Whispers in the Wedding Closet

My sister looked like a vision in white, but all I could see was him.

The ceremony was perfect. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass of the old country church, catching in Emily’s veil and making the diamond studs in her ears sparkle. I stood beside her as her man of honor in my dove gray tux, my hands clammy, my throat tight with a love for her so fierce it hurt. I delivered my speech with only one tremor in my voice, making the crowd laugh, then weep, then laugh again. I raised my glass. “To Emily and Mark,” I said, my eyes sweeping the sea of round tables draped in ivory linen. “May your life together be as joyful as this day.”

That’s when I found him. He was sitting at a table near the back, clapping, a soft, genuine smile on his face. Mark’s brother, Liam. I’d met him briefly at the rehearsal dinner—a firm handshake, a “nice to meet you,” the standard polite fog that envelops two relative strangers forced into familial adjacency. He’d been in a dark suit then. Now, he was in a tuxedo identical to mine, the cut of it doing things to his shoulders and chest that should have been illegal. His hair was a messy, dark blond wave, like he’d run his hands through it just before walking in. He had this quiet, observant energy, green eyes that seemed to take in everything without giving much away.

I sat down after the speeches, my heart still pounding from the adrenaline of public speaking. A server refilled my champagne. Across the room, Liam caught my eye and gave a small, acknowledging nod. I lifted my glass slightly in return. My stomach did a slow, unexpected roll. It had been over a year since my last relationship—a slow fade with a guy named Ben who’d wanted a tidy, presentable partner for gallery openings, not a man who got flustered writing about office chairs and sometimes forgot to water his ferns. Since then, my love life had been a series of polite, forgettable dates that felt more like job interviews. Nothing that made my pulse stutter like this.

The band started up—a tasteful jazz quartet that quickly shifted into danceable pop covers. The dance floor filled. I danced with my mother, then with Emily, spinning her carefully so her train wouldn’t trip anyone. I was sweating under my tux jacket, the buzz of champagne and emotion humming in my veins. An hour slipped by in a blur of toasts and laughter.

“You should dance with Liam,” Emily said into my ear as we swayed to a slow song. She smelled like gardenias and happiness.

“What? Why?”

She pulled back, her eyes knowing. “Because you’ve glanced at him twelve times in the last five minutes. And I saw him watching you during the father-daughter dance. He looked… captivated.” She gave me a little squeeze. “Just be friendly. He’s a good guy. Mark says he’s shy.”

“He has not been staring,” I muttered, feeling heat crawl up my neck, but her words sent a thrill through me.

“Go,” she said, giving me a little push. “He doesn’t know anyone here except Mark’s rugby friends, and they’re all hammered by the bar.”

I looked over. Liam was leaning against the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the dancers. He did look a little isolated. And fine, yes, he was breathtaking. The tuxedo pants were tailored perfectly, hinting at strong thighs. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with the same light hair and corded with lean muscle.

Taking a fortifying gulp of champagne, I walked over. The music shifted to something with a Motown beat.

“Hey,” I said, my voice coming out a bit too loud. “Liam, right?”

He turned, and those green eyes focused on me with an intensity that made my breath hitch. A slow smile spread across his face. “The man of honor. That was a great speech.”

“Thanks. It’s… a lot of pressure.” I gestured vaguely toward the dance floor. “My sister seems to think you’re being anti-social. And that I should remedy that.”

He laughed, a low, warm sound that vibrated right through me. “Did she now?”

“She’s the bride. Her word is law today.”

“Is that an invitation to dance?” he asked, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second.

My pulse kicked up. “It’s a crowded floor. Might be safer than trying to talk over the music.”

He set his whiskey down. “Lead the way.”

We found a spot near the edge of the swirling couples. The song was upbeat, and we fell into an easy, rhythmic movement. He was a good dancer—natural, unselfconscious, his hips finding the beat in a way that was utterly distracting.

“So, you’re the architect,” I said, having to lean in slightly to be heard.

“Landscape architect,” he corrected, his breath warm against my ear. “There’s a difference. I work with dirt and plants, not concrete and steel.”

“Still creative.”

“And you’re the writer.”

“Copywriter. I write about ergonomic office chairs and probiotic yogurt.”

He grinned. “Still creative.”

The song faded into another slow one, something classic and crooning. The crowd tightened as couples drew closer. I made a move to step off the floor, but Liam’s hand caught my arm.

“One more?” he asked, and it wasn’t really a question. His hand slid down my arm to take my hand, his other coming to rest, warm and firm, on my shoulder.

