Justine's last First kiss

her biggest regret

​The cafe was loud, but as Damian approached Justine’s table, the noise seemed to vacuum out of the room. He didn’t have his usual easy smile. He had his professional mask on—the one that looked like stone.

​"Hi," Justine said, her wave faltering.

​"Hi," Damian replied, his voice flat. He didn't set down a menu. "What are you doing here, Justine?"

​"You haven't answered your phone. Any of my messages. I thought something was wrong."

​Damian leaned in, his voice a low, jagged whisper. "Go home, Jus. I’m working. We’ll talk later."

​He turned on his heel before she could protest. Justine sat frozen, the rejection stinging worse than the silence of the last few days. Since Greg’s death, she had built a fortress around her heart. Damian was the only one she’d let scale the walls, and now, it felt like he was pushing her off the battlements.

​

​Justine sought refuge in the park. It was her sanctuary, a place where the world felt manageable. She sat on her usual bench by the pond, tearing a loaf of bread into small pieces for the ducks. The sky was an aggressive, mocking blue; the grass, a vibrant green.

​She felt like a different person than the woman who had buried a husband six months ago. She had a new lease on life, but the lease felt like it was being evicted. What did I do? she wondered, watching a mallard dive beneath the surface. How do I fix what I don’t understand?

​She went home and poured her anxiety into the kitchen. Making pasta from scratch was methodical—the kneading, the drying, the rolling. It kept her hands busy so her mind couldn't spiral. When the knock finally came, she tried to mask her fear with a playful, fragile lilt.

​"Who's there?" she called through the wood.

​"Greg," the voice barked back.

​The air left Justine’s lungs. She opened the door to find Damian, his eyes twitching with a cocktail of hurt and fury.

​"Oh my god," she whispered, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. "The party. I called you Greg, didn't I?"

​"You told me you loved me," Damian spat, stepping into the entryway but refusing to sit. "And then you used his name. Who the hell is Greg, Justine? Because for three months, I thought I was the only one in your head."

​

​Justine reached for her wine glass, her hand trembling. She took a long, sharp swallow before looking him in the eye.

​"I was married, Damian. For two years."

​Damian flinched. "Married? You never—"

​"He died. Six months ago," she cut in, the words coming out in a rush of grief. "An accident. He was my high school sweetheart, my entire world. When he died, I thought I was supposed to go with him. I gave up. And then... then I met you."

​She stepped closer, her eyes brimming. "You made me laugh. You made me feel like I wasn't a ghost anymore. I’m sorry his name came out—I was drunk, and I’m clumsy, and yes, a part of me will always love him. But I love you now. That’s the only thing I’m sure of."

​Damian’s anger began to melt, replaced by a hollow confusion. "Why didn't you tell me? We’ve talked about everything, Jus. I thought you trusted me."

​"It wasn't about trust," she sobbed, the dam finally breaking. "It’s the guilt. Damian, I let him die. I put money over his safety. I didn't take out the loan for the motorcycle repairs. I told him we could wait. The brakes failed... he would still be here if I hadn't been so selfish."

​She collapsed into a fit of hysteria, the weight of the secret finally crushing her. Damian didn't hesitate this time. He moved across the room and pulled her into his chest, rocking her as she wept into his shirt.

​"It's okay," he murmured into her hair, his voice thick. "It's okay, baby girl. I've got you."

​

​When the sobbing subsided, Justine looked up into his blue eyes. "I thought if I let myself be happy, karma would take you too. I can’t lose you, Damian."

​"I'm not going anywhere," he promised.

​He lifted her easily, carrying her into the bedroom where the evening light filtered through the curtains. He laid her down, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. The scent of his cologne—clean, spicy, and familiar—grounded her.

​As they moved together, the ghost of Greg seemed to finally fade into the shadows of the room. Justine took the lead, straddling him, wanting to feel every inch of the man who was alive, here, and hers. She watched them in the full-length mirror across from the bed—two people trying to stitch each other back together in the dark.

The air in the room grew heavy, thick with the scent of salt, wine, and the raw friction of skin on skin. Justine gripped Damian’s shoulders, her fingernails digging into his deltoids as she maintained her rhythm, her internal muscles clenching around him with every downward slide.

​She watched herself in the mirror—a blurred silhouette of arched filtered light and shadow. The sight of him buried deep inside her, his hands moving from her waist to her breasts to steady her, sent a fresh wave of electricity straight to her core.

​"Damian," she gasped, her voice breaking. "Don't stop. Please."

​Damian reached up, his fingers lacing behind her neck to pull her down into a bruising kiss. His hips bucked upward, meeting her halfway with a desperate, heavy force that shattered her remaining control. The friction hit that perfect, searing spot, and suddenly, the world narrowed down to the point where they connected.

​The orgasm hit her like a physical blow. Her vision whited out as her walls convulsed around him in a series of tight, rhythmic spasms. She threw her head back, a choked cry escaping her throat as the pleasure radiated outward, washing away the guilt and the grief for one shimmering, breathless moment.

​Feeling her peak, Damian lost his own battle for restraint. He let out a low, gutteral growl, his body tensing beneath her as he thrust one last time, deep and final. She felt the hot, rhythmic pulse of him filling her, a silent vow signed in skin and heat.

​They collapsed against each other, chests heaving in unison, the only sound in the room the frantic thrumming of two hearts trying to find a shared beat. For the first time in six months, the silence in the house didn't feel lonely—it felt full.