the sidewalk waiting for his Uber, the anxiety crested. What would he say? What could he possibly offer? He was a compromised negotiator, bringing nothing to the table but regret and the fresh stink of a bad decision.
His phone buzzed. A notification from Tinder. You have new matches!
He opened the app, a reflex born from years of lonely nights. He thumbed through the faces—a photographer, a barista, a guy with a nice smile and a torso shot on a boat. It all felt suddenly, unbearably cheap. A conveyor belt of possibility that led nowhere. He thought of the careful, patient way Conrad had deleted his own dating apps on their third date, a silent statement Matthew had been too frightened to match.
He opened his profile. His bio was a witty, self-deprecating joke about data and despair. He stared at it. He hit edit. He deleted every word. The cursor blinked in the empty white box, a clean slate. He didn’t write anything new. He just saved it. A blank space.
His Uber arrived. He got in, giving Conrad’s address. As the car pulled into the flow of traffic, he took one last look at his own reflection in the dark window. He looked tired. Older. Maybe a little less like someone pretending to know what he was doing.
He put his phone in his pocket. He didn’t look at it again. He watched the city lights blur past, each one a pinprick in the vast, indifferent night, and focused on the single point of warmth ahead, hoping it was still there, hoping he hadn’t extinguished it for good.
He watched the city lights blur past, each one a pinprick in the vast, indifferent night, and focused on the single point of warmth ahead, hoping it was still there, hoping he hadn’t extinguished it for good. The Uber stopped outside Conrad’s building, a sleek tower of glass and steel that always felt like a spaceship poised for orderly escape. Matthew’s palms were damp. He wiped them on his jeans before pressing the buzzer.
“It’s open, come up,” Conrad’s voice came through the speaker, calm as ever.
The elevator ride was a smooth, silent ascent. Matthew’s reflection in the brass doors was a ghost of the man who’d left this building a week ago, someone who believed his choices were his own. The doors slid open directly into Conrad’s foyer. He was there, leaning against the wall in dark trousers and a simple gray t-shirt, a dish towel slung over one shoulder.
“Hey,” Conrad said. His smile was a real thing, warm and uncomplicated. He closed the distance in two steps and kissed him.
Matthew returned it, closing his eyes. Conrad’s lips were soft, his hand coming up to cradle Matthew’s jaw with a familiar certainty. The guilt was an immediate, hot spike in Matthew’s gut, a physical revulsion at his own deceit. He pushed it down, forcing himself to melt into the kiss, to mimic its ease. He tasted of rosemary and red wine.
“Missed that,” Conrad murmured against his mouth, pulling back just enough to look at him. His blue-gray eyes searched Matthew’s face. “You look tired.”
“Conferences,” Matthew said, the lie already feeling worn. “You know how it is. Lots of… networking.”
Conrad nodded, his thumb stroking Matthew’s cheekbone once before he turned toward the open-plan living area. “Come in. It’s almost ready.”
The apartment was, as always, a study in curated peace. Everything had its place: the art books stacked precisely, the single orchid on the dining table, the smell of garlic and good olive oil weaving through the air. It was the absolute antithesis of Matthew’s chaotic living room with Dominic’s paint splatters. It felt like a rebuke.
“Sit. Wine’s poured.” Conrad gestured to the sofa where a glass of deep ruby Cabernet waited. Matthew took it, sinking into the cushions, feeling like an imposter in a museum.
Conrad moved back to the kitchen island, finishing the meal. He moved with an economical grace, searing scallops in a hot pan, their surfaces turning a perfect caramel gold. He plated them over a vibrant pea puree, garnishing with crisp bits of pancetta and a whisper of lemon zest. It was exquisite, thoughtful. Matthew felt violently unworthy of the attention.
“This is insane,” Matthew said, taking the plate Conrad handed him. “You didn’t have to go to this trouble.”
“I wanted to.” Conrad sat beside him, their knees touching. “It’s good to have you back. The city was dull without you.”
They ate. The food was sublime, each flavor distinct and harmonizing. Matthew made himself chew, swallow, compliment. It was like eating ash.
“So,” Conrad said, sipping his wine. “Vegas. Give me the highlights. Or the lowlights. Whichever.”
Matthew’s fork hesitated over a scallop. He kept his eyes on his plate. “It was fine. Useful sessions. The usual awkward happy hours in depressing casino bars. I mostly skipped them, worked from my room.”
He could feel Conrad’s gaze on him. “Yeah? That doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“It wasn’t,” Matthew said, the truth in that single statement nearly choking him. “I’m glad to be back.”
A beat of silence passed, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. Conrad didn’t push. He never did. His directness was reserved for his own feelings, not for prying out Matthew’s evasions. It was a quality Matthew had loved. Now it felt like a verdict on his own opacity.
