The Five Year Kiss

Hello, my Loveleees. I'm Roxy Callahan and welcome to my Erotic Whispers, the podcast where I celebrate women's romance and sexuality. We all deserve both, don't we well. I adore short stories where it's all about the passion and the intensity of the moment. I also love the long, slow build, where the moment the couple get together isn't just about the moment, it's also about all that came before. That's what you'll find in this week's story, a man and woman brought together when their best friends get married, and how this leads to the moment where they find themselves in each other's arms. The wonderful actors this week are Annie b and Clint. Finally, don't forget this podcast is intended for adult listeners. The air that hits me as I step out of the shuttle is a solid wall of heat and humidity, thick with the scent of salt and hibiscus. Welcome to Paradise, or in my case, welcome to the operational theater for the biggest event of my best friend Jess's life. My linen dress is already starting to cling to my back as I wrestle my carry on the bride's emergency kit and my ringing thoone it's the florist. Of course, it's the florist. No, the penies need to be a soft blush, not hot pink. I'm trying to keep the frantic edge out of my voice. Yes, I'm sure, I'll forward you the swatch again. I end the call with a sigh. My mission for the next five days crystal clear. In sure Jess has the perfect stress free wedding she's been dreaming of since we were kids. This is not a vacation, this is a deployment. Later that evening, at the welcome reception on a terrace overlooking the ocean, I'm in full made of honor mode, mooved over a seating chart crisis, located the groom's missing cufflink, and now I'm just trying to have a five minute conversation with Jess's aunt. Mike Gaze sweeps the crowd, doing a mental headcount, and that's when I see him. He's exactly where you'd expect him to be, the center of the loudest group, leaning against the tiki bar. He's holding a beer, tanned and relaxed in a white linen shirt, laughing at something one of the other groomsmen said. He has that easy, sun kissed confidence that comes from a life of things probably going his way. The best man Liam. I've been on email chains with him for months. His message is always brief, bordering on flip it. Now, seeing him in person, my initial assessment solidifies great. I think, taking a sip of my lukewarm champagne, the best man is a frat boy. This is going to be a long week. He's handsome, I'll give him that, with a strong jaw and eyes that seemed to sparkle even from across the terrace. But he looks like a professional vacationer, not someone who understands the logistical intricacies of a destination wedding. He looks like a distraction. He looks like trouble. I take a long pull from my beer. The cold bottle a welcome relief in the humid evening air. The resort is incredible, and my best friend Mark is practically vibrating with a mixture of joy and sheer tear, which is exactly as it should be. The groomsmen are in good spirits. I've already scoped out the best spots on the beach, and the week is off to a perfect start. My only remaining task for the evening is to finally lay eyes on a legendary maid of honor. Mark has been talking about her for months, Chloe the super planner, Chloe who has a binder for everything, Chloe who probably has a contingency planned for a hurricane. The only positive thing he said about her is that she's kind of hot. Impression is of some kind of beautiful, terrifying drill sergeant in address, I'm scanning the crowd for someone who fits the description. When I see her, she's talking to one of the bride's ancient ants, but her focus isn't total. Her eyes are scanning, assessing, managing. She is a whirlwind of contained, focused energy, her brow frowed in concentration even as she smiles politely. She's wearing a simple blue dress that makes her stand out against the right of tropical prints, and her dark hair is pulled back in a way that somehow both elegant and severe. She looks completely out of place and totally in control. And she's beautiful in a sharp, intelligent way that's far more interesting than the easy, bikini clad beauty dotting the rest of the resort. So that's the famous Chloe, I think to myself, a grin spreading across my face. She looks like she's single handedly holding this entire event together through sheer for of will. My first thought is an overwhelming instinctual urge. Someone needs to get her a Margarita stat. The next morning, I'm sitting in a stuffy, air conditioned conference room with a resorts wedding coordinator, a woman whose fixed smile is more annoying than pleasant. My binder is open, my checklist is highlighted, and we are, I'm afraid to say, behind schedule. The problem is the processional. The walk from the hotel entrance to the ceremony arch is ninety two seconds. I'm tapping my pen on the layant diagram. Jess is adamant. She wants to walk to the acoustic version of Yellow. That song has a forty second instrumental intro before the first verse even begins. We have to cut it off mid chorus. We could suggest a different song. We could also suggest you get married in a courthouse. The door opens and Liam strolls in, looking infuriatingly relaxed in a pair of shorts and a faded T shirt, sunglasses perched on his head. He smells faintly of sunscreen and salt. Morting ladies. He flashes a brilliant smile. Sorry, Mark needed some moral support about the Cummerbund crisis, averted. I give him a tight nod