We were chest to chest, closer than we’d been all night. I could smell him—clean cotton, expensive soap, and underneath, something uniquely male and musky. My own cologne, the one I’d splurged on for the wedding, seemed cheap in comparison. Our height difference was minimal; our eyes were nearly level. I had to look away, focusing on the knot of his black tie.

“You’re a good brother,” he said softly, his thumb moving in a small, unconscious circle on my shoulder.

“She’s easy to be good to.”

“Mark’s lucky. To have her. And to have you as family, now.”

I finally dared to look up. His expression was open, sincere. The noise of the reception seemed to fade, narrowing to this pocket of space we occupied. Our bodies moved together, a slow, swaying syncopation. I was hyper-aware of every point of contact: his palm against mine, his fingers on my shoulder, the brush of his thigh against mine with each small step.

“This is nice,” I heard myself say, the words leaving my mouth before my brain could censor them.

His eyes darkened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It is.”

His hand on my shoulder slid up, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my neck, just above my collar. The touch was electric. A jolt went straight down my spine, pooling low in my gut. My breath caught. I saw his own pupils dilate, the green of his irises almost swallowed by black. His thumb stroked the sensitive hollow behind my ear, once, twice, a deliberate caress that had no business in the middle of a wedding dance. My hand tightened in his.

“People can see,” I whispered, but I didn’t pull away.

“Let them see,” he whispered back, his voice a low thrum. His hand slid down again, this time tracing the line of my spine through my jacket, coming to rest boldly at the small of my back, pulling me an inch closer. Our hips brushed, and I felt the hard proof of his interest press against me. A flush of heat swept over my skin. “I don’t think they’re looking. I think they’re looking at the bride. Where everyone should be looking.” His lips were dangerously close to my ear again. “Except me.”

The song was ending. The spell was about to break. Panic, sweet and sharp, lanced through me. I didn’t want this to be over. I didn’t want him to become just my new brother-in-law’s brother, a guy I’d see at Thanksgivings and make polite small talk with.

As the last note hung in the air, he leaned in. I thought, for a heart-stopping moment, he was going to kiss me right there on the dance floor. But his lips went to my ear, his voice a low, rough whisper that went straight to my core.

“I need some air. Come with me?”

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded.

He released my hand, and the loss of contact felt physical. He turned and began weaving through the crowd toward a side door marked ‘Exit,’ not looking back to see if I followed. Of course I followed. My legs moved on their own.

The door led to a dimly lit, carpeted hallway, away from the ballroom’s cacophony. It was lined with doors to other function rooms, all dark. At the far end, I saw a red ‘EXIT’ sign glowing above a door to the outside. Liam wasn’t heading for it. Instead, he stopped halfway down the hall, his hand on the knob of a plain, unmarked door. He opened it, glanced inside, then looked back at me, his expression unreadable.

It was a large coat closet. Rows of empty wooden hangers lined a brass rail. The air was cool and still, smelling faintly of cedar and wool. A single, low-wattage bulb in a wire cage cast long, dramatic shadows.

He stepped inside and held the door open for me.

My feet were rooted to the carpet. This was insane. This was my sister’s wedding. He was… he was family, almost. A voice in my head, the sensible one, screamed that this was a spectacularly bad idea. But a louder voice, one that was throbbing in time with my pulse, whispered yes.

“Liam…” I started, my voice barely a whisper.

“Just talk,” he said, his own voice low. “It’s too loud out there. Come in.”

It was a flimsy pretext, and we both knew it. But it was the permission my hesitant body needed. I crossed the threshold. The door clicked shut behind me, muffling the distant thump of the bass to a dull, phantom heartbeat.

We were plunged into intimate semi-darkness. The closet was deeper than I’d thought. We were standing in a narrow aisle between the hanging rods and the wall. It was quiet enough to hear my own breathing, which was becoming uneven.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I said, the words automatic, the protest of the sensible man I was supposed to be.

“Why not?” He hadn’t moved closer, but his presence filled the small space. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. The pose was deceptively casual. His eyes tracked me, hungry and intent.

“It’s Emily’s day. This is… inappropriate.”

“Is it?” He tilted his head. “We’re two adults. We’re not hurting anyone. We’re just… talking.”

“We’re not talking,” I pointed out, my heart hammering against my ribs.

A slow, devastating smile touched his lips. “Aren’t we?”

He pushed off the wall then, closing the small distance between us in one smooth step. He didn’t touch me, but his body heat washed over me. I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny flecks of gold in his green eyes.