When they finished, Matthew stood quickly, gathering the plates. “I’ll get these.”
He moved to the sink, running the water too hot, watching the steam rise. He was scrubbing a plate when he felt Conrad’s presence behind him. Strong arms slid around his waist, Conrad’s chin resting on his shoulder. The touch was possessive in a way that felt earned, domestic. Matthew’s whole body went rigid for a second before he forced himself to relax, to lean back into the solid warmth of Conrad’s chest.
He needed to perform. This was the script. The grateful boyfriend, reconnected. His mind, traitorous and slick, flashed to Oliver pressing him against his own bedroom door, the chaotic smell of turpentine in the air, the raw and urgent claiming. He saw the Instagram story: Oliver laughing in Toby’s kitchen, looking utterly at home.
Matthew turned within Conrad’s arms, water dripping from his hands onto the floor. He looked up at Conrad’s clean-shaven jaw, his patient eyes. He kissed him, harder than he meant to, trying to drown the memory in sensation.
Conrad responded, a low hum of surprise vibrating in his throat. Matthew’s fingers went to the buttons of Conrad’s shirt, fumbling them open. He pushed the soft cotton off Conrad’s shoulders, revealing the taut, smooth planes of his chest, so different from Oliver’s hairy terrain. He pressed his palms flat against it, trying to absorb its stability, to let the physical reality overwrite the phantom.
“Eager?” Conrad whispered, a playful smile touching his lips as he pulled Matthew’s blue henley up and over his head. His hands skimmed down Matthew’s bare back, cool and sure.
“Missed you,” Matthew rasped, the second lie of the night clinging to his tongue.
Conrad took his hand, leading him from the kitchen’s clinical light down the short hall to the bedroom. It was dominated by a large platform bed, always neatly made. Conrad undressed him the rest of the way, his movements reverent and slow, then shed his own clothes. He guided Matthew onto the cool duvet.
“Just want to feel you,” Conrad said, his voice a gentle rumble as he coated his fingers with lube from the bedside drawer. He prepared Matthew with a careful, thorough stretch, watching his face. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” Matthew breathed. “Just fuck me. Please.”
Conrad positioned himself, pressing forward in one smooth, unbroken glide until he was fully sheathed. He sighed, a sound of profound relief, and stilled, buried deep inside him. “God, you feel good.”
He began to move, setting a deep, rolling rhythm that was all connection. It was tender. It was loving. Each thrust was a promise of care, a physical articulation of the dinners and the thoughtful texts. Matthew wrapped his legs around Conrad’s waist, held onto his strong shoulders, and stared at the ceiling.
All he could think about was Oliver.
Oliver’s frantic, hungry pace against his bedroom door. The slap of skin, the filthy promises growled into his ear. The feeling of being filled raw, without barrier, a dangerous and thrilling consummation. Conrad’s tender fucking felt like a beautifully wrapped empty box. His body responded, inevitably, but his mind was a thousand miles away, in a Vegas suite, in his own dirty bedroom, anywhere but here.
“Come for me, Matt,” Conrad whispered, his pace increasing slightly, his breath hot against Matthew’s neck.
Matthew shut his eyes tight and conjured the memory of Oliver’s hand fisted in his hair. He spilled between them with a stifled cry, his orgasm a mechanical release. Conrad followed moments after, shuddering through his own climax with a series of soft, choked gasps against Matthew’s shoulder.
They lay joined, breathing heavily. Conrad softened and slipped out, then disappeared into the en suite. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and cleaned Matthew with a quiet, practical tenderness that made Matthew’s throat ache. He disposed of the cloth, then slid back into bed, pulling Matthew against him so his head rested on Conrad’s bare, steady chest.
He kissed Matthew’s temple. “I really did miss you,” he said, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
Matthew was silent. He tried to find peace in the circle of Conrad’s arms, in the regular thump of his heart under his ear. He told himself, forcefully, that this was real. The curated apartment, the scallops, the tender sex—this was adult love. What he had with Oliver was just a lie, a chemical fantasy built on secrecy and stolen time. This was the substance.
As he lay there, the room dark, Conrad’s breathing evening out toward sleep, he saw a cold, blue light flare on the nightstand. His phone screen, illuminating the underside of a glass of water.
A text notification. Oliver’s name, finally appearing.
Matthew’s entire body went taut. Every nerve screamed to lunge for the device, to decode the message, to feed the addiction. He remained frozen, his head on Conrad’s chest, his eyes locked on that fading blue glow in the dark. He couldn’t look. Not here. Not while Conrad’s arm lay so heavily, so trustingly, over his waist.