Chapter 3: The Morning After the Fall
The first thing Ryan registered was warmth.
Not the sterile heat of his apartment's ancient radiator, which clanked and groaned like a dying animal every winter. This was different. This was soft and alive and breathing slowly against his chest.
He opened his eyes.
Bria was still there.
She lay curled against him, her back pressed to his stomach, her dark hair fanned across his pillow like ink spilled on paper. One of her hands was tucked under her cheek. The other rested on his forearm where it draped across her waist, her fingers loosely curled around his wrist.
She was still asleep.
Ryan didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't do anything that might shatter the fragile reality of this moment.
The morning light filtered through his cheap blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air. Somewhere outside, a bird was chirping—actually chirping, like something out of a goddamn Disney movie—and Ryan felt something expand in his chest that he hadn't felt in years.
Peace. Or something close to it.
He studied the curve of her shoulder, the way her collarbone caught the light, the faint freckles scattered across her skin like constellations he wanted to map. She looked different in sleep. Softer. Younger. The armor she wore like a second skin had slipped away sometime in the night, leaving behind someone who looked almost vulnerable.
He wanted to protect her.
The thought hit him like a truck.
He wanted to protect her from Dex. From his teammates. From every asshole on campus who'd ever looked at her and seen a punchline instead of a person. He wanted to stand between her and the entire world and tell them all to go fuck themselves.
But he couldn't.
Because standing between her and the world meant standing against everything he'd spent four years building. It meant losing his friends. His reputation. His future. It meant becoming the punchline himself.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Ryan's stomach clenched. He reached over carefully, trying not to jostle Bria, and glanced at the screen.
Dex.
Where tf are you? Film session in 30.
Shit.
He'd forgotten. How had he forgotten? Saturday's game was three days away, and Coach had scheduled an emergency film session to break down the opponent's defensive schemes. Missing it wasn't an option. Missing it would raise questions.
He typed back with one thumb. On my way.
His thumb hovered over the send button. He didn't press it.
Bria stirred against him. Her hand tightened on his wrist. Then she turned her head, and her eyes opened—slow, heavy, still clouded with sleep.
"Hey," she murmured.
"Hey."
She blinked at him for a moment. Then her gaze drifted to the phone in his hand, to the screen still glowing with Dex's message.
The warmth drained from her face.
"Film session," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah."
She pulled away from him. Not fast. Not angry. Just... pulled away, like she was retreating behind walls he hadn't even realized had come down.
"I should go." She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. "I've been here too long."
"Bria—"
"It's fine." She was already reaching for her clothes, scattered across the floor like evidence of a crime. "I get it. You've got stuff to do."
Ryan watched her pull on her jeans. Her hoodie. Her socks. Each piece of clothing was another layer of armor sliding back into place.
"Bria."
She didn't look at him.
"Bria."
She stopped. Her hand was on the doorknob.
Ryan was out of the bed before he could think about it. He crossed the room in three strides and caught her wrist, spinning her around to face him.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I don't know." His voice was rough. "But I'm not letting you leave like this."
"Like what?"
"Like last time." He stepped closer, backing her against the door. "Like you're running."
"I'm not running." Her jaw tightened. "I'm leaving. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
She stared at him. The morning light caught her eyes, and he could see the conflict swirling there—the same conflict he felt every time he looked at her.
"You have practice," she said. "Or film. Or whatever. You have a life, Ryan. A life that doesn't include me."
"Fuck the film session."
"Ryan—"
"I'm serious." He braced one hand on the door beside her head. "Five minutes ago, I was lying in bed with you, and it was the best I've felt in years. Then Dex texted, and everything went to shit. You want to know why?"
She didn't answer.
"Because I'm scared," he said. "I'm scared of what happens if I choose you. I'm scared of what happens if I don't."
Bria's expression flickered. "So this is about you."
"It's about both of us." He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. "Because I've been watching you. For years. Every time Dex makes a joke, every time one of the guys says something cruel, I've been watching you. And you never break. You never cry. You just... take it. Like you're used to it."
"I am used to it."
"I know." His voice cracked. "And that's the worst part."
She looked away.
"Dex is waiting," she said quietly. "You should go."
"I don't want to go."
"Then what do you want?"
The question hung in the air between them.
Ryan didn't answer with words.
He kissed her instead.
Not gentle. Not tender. There was nothing soft about the way his mouth claimed hers, nothing apologetic about the way his hands grabbed her hips and pulled her against him. This was desperation. This was hunger. This was a man trying to prove something he didn't know how to say.
Bria gasped against his mouth. Her hands flew to his chest, ready to push him away.