“I haven’t been able to stop looking at you all night,” he confessed, his voice dropping to that rough whisper again. “Since you walked your sister down the aisle. You had this look on your face… like you were holding the whole world together for her. It fucking undid me.”

The raw honesty of it stole my breath. My own reluctance, my nervousness, was still there, a fluttering panic in my chest. But underneath it, something else was stirring, molten and undeniable. He saw it. His eyes dropped to my lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his head dipping closer. “Tell me to go back to the reception, and I will. I’ll walk out that door and we’ll never mention this again.”

I knew he meant it. He was giving me an out. The gentleman in the coat closet. But the words wouldn’t come. All that came out was a shaky, desperate breath.

That was all the answer he needed.

His mouth crashed down on mine.

It wasn’t a gentle, exploratory kiss. It was a claiming. A release of all the tension that had been coiling between us for hours. His lips were firm, insistent, and tasted faintly of whiskey. A sound escaped me, a muffled groan of surrender, and I surged against him. My hands came up, fisting in the fine wool of his tuxedo jacket. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him, and I could feel the hard, unyielding lines of his body through our clothes.

The kiss deepened, turned carnal. His tongue swept into my mouth, and I met it with my own, a frantic, hungry duel. One of his hands slid down my back, over the curve of my ass, pulling me tighter against him. I could feel his erection, thick and demanding, pressing against my hip. The sensation shot through me like lightning, a direct line to my own cock, which was already straining painfully against the front of my trousers.

He broke the kiss, both of us gasping for air. His forehead rested against mine.

“God, you have no idea,” he breathed, his hands moving to the lapels of my jacket. “I saw you in this tux and I wanted to rip it off you with my teeth.”

“So do it,” I heard myself say, the words guttural, foreign. I’d never been this bold, this wanton. The closet, the secrecy, the illicit thrill of it all was stripping away every inhibition.

A dark, possessive look flashed in his eyes. He pushed my jacket off my shoulders. It fell to the floor with a soft whump. His followed a second later. Then his fingers were at my bow tie, pulling the clip-on free. He tossed it aside, his hands going to the buttons of my dress shirt. He didn’t bother undoing them all. He just yanked, and the front placket tore open, buttons pinging against the wooden wall and skittering across the floor.

The cool air of the closet hit my bare chest, making me shiver. His gaze was hot, devouring. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he growled, his palms flattening against my pectorals, thumbs brushing over my nipples. The touch made me arch into him, a sharp gasp tearing from my throat.

I reached for him, my fingers clumsy with need, and mimicked his actions. I tore his shirt open, the sound of rending fabric obscenely loud in the quiet space. His chest was broader than I’d imagined, defined with muscle and covered in a light dusting of hair that trailed down his taut stomach. I leaned in and licked one of his nipples, then sucked it into my mouth, biting down gently.

He cursed, a low, filthy word, and his hands tangled in my hair. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I looked up at him, my lips swollen, my mind hazy with lust. “You started this.”

“And I’m going to finish it,” he promised, his voice full of dark intent. His hands went to my belt, making quick work of the buckle and the button of my trousers. He shoved them, along with my briefs, down to my thighs in one rough motion. My cock sprang free, hard and leaking.

He dropped to his knees.

The sight of him there, on the floor of a coat closet at my sister’s wedding, in his ruined tuxedo shirt, looking up at me with those hungry eyes, was the most depraved, intoxicating thing I’d ever seen.

“Liam, you don’t have to—” I started, the last vestige of propriety trying to assert itself.

“I know I don’t have to,” he said, his breath hot against the head of my cock. “I want to. I want to taste you. I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

And then his mouth was on me.

It was wet, and hot, and perfect. He took me deep on the first try, his throat working around me, his tongue doing wicked things along the underside. My knees almost buckled. I braced one hand against the wall, the other gripping the brass rail of the hanging rod for support. A choked-off cry escaped me.

“Quiet,” he murmured, pulling off for a second, a string of saliva connecting his lips to my cock. “We have to be quiet.”

The admonition, the sheer wrongness of it, made my arousal spike even higher. He swallowed me down again, setting a relentless, deep rhythm. His hands gripped my hips, holding me still, controlling the pace. I could only stand there and take it, my head thrown back, my teeth gritted to keep from crying out. The sensations were overwhelming—the incredible suction of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble on my sensitive skin, the muted sounds of the wedding reception just beyond the door, a stark contrast to the obscene, wet sounds filling the closet.

