Page 21 of My Only (My First, My Last)

H assani

The wood creaked beneath my feet as I made my way downstairs. Sleep had been shit—two nights of reaching for my wife only to find nothing but cold sheets. She hadn’t come back to our bed since the night she told me she wanted a divorce. And I still couldn’t accept that she meant it.

Despite my many attempts to talk to her yesterday via phone calls, we hadn’t spoken since she hit me with those four words…

I want a divorce.

Every time I replayed them, it felt like a knife to the chest. My heart clenched, aching at the thought of her really meaning it.

No. There was no way.

We literally agreed… this was it.

No take-backs.

Forever us.

It was a running inside joke between us, but I meant it. At the altar, in every fight, every disagreement. I’d never wavered.

But two nights in a row of sleeping apart? I didn’t know what to think.

The smell of breakfast drifted through the air, reassuring me that she was at least still here. That I’d get to see her before heading into the city for work. And I needed to see her.

Last night was another hard one for me.

The aroma of dinner had still lingered when I got home, which let me know she’d been here. But the house had been dark. She hadn’t been waiting for me.

Knowing she was in the guest bedroom, I’d gone straight there after my shower. The door was closed, no light spilling from underneath, but I knew she was inside. I turned the knob.

Locked.

A pang shot through my chest.

“Ayla.” My voice was calm, low, as I spoke to the door’s surface.

No answer.

I tried again. “Baby, you in there?”

“I am.”

I paused, inhaling slowly, afraid to ask my next question. “Can you open the door for me, please?”

A beat of silence. Then…

“I can,” she said. “But I won’t.”

I stood there, staring at the door, her words settling into my bones.

I could’ve pushed. I wanted to push. I could’ve begged—wanted to do that too. But instead, I exhaled sharply and turned away, deciding to give her space.

This thing, whatever was happening between us right now… it would pass.

Just like always.

That morning, when I stepped into the kitchen, I wasn’t sure if I’d actually see her.

But there she was.

And the sight of her made me falter in my step.

She stood at the coffee bar, stirring honey into her coffee, her head slightly bowed, deep in thought. When she lifted her gaze just enough to glance at me, she did a double take, like she hadn’t expected to see me either.

The morning sun filtered in through the skylight, casting golden light over her.

My Langston U track team tee hung off her frame, oversized, paired with her patterned sleep shorts that peeked out from beneath the hem.

Even in all her quiet, even in all this distance between us, my wife was so damn beautiful.

She dropped her gaze to her mug.

“Morning,” I said as I set my laptop bag on the counter.

No response.

Not even a glance my way.

Her delicate fingers reached for the milk carton, tilting it just enough to pour a splash into her coffee.

Something about the way she moved—intentional, distant—made me wonder if she was still mad at me from two nights ago… or if she was simply being dramatic.

I almost shook the thought away. No, this wasn’t our first fight. Wasn’t our first time dealing with the silent treatment. But this? This was different.

We’d had one other fight worse than this, not long ago. One I’ll never forget. But even then, she didn’t stay away for two nights straight.

The only other time she’d slept in the guest bedroom, it hadn’t lasted long. I couldn’t take it. Knowing she was just downstairs, under the same roof but feeling like miles away?

I told myself never again.

And yet… here we were.

This time, she wasn’t just distant. She was shutting me out.

Ayla had never done that before.

“You’re not gonna say good morning back?” I asked, closing the space between us.

Silence.

She just kept stirring her coffee, eyes trained on the dark liquid swirling in her mug.

The tension in the kitchen was thick enough to choke on. Our space, once filled with warmth and laughter, now sat heavy with unspoken words.

Ayla turned, moving around me with ease, opening the fridge to return the milk. I let out a scoffing laugh, shaking my head.

“A,” I called out as she closed the door.

Nothing.

“Ayla.”

Still nothing. She moved past me again, making her way back toward the counter—until I caught her wrist.

She gasped at the contact, body stiffening for just a second before she let herself be pulled into me. No resistance, just the tension humming between us.

Her brown eyes locked onto mine, searching. And I held her gaze, steady, unwavering.

I leaned in, brushing my lips against hers, testing, waiting. Her lashes fluttered, and for a moment, she stayed still. Then, slowly, her eyes drifted shut.

That was all I needed.

I took her mouth in a deep, claiming kiss, swallowing the moan that slipped free. She lost her footing for a second, but I was there, hands gripping her waist, keeping her steady. Without breaking contact, I lifted her into my arms and carried her to the kitchen counter.

There was nothing soft about the way we moved after that. The frustration between us bled into every touch, every gasp, every desperate moan. By the time I was yanking my belt free and she was slipping out of her shorts, we were frantic.

I hooked my hands beneath her thighs, pushing her legs back as I settled her against me, her knee hooking over my elbow.

Our mouths crashed together again, teeth and tongues clashing in an unspoken battle.

Her hands fisted my shirt as I guided myself between her soft, slick folds. Even through the urgency, I forced myself to take it slow, to feel every inch as I slid into her heat.

Ayla’s head dropped back, lips parting in a sharp exhale.

“Shit,” I groaned against her mouth, feeling her tighten around me.

Two nights without her was two nights too damn long.