She didn't push.
She pulled.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt—he'd slept in it, it was rumpled and smelled like him—and she yanked him closer, her teeth sinking into his bottom lip hard enough to make him grunt.
"Five minutes," she breathed. "You have five minutes."
"I don't need five minutes."
He spun her around, pushing her toward the bed with a hand between her shoulder blades. Bria stumbled, caught herself on the edge of the mattress, and then Ryan was behind her, pressing her down.
She bent over the edge of the bed, her cheek against the sheets that still smelled like both of them. Her jeans were barely over her hips before he was yanking them down, taking her underwear with them, baring her ass to the cold morning air.
"Ryan—"
"Shut up." His voice was guttural, raw. "Just—fucking—shut up."
He dropped to his knees behind her. He didn't give her time to think, to doubt, to change her mind. He pressed his mouth to her cunt from behind and licked up her slit—one long, filthy stroke of his tongue—and Bria's entire body jerked.
"Fuck," she gasped.
He did it again. Slower this time, circling her clit with the tip of his tongue, tasting her, drinking her in. She was already getting wet, already slick against his mouth, and the knowledge that she wanted him—that she wanted this—made his cock ache.
"Ryan, please—"
"Please what?"
"Just—fuck me. Please."
"Not yet." He dragged his tongue up her slit again, then pressed two fingers inside her, thrusting slowly. "I want to make sure you remember this."
"Remember what?"
"That I chose you." He curled his fingers, finding that spot deep inside her that made her legs shake. "Right now. Not when it's convenient. Not when no one's watching. Right now, when I should be somewhere else, when I'm going to have to make excuses for why I'm late—I'm here. With you."
She moaned—a broken, helpless sound—and pushed back against his hand.
"That's it." He kept pumping his fingers into her, watching her hips rock back to meet every thrust. "Take what you want. Take it."
Her second orgasm hit her like a wave. She cried out, her fingers digging into the sheets, her body convulsing around his fingers.
Ryan stood.
He stripped off his boxers and grabbed her hips, positioning himself behind her. He was rock hard, leaking, so ready it hurt.
"You feel that?" He pushed the head of his cock against her entrance. "That's me choosing you."
Then he thrust inside her.
Bria screamed into the mattress.
He didn't start slow. Didn't give her time to adjust. He fucked her rough and hard, each thrust slamming her hips into the edge of the bed, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the bare walls. One hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back. The other clamped over her mouth, muffling her moans.
"You feel that?" he repeated, voice ragged. "Every fucking inch. That's me choosing you."
She nodded frantically against his hand, her eyes squeezed shut, her body taking everything he gave her.
"Again." He angled his hips, hitting that spot deep inside her. "Come again. Do it."
She came. A second time. Her cunt clenched around him like a fist, milking him, pulling him deeper. Ryan bit down on her shoulder to keep from screaming, and when he finally let go, he spilled inside her—hot and thick and endless.
He didn't pull out.
He stayed buried, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to the back of her neck. His hands released her hair, her mouth, and slid around her waist, pulling her against him.
"Stay," he whispered into her shoulder.
The word hung in the air. Desperate. Vulnerable. Everything he'd never let himself be.
Bria was silent for a long moment.
Then his phone buzzed again.
Dex.
Seriously dude. Coach is gonna flip his shit.
The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Bria tensed. Ryan pulled out slowly, and she turned to face him. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were swollen. There was a red mark on her shoulder where he'd bitten her, and he wanted to kiss it, apologize for it, do it again.
"You should go," she said.
"I should go," he echoed.
Neither of them moved.
"Ryan." Her voice was steady. "Go."
"I don't want to."
"I know."
"I want to stay here. With you. I want to tell Dex to go fuck himself. I want to—"
"Ryan." She reached up, touching his face. Her fingers were cool against his flushed skin. "If you don't go, you're going to lose everything."
"I don't care."
"Yes, you do." She smiled—a sad, knowing smile that broke something inside him. "And if you lose everything, you're going to hate me for it."
"I could never hate you."
"You could. And you would." She dropped her hand. "Go. I'll be here when you get back."
He stared at her. "Promise?"
She didn't answer. She just turned, gathering her clothes, and walked toward the bathroom.
The door clicked shut.
Ryan stood there in the middle of his room, naked and sticky and running out of time. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—the third time, the fourth, maybe the fifth.
He grabbed it.
I'm coming.
Then he got dressed.
The bathroom door stayed closed.
As he reached for the doorknob, he looked back one last time. The sheets were a wreck. The throw pillow—the one that still smelled like her perfume—was on the floor.