and point to the empty chair beside me. We're't discussing a timing issue with a processional. He sits in for the next ten minutes. He listens as the coordinator and I go back and forth. He's quiet, but I can feel his presence, a pocket of calm amusement next to my storm of logistical anxiety. At one point, I suggest having a string quartet plain accelerated version, and he audibly snorts. I shoot him a glare. What nothing. He holds his hands up in surrender. Just picturing Coldplay on speed. It's a bold choice for a wedding march. I'm about to make a sharper tour. When he leans forward, tapping a finger on the map of the Rose crowns. Hang on, what's this path here behind the infinity pool? A service path, but it leads right past. The garden where the ceremony is right. He looks at me, his eyes surprisingly focused. Why does Jess have to start her walk from the hotel lobby. Why can't she start from back there? Give her a much longer, more dramatic approach through the gardens, and you easily add two minutes to the walk. You'd get the full intro, the first verse, and the entire chorus. She could have hit the aisle right as the song swells. It's a service path, sure, but it's between the pool and that beautiful cops of trees. It's actually more striking of an entrance than past all the chaise lounges and concrete. The coordinator and I both stare at the map. It's so simple, it's elegant. It's a far better solution than my frantic music butchering idea. It's perfect. I'm momentarily speechless, stunned that this laid back comer by joking beach bump, just solved the one problem I've been losing sleepover for weeks. I look at him, really look at him, and see passed the easy smile for the first time. There's a sharp, crave intelligence there that I hadn't clocked at all. That is actually a brilliant idea. I walk into the meeting feeling like I've crashed a war council. Chloe is in full commander mode, her pana weapon, the wedding coordinator, and her beleaguered subordinate. She looks incredible, all business in a crisp sundress, but she's rating enough stress to power a small city. I try to lighten the mood with the cumber bun story. It doesn't land tough crowd, I think, settling into my chair. I listen as they debate song links and walking speeds. It's impressive her attention to detail, but they're both stuck in the weeds. They're trying to change the song to fit the path instead of changing the path to fit the song. I see the service path on the map, a little dotted line they both overlooked. I'm a landscape architect, seeing how people move through a space is literally what I do. I offer up my idea, half expecting her to dismiss it. Instead, she just stares at the map, then at me. Her brow smooths out, the hard focused line of her mouth softens. The look she gives me is one of pure, unadulterated surprise, and then I see it a flicker of genuine respect. That is actually a brilliant idea. Her praise hits me with a ridiculous jolt of pride. It's one thing to have one hundred people laugh at a joke at the bar. It's another to have this one formidable woman look at you like you've just earned her respect. The tension in the room dissipates. She gives me a small, almost shy smile, and I can suddenly picture her without the binder in the stress, laughing over a drink. The thought is unexpectedly appealing. My initial amusement at the superplanner is solidifying into something else, genuine intrigue. The week just got a whole lot more interesting. The rehearsal dinner is held on a secluded part of the beach under a canopy of twinkling string lights. The days stress is melted away, replaced by the warm, celebratory buzz of the evening. Liam and I are seated next to each other, and the easy report we found this morning has deepened into something surprisingly comfortable. We talk about our lives back home. Our jobs are shared encyclopedic knowledge of bad nineties action movies. He's funny and sharp, and I find myself laughing, a real, unburdened laugh that feels like a release. But as the speeches begin, a lot of anxiety tightens in my stomach. It's not just nerves. I look at Jess and Mark sitting at the head table, glowing and happy, and I feel a terrible pang of guilt. I love just more than anyone, and I want this for her, I truly do. But I was there last month when Mark casually dismissed her dream of opening her own studio as a cute hobby. I saw the light go out of her eyes for a moment. I'm supposed to stand up and toast it there forever, but a traitorous voice in my head keeps whispering, do you actually believe that? When it's my turn, I stand up, my hands trembling slightly. I look at Jess, push the doubt down, and speak from the heart, focusing only on our two decades of friendship and the joy she feels right now. My speech is full of love and it's all true, but it feels incomplete, like a beautiful painting of a house, I'm not sure a structurally sound. As I sit down my heart pounding. I catch Liam's eye. He gives me a slow, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable but intense. It doesn't feel like simple applause. It feels like acknowledgment. Then it's his turn. I'm expecting a classic best man roast, but as he begins to speak, I realize he's walking the same emotional tightrope I just did. He tells a hilarious story about Mark, but then his tone shifts. He talks about loyalty, about what it means to truly support someone. His words are for Mark, but it keeps finding my gaze in the crowd, a fleeting, repeated connection. I see the