Ashes of Denial
899 Words
The week that followed felt like walking through smoke—everything hazy,
choking, impossible to see clearly.Alex threw himself into work with a ferocity that surprised even his colleagues.
He arrived at the firm before sunrise, stayed long after the cleaning crew left, and buried himself in revised blueprints for the downtown mixed-use development his team was pitching.
The sleek lines of glass and steel on his screen should have been soothing. Instead, every sharp angle reminded him of Dami’s jawline, every curve echoed the way Dami’s hands had gripped his hips.
He barely slept.
When he did, dreams came in fragments: rain-slick skin, whiskey-warm breath, the low groan Dami had made when their mouths finally met.
Alex would wake hard and aching, cursing himself as he took cold showers that did nothing to extinguish the fire.
Marcus returned from his conference on Tuesday, none the wiser.
They met for lunch at their usual spot—a hole-in-the-wall taqueria near Alex’s office.
Marcus looked relaxed, talking animatedly about the new baby’s nursery and how his wife had picked out
“some ridiculous jungle theme.”
“You good, man?”
Marcus asked halfway through his carne asada tacos.
“You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
Alex forced a laugh and took a sip of his horchata.
“Deadline’s killing me. The partners want three completely different concepts by Friday. I’m fine.”
Marcus studied him for a second longer than comfortable, then shrugged. “If you say so. Hey, Dami texted me yesterday. Said he crashed at your place after another blowout with his dad. Thanks for looking out for him.”
The taco turned to ash in Alex’s mouth. He swallowed hard.
“No problem. That’s what family does, right?” Family. The word tasted bitter now.
Because what he’d done with Dami on that couch wasn’t family. It was betrayal wrapped in desire, a line crossed so cleanly he could still feel the burn.
Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good brother. Seriously.”
Guilt twisted like a knife in Alex’s gut. He changed the subject to Marcus’s upcoming fatherhood and spent the rest of lunch nodding at the right moments while his mind replayed every second of that midnight kiss.
The way Dami’s split lip had felt against his. The heat of bare skin.
The desperate way they’d clung to each other like drowning men.
By Wednesday, Alex had convinced himself it was a one-time mistake.
A moment of weakness fueled by whiskey and vulnerability.
Dami was straight-passing, troubled, and Marcus’s best friend. It couldn’t happen again.
It wouldn’t happen again. He deleted the text thread from that night—the simple “Here” and his own “Yeah”—and told himself he was doing the right thing.
Then Thursday night arrived.Alex was sprawled on his couch at 2:17 a.m., staring at the ceiling with the TV muted on some late-night rerun,
when his phone lit up on the coffee table.
The message was from an unknown number again, but he knew exactly who it was.
Unknown: Can’t stop thinking about your mouth.
Alex’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard it hurt. He sat up slowly, staring at the words until they blurred. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. Every logical part of his brain screamed to delete it, block the number, pretend none of it had ever happened.Instead, he typed back a single word.
Alex: Same.
He hit send before he could overthink it, then immediately regretted it. The message showed as delivered. Read almost instantly.The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Dami: f**k. I keep replaying it. The way you sounded when I kissed your neck.Heat flooded Alex’s face—and lower. He shifted on the couch, suddenly too aware of his body, of the way his sweatpants felt too tight. He should stop this now. Type “We can’t” or “Delete my number” and end it.
But his fingers moved on their own.
Alex: You can’t say s**t like that.
Dami: Why not? It’s the truth. I can still taste you.
Alex groaned aloud, dragging a hand down his face. The ache from his dreams returned full force, sharp and insistent. He could picture Dami somewhere in the dark—maybe in his small apartment above the bar, shirtless on his bed, typing with those calloused guitarist fingers.
Alex: This is dangerous.
Dami: I know. Tell me to stop.
The same words from that night.
Alex’s breath came faster. He typed, deleted, typed again.
Alex: I should.
Dami: But you won’t.
Another pause. Then a new message.
Dami: I’m hard just thinking about you. Are you?
Alex’s hand trembled as he stared at the screen. The honesty was brutal. No games, no pretense.
Just raw need laid bare between them. He closed his eyes, remembering the weight of Dami on top of him, the slide of tongues, the way Dami’s hips had rolled up seeking friction.
His own body responded instantly, heat pooling low in his belly.
Alex: Yeah.
The response came fast.
Dami: f**k, Alex. What are we doing?
Alex: Making a mistake.
Dami: Best mistake I’ve ever made.
They texted for another hour—nothing too explicit, but charged enough to leave Alex flushed and restless.
Dami described how he’d wanted to push Alex’s shirt higher that night.
- Writer