He picked it up. Held it to his face. Inhaled deeply.
Then he grabbed his keys and left.
---
The film session was a blur.
Coach barked orders. Dex cracked jokes. Everyone laughed at the right moments, nodded at the right plays, did everything they were supposed to do. Ryan sat in the back, eyes fixed on the screen, seeing nothing.
"Yo." Dex elbowed him. "You good?"
"Fine."
"You're not fine. You've been weird all morning." Dex squinted at him. "You smell like perfume."
Ryan's heart stopped.
"It's my detergent."
"It's not your detergent." Dex leaned closer, nostrils flaring like a bloodhound. "It's... flowery. Vanilla. You were with a girl last night."
"So?"
"So who is she?"
Ryan shrugged, trying to look casual. "Just some girl from the party."
Dex's grin widened. "Nice. Which one? The redhead?"
"Sure."
"Liar." Dex punched his arm. "You're blushing. You never blush."
"I'm not blushing."
"You're definitely blushing." Dex laughed—that loud, obnoxious laugh that usually made Ryan smile. "What's her name? Tell me. I want to know who finally cracked the great Ryan Mitchell."
Ryan forced a laugh. "Nobody cracked anything. It was just a hookup."
"Uh-huh. Sure." Dex turned back to the screen, still grinning. "You know, if you're going to lie to me, at least come up with a better one."
Ryan didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because Dex wasn't wrong. Something had cracked. Something had shifted. And Ryan had no idea what he was supposed to do about it.
After the session ended, Dex tried to drag him to lunch. Ryan begged off, claiming a headache. Dex looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"You're hiding something," Dex said.
"I'm not."
"You are." Dex stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I've known you for four years, man. I know when you're lying. And you're lying."
Ryan met his eyes. "I'm just tired. That's all."
Dex studied him. Then he shrugged.
"Fine. Keep your secrets." He turned to walk away. "But whatever it is, it's going to bite you in the ass eventually. Secrets always do."
Ryan watched him go.
Then he pulled out his phone.
Bria hadn't texted.
He hadn't asked for her number. He'd never needed to—he'd had it memorized for two years. But she didn't know that.
He typed a message. Then deleted it.
Then he typed another.
I'm sorry I left.
He hit send before he could stop himself.
The reply came three minutes later.
You did what you had to do.
He stared at the words. They should have been reassuring. They felt like a knife.
Can I see you tonight?
A pause. Then:
I don't know.
Not yes. Not no. Just the same uncertainty that lived in his chest.
Ryan pocketed his phone. Then he walked to his truck, got inside, and sat there in the parking lot with his hands on the wheel and his mind somewhere else entirely.
Saturday was three days away.
Dex was already suspicious.
And Bria was a memory that wouldn't fade.
He started the engine.
The only question now was: where was he going?
The question hung in the air like smoke. Ryan sat in his truck for twenty minutes, engine running, going nowhere. His phone sat silent in the cupholder. Bria hadn't texted back.
He drove home.
The apartment felt smaller than it had that morning. Her scent still lingered on the sheets, on the throw pillow he hadn't washed, on the air itself. He stripped the bed, shoved everything into the laundry hamper, and stood in the kitchen staring at the wall.
Three days until Saturday.
He threw himself into preparation with the kind of focus he usually reserved for game day. Film. Weights. Extra reps on the practice field until his arm screamed and his legs shook. He stayed late every night, long after the other guys had gone home, long enough that even Coach raised an eyebrow.
"You trying to kill yourself?" Coach asked Friday afternoon, watching Ryan launch another pass into the net.
"Just want to be ready."
"You're always ready." Coach studied him with eyes that had seen too many players burn out. "Go home. Rest. Saturday's going to be a war."
Ryan nodded. He didn't go home.
He went to the library.
She wasn't there. He checked every study room, every corner, even the stacks where she sometimes hid during long research sessions. Nothing. Just empty chairs and the smell of old paper.
He texted her again. Just: Hey.
No reply.
---
Saturday arrived with gray skies and a wind that cut through his jersey like a knife. Ryan stood in the tunnel, helmet in hand, listening to the crowd thunder above. Sixty thousand people. Scouts in the press box. A conference title on the line.
He should have been nervous. He wasn't.
All he could think about was her.
The game was brutal. The opposing defense came hard, blitzing on almost every down, trying to rattle him. Ryan took hits that rattled his teeth. He got sacked four times in the first half alone. But he kept getting up. Kept throwing. Kept fighting.
At halftime, they were down by ten.
Dex found him in the locker room, helmet off, sweat dripping down his face. "You good?"