I was hurtling toward the edge too fast. “Liam… I’m going to…”

He didn’t pull away. He hummed around me, the vibration pushing me past the point of no return. Pleasure detonated at the base of my spine, white-hot and catastrophic. I came down his throat with a shuddering, silent gasp, my body convulsing. He took every drop, swallowing diligently, before finally releasing me with a soft, wet pop.

I sagged against the wall, boneless and spent, my trousers still tangled around my thighs. He looked up at me, his lips glistening, a look of pure, smug satisfaction on his face. He rose to his feet, towering over me again. He was still painfully hard, the outline of his erection straining against the fine wool of his trousers.

Before I could even catch my breath, he spun me around, pressing my bare chest against the cool, smooth wood of the wall. His body covered mine, his cock pressing against the cleft of my ass through the layers of fabric.

“My turn,” he growled into my ear, one hand snaking around to undo his own fly.

The blunt, slick head of his cock pressed against me, not where I expected. He was rubbing himself against my ass, the friction maddening through the thin layer of my underwear and trousers. I was still floating in the aftermath of my own orgasm, but a new, deeper need was awakening. The feeling of being pinned, of his larger body dwarfing mine, of his obvious, desperate need, sent a fresh thrill through me.

“Do you have…?” I managed to ask, my voice hoarse.

He stilled. “Shit. No. I didn’t exactly plan this.”

A crazy, reckless idea formed in my hazy mind. I’d seen what I needed earlier. “My jacket,” I panted. “Inside pocket. There’s a small hotel sewing kit. The plastic packet they seal the buttons in… it’s got a slippery lining. It’s not much.”

He barked out a short, disbelieving laugh against my neck. “A fucking resourceful Boy Scout.” He released me just long enough to retrieve my discarded jacket, fishing out the tiny cardboard packet. He ripped it open, shaking out the spare buttons and thread. He held up the small, clear plastic sleeve that had held them. “This?”

“It’s something,” I said, my face burning.

He looked around the closet, his gaze landing on a shelf above the rods. He reached up and pulled down a half-empty bottle of clear liquid. “What’s this?” he muttered, unscrewing the cap and sniffing. His face cleared. “Vodka. Left over from some other event.” He poured a small amount into the plastic packet, swirling it. “Better than nothing. It’ll have to work.”

“It’ll sting,” I warned, a new kind of nervousness fluttering in my stomach. This was really happening.

“I’ll be careful,” he said, his voice softening for the first time since we’d entered. He poured the vodka-lubricant mixture into his palm, slicking himself up. The sharp, clean smell of alcohol mixed with the cedar and sex in the air. Then his fingers, wet and cool, were probing between my cheeks, finding my entrance. “Relax,” he whispered, his mouth back at my ear. “Just breathe. Let me in.”

I forced my muscles to unclench, taking a shuddering breath. One finger pushed inside, the makeshift lube providing a shocking, cool slide. It did sting, a sharp bite that quickly faded into a dull, stretching burn. He worked me open with a single-minded focus, first one finger, then two, scissoring them, preparing me with a rough efficiency that was somehow more erotic than any gentle seduction. This was need. This was now.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice thick.

I nodded, my forehead pressed against the wood. “Yes.”

He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against my opening. “This might hurt,” he warned, but there was no hesitation in his voice.

“Just do it.”

He pushed in.

It was a searing, splitting intrusion. The lubrication was minimal, and I was tight, unprepared. A sharp cry was torn from my throat, immediately stifled as I bit down on my own lip. He froze, buried to the hilt inside me, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re so fucking tight.”

The initial pain began to recede, replaced by a feeling of incredible, shocking fullness. He was so deep, stretching me open in a way I’d never experienced. I could feel every throbbing inch of him. I pushed back against him, a tiny, involuntary movement.

He took it as permission.

He began to move, slow, deep pulls that dragged against my sensitized nerves. The sting was still there, a bright thread of pain woven through the overwhelming pleasure. It was raw, and primal, and filthy. Each thrust rocked me forward against the wall. The sound of skin slapping against skin, of our ragged breathing, of the wooden hangers jingling softly on the rod with our movement, filled the closet.

He wrapped one arm around my chest, holding me upright, his other hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. His mouth was on my neck, biting, sucking, marking me. I was completely at his mercy, taken and used in the most delicious way possible. The earlier power dynamic had shifted; I was no longer the man of honor, the responsible brother. I was just a body for him to fuck, and the degradation of it, the anonymity, was the most potent aphrodisiac I’d ever known.

