Riley Hart

Being with him always made things better.

When you feel like you don’t fit, just know you fit with me.

Crushes were weird like that. It wasn’t as if I’d spent day in and day out over the past four years thinking about him. I hadn’t. I’d dated people, and fully explored my bisexuality—and I mean fully. I’d fallen in love and fallen out of love. But no matter how infrequently I saw him, that smolder I’d felt upon first meeting him came rushing back every single time, like something dormant inside me coming back to life.

The motherfucker had me talking to myself. What the hell was it about Garrett?

Be a good boy, Ramsey. Stop wanting your teammate to suck your cock.

“Hey…so my dick was wondering if he could say hello to your mouth. It looks nice and comfy in there.”

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else, gonna make you come so hard, your head spins.”
“Sounds like I’m possessed, not orgasming.”

“Please.”
“That’s what I want to hear.” I bit his earlobe.
“I hate you.”
“I hate you too.”

“Fuck, all this being responsible is making me itch.”
“That’s probably just fleas in your carpet.”

There were plenty of things in life that sucked more than not hooking up with Ramsey anymore. Like spontaneous human combustion. Dying rain forests. Getting your toenails ripped out with tweezers. Global warming. Slamming your whole hand in a car door. Never mind that most of these things involved acts of bodily harm or global catastrophe. I mean, sometimes I did feel a physical pang. In my balls or, more troublesome, my chest, when I looked at him. I just reminded myself it could be worse. And most of the time it worked.
Worked-ish.