"Yeah."
"You don't look good."
"I'm fine." Ryan grabbed a water bottle, drank half of it, poured the rest over his head. "We're going to win this."
Dex grinned. "That's what I like to hear."
The second half was different.
Ryan played like a man possessed. He threw for three touchdowns in the third quarter alone. He scrambled for first downs when the pocket collapsed. He took hits that would have sidelined lesser men and popped up like nothing happened.
With two minutes left, they were up by four.
The opposing team drove down the field, methodical and precise. Ryan watched from the sideline, heart pounding, hands clenched into fists. When their kicker lined up for a fifty-two-yard field goal, he couldn't breathe.
The kick went wide left.
The stadium erupted.
Ryan was mobbed by his teammates, lifted off his feet, carried toward the tunnel. Dex was screaming something in his ear, something about championships and legacy and all the pussy they were going to get tonight. Ryan smiled. He nodded. He did everything he was supposed to do.
But his mind was elsewhere.
---
The locker room was chaos.
Music blared from a portable speaker someone had smuggled in. Players danced, shouted, sprayed champagne that Coach pretended not to see. Dex stood on a bench, arms spread wide, leading a chant that made no sense and didn't need to.
"Tonight!" Dex shouted. "We're going to tear this town apart! Every bar, every club, every sorority house between here and the state line!"
A roar of approval.
Ryan sat on his stool, still in his pads, watching it all like a movie playing on mute. He should have been celebrating. He should have been leading the chant, spraying the champagne, planning the night with Dex.
He pulled out his phone instead.
Still nothing from Bria.
"Yo!" Dex jumped down from the bench, landing in front of Ryan with a grin that could power a small city. "What are you doing sitting here like a sad sack? We just won the conference! Get up!"
Ryan stood. He forced a smile. "Great game, man."
"Great game? It was a legendary game! You were fucking incredible!" Dex grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him. "This is our night! Our fucking night!"
"Yeah." Ryan's voice was flat. "Listen, I'm not going to make it out tonight."
Dex's grin faltered. "What?"
"I've got something I need to do."
"Something you need to do?" Dex laughed, but there was an edge to it. "What could be more important than celebrating with your boys?"
Ryan didn't answer.
Dex's eyes narrowed. "Where are you going?"
"Just... somewhere."
"Somewhere." Dex crossed his arms. "You've been weird all week. You've been disappearing, not answering texts, leaving practice early. And now you're bailing on the biggest night of the season. What the hell is going on with you?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit." Dex stepped closer, voice dropping. "Is it a girl? Is that what this is? Some girl has you twisted up so bad you're going to skip out on your own celebration?"
Ryan met his eyes. "It's not like that."
"Then what's it like?" Dex grabbed his arm. "Talk to me, man. We've been friends for four years. Whatever it is, you can tell me."
Ryan looked at him. At the concern in his eyes, the loyalty, the friendship that had carried them through a hundred victories and a thousand beers. Dex was his brother. Dex would die for him.
But Dex would never understand.
"I can't," Ryan said quietly. "Not yet."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
Dex released his arm. His expression shifted—confusion, then hurt, then something harder.
"Fine," he said. "Go do whatever you need to do. But don't come crawling back when she breaks your heart."
Ryan didn't respond.
He grabbed his bag, pushed through the crowd of celebrating teammates, and walked out into the cold night air.
---
He texted her from the parking lot.
I won.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Congratulations.
Can I see you?
Another pause. Longer this time.
I don't know.
Ryan's hands were shaking. He typed fast, desperate.
Please. I just want to celebrate with you. No one else. Just you.
The three dots taunted him. He stared at the screen, willing her to answer, begging whatever god might be listening to give him this one thing.
His phone buzzed.
Your place?
He almost dropped it.
Yes. I'll get food. I'll wait for you.
Okay.
He drove home faster than was safe. Stopped at a pizza place, grabbed a large pepperoni and a six-pack. Cleaned the apartment in a frenzy—threw the old pizza box away, wiped down the counters, lit a candle that smelled like cedar and hope.
He queued up a movie. Something stupid. Something she might laugh at.
Then he waited.
She knocked at nine-fifteen.
Ryan opened the door, and for a second, neither of them spoke. She stood in the hallway wearing jeans and a dark green sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked tired. Guarded. Beautiful.
"You came," he said.
"I don't know why." But she smiled as she said it.
He stepped aside.
She walked in.
The apartment was warm. The pizza was on the coffee table. The movie was queued up, ready to play. Bria looked around, taking in the cleaned counters, the candle, the two plates waiting on the table.