deep, genuine love he has for his friend, but I also see a flicker of the same worry. I feel his speech isn't just a celebration. It's a prayer for their future. It's an act of hope against his better judgment. And in that moment, watching this man navigate the same complicated feelings that I'm drowning in, my attraction to him deepens into something far more profound. Dinner with Chloe is a revelation. The hyper focused commander from this morning has been replaced by a witty, engaging woman who can quote Roadhouse verbatim and has an opinion on everything. I'm completely captivated. A conversation is effortless, and I feel a powerful, undeniable connection taking route. But as the speeches start, a familiar anxiety creeps in. I love Mark like a brother. He's the best guy I know. But I've also seen Jess's ambition completely steamhole his own desires more than once. He's so easy going. He'll agree to anything to keep the peace, and I worry that one day he'll wake up and not recognize the life he's living. I'm supposed to get up and give this glowing endorsement of their union, and it feels like I'm selling a beautiful fantasy. I'm not entirely sure I believe in. Just before it's my turn, Chloe gets up to speak. She's brilliant, of course, eloquent, funny, and full of genuine love for Jess. But I can see the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hand as she holds her note card. I can see her carefully choosing her words, and I get the overwhelming feeling that she's fighting the same battle I am When she sits down, I give her a nod, trying to convey everything I can't say. I know that was hard, you dig great. Her smile in return is small, but it feels like she understands. It's all the encouragement I need. I stand up and deliver my speech. I mean every word about my love remark and how happy Jess makes him. But underneath it, I'm silently begging them please talk to each other, Please don't lose yourselves. As the last sentence hangs in the air and applause breaks out, there's only one person's reaction I care about. My eyes find her instantly. She's looking at me with an expression of such profound, knowing admiration that it steals my breath. It's not just for the speech, it's for the truth behind it. She gets it. Her approval is the only validation that matters to me, A silent confirmation that I'm not crazy, that I'm not alone in my concern. As I sit down, a simple, terrifying and exhilarating thought rings through my head with absolute clarity. Oh wow, I really really like her. The day of the wedding is a beautiful, orchestrated chaos I'm a blur of motion, steaming Jesse's veil, calming her nerves, fixing a bridesmaids smeared eyeliner, and having a very stern, quiet word with a caterer about the kanapace. Across the bustling resort grounds, I catch glimpses of Liam and his own own whirlwind. I see him wrestling with a groomsmin stubborn bow tie, then later corralling them all for photos, a look of humorous exasperation on his face. We exchange a few frantic, wide eyed glances over the heads of the guests, a silent shared language that says, can you believe this circus? Well, we're in this together. Finally, the moment arrives, the guests are seated, the music starts. I've just finished arranging Jesse's train, and she's taking a deep, shaky breath on her father's arm, ready for her grand entrance for the first time and hours. There's nothing for me to do but wait. I step back into the shade of a palm tree, my own heart hammering a nervous rhythm against my ribs. You did it, Liam is beside me. I hadn't even heard him approach. He's standing there in his suit, looking impossibly handsome, his eyes crinkling at the corners. We did it. A smile breaks the through my stress barely. Nah, you did it. Everything's perfect. She looks, Wow, she does. My throat suddenly tightens with emotion. He looks at me, his smile softening. You look pretty wild yourself. Before I can even process the compliment, his gaze narrows. You've got a little hold still. He reaches out, his movements, gentle and sure. A small white blossom from my own bouquet has gotten tangled in a loose strand of the hair by my temple. His fingers brush against my skin as he carefully works it free. That touch, his featherlight, practical, and it sends a jolt of pure electricity straight through my body. The entire chaotic, noisy world of the wedding, the music, the rustling guests, the distant ocean fades into a dull, silent hum. All I can feel is the shocking, unexpected warmth of his fingertips against my skin. The spark I'd felt before is now a full blown, undeniable fire. I get mark to the altar, give his shoulders a final firm squeeze and step back into place. My job is mostly done. I scan the scene and everything looks perfect, exactly as planned. My eyes find Chloe standing just out of sight of the guests. She's watching Jess, and the look on her face is one of such fears profound love for her friend that it makes my chest ache. She has done an incredible job. I walk over to stamp beside her, needing to share this final quiet moment before the ceremony begins. You did it, I say it, and I mean it. As she turns to me, I see it. A small white flower is caught in her hair, a tiny imperfection in her otherwise flawless appearance. You've got a little hold still, and without thinking, I reach out to fix it. It's an automatic gesture, an impulse to correct a small detail. The second my fingers may contact with the silky strands of her hair and the warm, soft skin of her temple, something