“You feel that?” he grunted into my ear, his pace increasing. “You feel how deep I am? This is what you wanted when you followed me in here. When you danced with me like you wanted to melt into me.”

“Yes,” I moaned, the word ripped from me. “God, yes.”

“You wanted this,” he panted, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. “My brother’s new brother. In a closet. Surrounded by all this… happiness. And we’re in here doing this.”

“I am,” I gasped, the admission fueling my own rising climax. My cock, which had softened, was hard again, trapped between my stomach and the wall, leaking with each punishing thrust. The specificity of his words—my brother’s new brother—wrapped the entire act in a new layer of taboo that made my head spin.

“Come for me again,” he commanded, his hand sliding down from my chest to wrap around my shaft. He stroked me in time with his thrusts, his grip firm, his thumb smearing pre-come over the head. “Come while I’m inside you. Let me feel you lose it.”

The visual, the sheer possession in his words, sent me over. My second orgasm was different from the first—deeper, less sharp, a rolling wave of pleasure that seemed to originate from where he was joined with me. I came with a choked sob, striping the wooden wall in front of me with hot, white spurts, my body clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses.

The feeling of my muscles clenching around him triggered his own release. He slammed into me one last, final time, burying himself to the root, and groaned, long and low, into the curve of my shoulder. I felt the hot pulse of him inside me, filling me up.

For a long moment, we stayed like that, joined, panting, our sweat-slicked bodies pressed together in the aftermath. The world slowly came back into focus: the smell of sex and vodka and cedar, the distant, cheerful music of the wedding band, the rough texture of the wood against my cheek.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. The loss of him felt profound, leaving me feeling hollowed out and achingly full at the same time. A slow trickle of his release and the vodka mixture traced a warm path down my thigh. I sagged against the wall, my legs shaky. I heard him fastening his trousers behind me.

Silence descended, thick and heavy. The reality of what we’d just done began to seep in, cold and sobering. I’d just let my new brother-in-law’s brother fuck me in a coat closet during the reception. I’d come twice. I had bite marks on my neck and my shirt was torn open. A deep, tender ache was already settling in my muscles, a promise of the bruises on my hips and the soreness that would linger for days.

I turned around, pulling my trousers up with trembling hands. The fabric felt rough against my sensitized skin. He was watching me, his expression unreadable again. He’d buttoned his ruined shirt as best he could, but it hung open, revealing his chest. He looked debauched and magnificent.

“Well,” he said quietly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “That happened.”

I couldn’t meet his eyes. Shame, hot and sudden, washed over me, followed by a dizzying wave of residual pleasure that made my knees weak. What had I done? “I should… I should get back. Emily will be wondering where I am.”

“Leo,” he said, and the sound of my name on his lips, so intimate after what we’d just shared, made me flinch.

I finally looked at him. His gaze was steady, intense. There was no regret there. Only a simmering, satisfied heat, and something else—a question.

“This doesn’t have to be a mistake,” he said softly. “It doesn’t have to be just this.”

“What else could it be?” I asked, my voice small. “You live three states away. I’m… this was a wedding. A night out of time.”

“Was it?” He took a step closer, closing the distance again. He didn’t touch me, but his presence was a tangible force. “Or was it the only place we could be? The only time we had?” He reached out, his thumb brushing over the love bite he’d left on my neck. The touch was possessive, tender. “Did it feel like just a night to you?”

It hadn’t. It had felt like the most real, most visceral thing I’d experienced in years. It felt like being known, in a raw, physical language I’d forgotten I could speak. But admitting that felt dangerous. It felt like stepping off a cliff and trusting the air to hold you.

The door to the closet suddenly rattled. We both froze. Someone was trying the handle from the outside.

“Locked,” a woman’s voice said, muffled through the wood. “Must be a supply closet or something. Try down the other hall.”

We listened to the retreating footsteps. The interruption shattered the fragile bubble we’d been in. The real world, with its expectations and complications, came crashing back in.

“I have to go,” I whispered, bending to pick up my torn shirt, holding it closed over my chest. I found my bow tie on the floor, a silly, floppy piece of black silk. My jacket.

He nodded, stepping back to give me space. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he remained silent.

I dressed as best I could, buttoning my tuxedo jacket over the ruined shirt. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to smooth it. I probably looked exactly like a man who’d just been thoroughly fucked in a coat closet.

I reached for the door handle, then paused. I didn’t look back. “Goodbye, Liam.”

I slipped out into the hallway. The music from the ballroom swelled, a cheery, romantic song. I walked quickly, not running, back toward the light and the noise and the celebration.