"This is..." She paused. "Domestic."
"I tried."
She laughed—a real laugh, warm and surprised—and something loosened in Ryan's chest.
They ate pizza on the couch. They drank beer. They talked about the game, about Dex's victory chant, about the fifty-two-yard field goal that had sailed wide left. Bria told him about her week—the research paper she'd finished, the professor who'd recommended her for a fellowship, the way her roommate had eaten all her leftovers and denied it.
It was easy. It was comfortable. It was everything he'd never known he wanted.
They made it halfway through the movie.
Bria set her beer on the coffee table and stood.
"Where are you going?" Ryan asked.
She didn't answer. She just walked toward the bathroom, hips swaying, and disappeared through the door.
Ryan stared after her. The movie played on, unwatched.
When the bathroom door opened again, he forgot how to breathe.
Bria stepped out wearing nothing but black lace.
The bra was barely a bra—scraps of fabric held together by thin straps, cupping her breasts in a way that made his mouth water. The panties matched, high-cut and sheer, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Her skin glowed in the dim light. Her eyes burned.
"You said you wanted to celebrate," she said.
"I did."
"So here I am." She walked toward him, slow, deliberate, each step a promise. "Celebrating."
Ryan's entire body went rigid. "Bria—"
"Come here."
He was on his feet before he could think. His shirt came off first, yanked over his head and thrown somewhere behind him. His jeans followed, then his boxers, until he stood in front of her naked and hard and shaking.
Bria looked at him. Her gaze traveled down his body, over his chest, his abs, the length of his cock standing at attention. She smiled.
"Not bad, Mitchell."
"You're killing me."
"I haven't even started."
She pushed him onto the couch.
Ryan landed on his back, still tangled in the throw pillow, and before he could move, Bria was on her knees in front of him. Her hands found his thighs. Her fingers curled around the base of his cock.
"Bria—"
"Shut up."
She leaned forward. Her tongue touched the head of his cock, and Ryan's entire body jerked like he'd been electrocuted.
"Fuck," he gasped.
She licked him again—slow, teasing, from base to tip—and Ryan's hands flew to the couch cushions, gripping them so hard his knuckles went white.
"You like that?" she murmured.
"You know I do."
She took him into her mouth.
Ryan saw stars.
Her lips slid down his shaft, warm and wet and perfect, and he thought he might die right there. She worked him with her tongue, her hand, her throat—taking him deeper with every pass, hollowing her cheeks, looking up at him with those dark eyes that saw everything.
"Jesus—" He was already close. Embarrassingly close. "Bria, I'm—"
She didn't stop.
She kept sucking, kept licking, kept driving him out of his mind. When he finally came, it was with a shout that probably woke the neighbors, his hips bucking off the couch, his cum spilling into her mouth.
She swallowed.
Every drop.
"Fuck," Ryan breathed.
Bria stood. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her smile slow and wicked.
"You're not done," she said.
"I'm not?"
"No." She hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties and pulled them down, stepping out of them. "You promised me a celebration."
---
What happened next blurred together in a haze of skin and sweat and desperate sounds.
He started with her on the couch. Bent her over the armrest and fucked her from behind, slow at first, then faster, his hands gripping her hips, his teeth on her shoulder. She came once. Twice. Clenching around him like a fist, crying out his name.
On the floor. Missionary. His body covering hers, his mouth on her neck, her legs wrapped around his waist. She scratched his back hard enough to draw blood. He didn't care. He fucked her through two more orgasms, watching her face contort, listening to her gasp and moan and beg.
Against the wall. Her legs around his waist, her back against the drywall, his hands under her ass. He pounded into her until his legs trembled, until she screamed, until the picture frame next to them fell and shattered on the floor.
They didn't stop.
The bed. Finally. He laid her down on the mattress, spread her legs wide, and fucked her like he was trying to prove something. To her. To himself. His thumb found her clit, circling it hard and fast, and she came again—fifth time, or fourth, or sixth, he'd lost count—her body arching off the bed, her mouth open in a silent scream.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, Ryan, I can't—"
"One more."
"I can't—"
"One more. Please. I need to feel it."
She nodded. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She was so far gone she couldn't even speak.
Ryan fucked her harder. Deeper. Every thrust was a promise, a confession, a prayer. He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her air, tasting her tears, and when he finally let go, it was with her name on his lips and his soul poured out inside her.
He collapsed on top of her.
They lay there for a long time. His cock still buried inside her, softening. His cum leaking out around him, dripping onto the sheets. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.
Because there was nothing left to say.
Or maybe there was everything.
But for now—for this one perfect moment—just being here was enough.