She whimpered as I pushed deeper, her body arching into mine. Her lips found mine again, her tongue sliding against mine, desperate and wanting.

My movements were slow but deliberate, each thrust deep and controlled, dragging pleasure out of both of us. Our bodies moved in sync, a rhythm we knew too well.

Ayla leaned her head back against the cabinet, her grip tightening on my shirt. Her lips parted on a silent cry, her brows knitting together as I rolled my hips, stroking into her just right.

For a moment, we lost control—moans mixing with growls, teeth grazing, hands gripping. Her gaze met mine, dark and hazy, pupils blown.

It was too much. The way she gripped and released me in the same breath. The way her body trembled beneath my touch. The way she whispered my name like it was the only thing holding her together.

“Damn, Hassani… mmm ,” she moaned, voice breathless, body shuddering as her release slammed into her.

I felt her come undone around me, her walls tightening, pulling me over the edge with her. My grip on her thighs turned bruising as I fought to hold on, but it was useless.

A deep groan tore from my throat as pleasure crashed through me, so intense it had my vision blacking out for a second.

I collapsed against her, chest heaving. Ayla’s legs locked around me, holding me close as we caught our breath.

And for a moment, just a moment, everything felt right again. Like we’d found our way back.

Like we were okay.

Until my phone chimed with a message.

Still breathless, I ignored it, pressing my forehead against Ayla’s. This was what we did. This was how we fixed things—falling back into each other until the anger faded. Until we remembered what we were.

But Ayla had stiffened beneath me.

Her gaze dropped to my phone.

And then, in an instant, everything changed.

I followed her line of sight, my stomach twisting as I saw the name on the screen.

Harper Royce.

Just a name. Just a message alert.

But to Ayla, it was so much more.

Her fingers curled into tight fists. Her jaw tensed like she’d been struck.

I could feel the shift, the way her body went cold beneath my touch.

The warmth, the closeness, the moment we’d just shared… it was gone.

And in its place was something I couldn’t name.

But I knew one thing for sure.

This time… sex wouldn’t fix it.

Like I said, the text only said “message” and Harper’s name, so I had no idea what she was texting me about. But the unknown was enough to make Ayla’s entire body go rigid, her expression shifting right before my eyes, from sated to something else entirely.

She locked eyes with me, her lips pressing into a tight line before she kissed her teeth, loud and sharp. A second later, her palm met my chest, pushing me back with enough force to send me sliding out from her warmth.

I exhaled harshly at the loss.

But it wasn’t just the way she pulled away. It was how she did it. The way she untangled herself from me like I was something she needed to be free of. Like I wasn’t her husband. Like I wasn’t the man who’d just been buried deep inside her, whispering how much I loved her.

And that? That had my pulse kicking up again, this time in panic.

Because sex always worked. Always. No matter how bad the fight, how tense the air between us, we always found our way back.

But now? She was still mad.

And the second my phone chimed with a message… she was gone.

I barely glanced at my phone, but Ayla did. And suddenly, everything changed.

Harper.

A cold knot formed in my stomach as realization sank in. This isn’t just about an argument. It’s not even about the late nights.

It’s about her .

Ayla stalked toward the counter where she’d left her coffee.

“Baby?” I whispered, still breathless, reaching for her.

She stopped when I placed a hand on her hip, and I expected her to ease up, to exhale the tension sitting heavy in her shoulders. I expected her to let the moment carry us back to where we belonged.

Forever us.

But she didn’t.

Instead, her body went cold. Not just physically. Cold in a way I could feel in my chest.

My phone chimed again.

Ayla grunted, snatching up her mug so fast that coffee sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the counter.

I jerked my head back, stunned.

“Have a good day,” she spat, turning on her bare feet and storming out of the kitchen.

Not even bothering to sip her coffee.

Not even looking back.

Leaving me standing there with my dick out, slacks bunched around my ankles, and confusion hitting me like a punch to the gut.

It only took a few minutes of replaying everything in my head—every touch, every kiss, every whispered moan—for it to finally hit me.

Because sex always worked. Always.

But not after my phone chimed with a message from Harper.

That was when she shut down. That was when she closed herself off.

And the second I realized it, my stomach sank.

I yanked up my pants in haste, my mind racing.

I knew Ayla had been irritated by Harper since meeting her at The Met, but I thought it was just that. Annoyance. I figured she didn’t like her, but I never once considered that Ayla actually saw Harper as a problem that could break us.

But now?

Now , I wasn’t so sure.

I took a step toward the hallway, ready to go after her, ready to fix whatever this was—only to hear the sharp slam of the guest bedroom door.

I froze.

“Damn.”

She’s mad mad.

Fuck.

I ran my fingers over the top of my head, frustration burning through me in waves.

Was it really Harper? Did she really consider Harper a threat?

Nah. There’s no way Ayla would think I would…

I exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders back as the weight of the last few months crashed into me.

Had I been blind?

Had I really convinced myself Ayla was just being dramatic about me coming home late all the time, when all this time… Ayla considered Harper to be a real problem?

And if so…

“How the hell am I supposed to fix that now?”

I had no clue. But I knew exactly who would. A man who I felt knew how to fix everything… and I prayed like hell that I was right.