Ending 1: Leave

You don’t stay.

You step back, grab your clothes, and start pulling them on without looking at him. The air in the apartment still smells like sweat and sex and everything you just shut down. Your cock is still hard, trapped awkwardly as you yank your sweatpants up. Neither of you speaks while you dress.

He watches you the whole time, jaw tight, but he doesn’t try to stop you again.

You leave the same way you came in. The door shuts behind you with a soft, final click. The hallway feels too bright. The night air outside is cooler against your still-flushed skin. You walk the three blocks home with your pulse still elevated and the ghost of his hands lingering on your hips.

By the time you get inside your own place, the frustration has settled into something hotter and more private.

You don’t bother with the lights. You drop onto the bed, shove your sweatpants down just far enough, and wrap a hand around yourself. You’re still slick from earlier, still aching. Your eyes close.

The fantasy comes in pieces — pure sensation, no decisions.

The wet sound of skin moving against skin. The heavy, uneven breathing that would have filled the room. The sharp scent of sweat and precome and the faint clean-musk smell of his body mixed with yours. You imagine the drag of a hot mouth, the tight squeeze of a fist, the way bodies would have shifted and pressed and rolled until the bed complained. The low, broken noises someone would have made when it got too good. The slap of flesh. The heat trapped between two stomachs. The moment everything turned urgent and messy and past the point of talking.

Your hand moves faster, matching the rhythm you’re inventing.

You picture the way sweat would have made every slide easier, filthier. The way a cock would have felt throbbing against a palm or a tongue or the inside of a thigh. The scent of sex getting thicker in the air. The sound of someone swearing under their breath, right at the edge. You stroke yourself to all of it — the motion, the noise, the smell — chasing the release that never happened in that apartment.

It doesn’t take long.

Your hips lift off the bed as you come, spilling over your fist with a low, frustrated sound. The orgasm is sharp and incomplete in the way unfinished business always is. Afterward you just lie there, breathing hard, staring at the dark ceiling while the evidence cools on your stomach.

The night is over.

You went home instead.