The reception was winding down. Another hour had passed; the cake had been cut, the bouquet tossed. The dance floor was sparser now, occupied by older couples and the truly dedicated. I found Emily sitting at the sweetheart table, her head on Mark’s shoulder, looking blissfully exhausted. She saw me and her eyes widened.

“There you are! Where’d you disappear to? Your face is all flushed.” She smiled, a warm, tipsy smile. “Everything okay? You look… windblown.”

From across the room, leaning against the now-closed bar, Liam watched me. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable from this distance.

I looked back at my sister, forcing a smile that felt brittle on my face. “Just needed some air. It was getting hot in there.” The lie tasted like whiskey and shame.

Two hours later, I was standing under the portico of the venue, helping to load gifts into my parents’ car. The night was cool, the stars sharp and clear above. Most of the guests had left. Emily and Mark had already departed in a shower of sparklers, off to their airport hotel before their honeymoon flight in the morning.

I was tying a ribbon around a precarious stack of gift boxes when I felt a presence behind me. I knew who it was before I turned around.

Liam stood there, hands in the pockets of his dress pants. He’d changed out of his tuxedo jacket and torn shirt into a simple black sweater. He looked calm, solid.

“Heading out?” I asked, my voice carefully neutral.

“My flight’s at seven AM,” he said. “Cab’s on its way.”

I nodded, looking back at the gift boxes. “Safe travels.”

“Leo.” He waited until I looked at him. “Give me your phone.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Your phone. Please.”

Hesitantly, I pulled it from my pocket and handed it to him. His fingers brushed mine, sending a jolt through me that was as potent as it had been hours before. He tapped at the screen for a moment, then handed it back.

“I put my number in. And I texted myself from your phone, so I have yours.” He took a step closer. The scent of him, soap and cold night air, washed over me. “What happened in there… that wasn’t nothing. For me. Don’t pretend it was nothing for you.”

I stared at the new contact in my phone: Liam 🌿. The little sprout emoji next to his name made my heart do a stupid, hopeful flip.

“You live three states away,” I repeated my earlier protest, but it sounded weak even to my own ears.

“I also have a car. And frequent flyer miles.” He reached out, and this time, he didn’t stop himself. His fingers traced the line of my jaw, a touch so fleeting and tender it made my throat ache. “Think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

A cab pulled up under the portico, its headlights cutting through the darkness.

“My ride,” he said. He didn’t move for a second, his green eyes searching mine. Then he gave a small, almost shy smile—a stark contrast to the commanding man in the closet. “Goodbye, Leo. For now.”

He turned and walked to the cab, sliding into the back seat. He didn’t look back as it pulled away, its taillights disappearing into the night.

I stood there for a long time, the phone warm in my hand, the ghost of his touch on my skin. The delicious, persistent ache in my body was a secret reminder, a physical echo that throbbed gently with every shift of my weight. In my pocket, the little black bow tie felt like a relic from another life. The music from the empty ballroom had finally stopped. All was quiet.

I looked down at my phone screen, at his name. A beginning, he’d called it. I thought of the whispered words in the dark, the desperate heat, the shocking intimacy of being known in that raw, physical way. I thought of the way he’d looked at me when I gave my speech, and the way he’d looked at me when he was on his knees. I thought of the three states between us, and the quiet loneliness of my apartment, and the empty, polite future that seemed to stretch out before me.

I unlocked my phone. My thumb hovered over the new contact. The sensible part of me, the one that had protested in the closet, screamed that this was how you got your heart broken. That this was a spectacular epilogue to a wedding, nothing more. That the ache would fade and I’d be left with a complicated family dynamic and a stupid emoji in my contacts list.

But the other part, the part that had whispered yes in the dark, was louder. It remembered the feel of his hands, the truth in his eyes when he said it wasn’t nothing. It was tired of safe, forgettable choices.

I didn’t type ‘Come back.’ That was too desperate, too neat. It assumed he could turn around. It ignored every practical obstacle.

Instead, I took a deep breath of the cold night air and typed something else. Something that acknowledged the distance, the insanity, and the undeniable pull.

Me: The closet door is still unlocked.

I hit send before I could second-guess it. The message whooshed away into the night, a reckless, hopeful signal flung into the dark. I slipped the phone into my pocket, the dull ache within me now feeling like a promise instead of a punishment. I went to help my father with the last of the gifts, the taste of whiskey and possibility still on my tongue, waiting for a reply I had no right to expect, but hoped for with every throbbing, secret part of me.