shifts. The innocent gesture is suddenly charged with an intimacy that catches me completely off guard. I'm acutely aware of the faint, clean scent of her perfume, the way the tiny hairs that her temple curls softly. The jolt that goes through me is a sudden, sharp, undeniable awareness of her, not as Chloe the Planner, not as my new friend, but as a woman I'm intensely, terrifyingly attracted to. I pull my hand back a little too quickly, the freed flower held between my fingers. I can feel the heat rising in my own face. The easy, comfortable line of our new friendship has just become irrevocably blurred in this sudden, terrifying thought that I might be falling for the mate of honor at my best friend's wedding hits me like a rogue wave. The reception is a whirlwind of dancing, champagne and heartfelt congratulations. Sometime after midnight, the band slows things down. I'm standing by the edge of the dance floor watching essin mark sway together. When Liam appears at my side. May I have this dance made of honor? His voice is a warm sound over the music. I nod and he leads me onto the dance floor. He rests a hand on the small of my back, and I place mine on his shoulder. The fit is easy, natural, after a week of running on pure adrenaline. Being this close to him, moving slowly to the music feels like the first real moment of calm i've had. I rest my head against his shoulder, the scent of his cologne and the clean salt air smell of his skin filling my senses. The electric spark from before the ceremony has settled into a deep, comfortable hum of aware. I'm acutely aware of his hand on my back, of the strength of his shoulders, of the way our bodies move together as one. It's dangerously intoxicatingly easy. I see her standing alone, and I don't even think about it. I just walk over and ask her to dance. Holding her in my arms feels correct. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. Her head rests on my shoulder and I can feel the soft strands of her hair against my cheek. She's finally relaxed, the formidable planner replaced by this warm, graceful woman who fits so perfectly against me. My mind is a mess of conflicting thoughts. I'm trying to keep this feeling in the new friend category, but my body isn't listening. All I can think is that I don't want this dance or this week to end, the song fades and we step apart, the spell broken. We watch our friends now laughing and accepting congratulations from a table of relatives. Well, I guess we're officially the co presidents of the keep Mark and Just Married Club. Now. She laughs, but it's a soft, fleeting sound. Her smile fades as she looks at them, and her expression becomes unreadable, tinged with something I can only describe as concern. They look happy, don't they? I leave the question hanging in the air, a test. She picks up on the subtext. Immediately, her gaze meets mine, and for the first time, all of her carefully constructed walls are down. They too, I just hope. Her voice trails off, unable to say the words I have to know. I'm not crazy. You've seen it too, haven't you. My voice is low, so only she can hear the little things, the way she makes all these decisions, and he just goes along. Her shoulders slump with a wave that looks like pure unadulterated relief. And how he reacts by getting dismissive and attached. Her eyes shine with unshd tears. I've been watching them and feeling like the world's worst friend for even thinking about it. The words hit me with the force of a confession I didn't know I was waiting to hear. Oh my God. A laugh of pure astonished relief escapes me. I was thinking the same thing, I had no one to tell it to. Hearing him say it, hearing my own secret, terrible thought echo back at me, is the most profound moment of connection I've ever felt. I'm not a bad friend, I'm not cynical. I'm not alone in this. He sees it too, He gets it. The weight I've been carrying on my shoulders all week, the guilt of my own observations, suddenly lifts. We should We have to stay in touch. It's not a polite suggestion anymore. It's a necessity for them. Yeah, for them. He pulls out his phone and I pull out mine. We exchange numbers under the fairy lights, and the simple act feels like a pact, a secret alliance. The night ends an hour later, and we say our goodbyes in a group with hugs and promises to see each other at the next big event. But the look we share is different. It's a private farewell, an acknowledgment of the secret we now share. As I get into the shuttle headed for the airport, I watch him standing on the curb and I feel a sharp, unexpected pang of loss. It's a feeling that's far too strong for someone I've only known for a week. I watch her leave, and, in a way I can't explain, I'm completely devastated. The first few months after the wedding, life returns to its normal rhythm. The tan fades, the biner goes on a shelf, and the weekend paradise feels like a strange, beautiful dream. The one thing that remains is the text thread with Liam. It starts as an extension of our duties, place to check in. Did just sound okay to you? This week? Mark mentioned they are looking at houses, but it quickly becomes something more. It's six months after the wedding and my phone buzz is on my desk. It's a picture from Liam, a perfectly arranged, ridiculously tiny plate of food from some high end restaurant. I got this meal and thought of you bet, the logistics for this plate were a nightmare. I laugh out loud. It's a callback to a joke we made during the wedding about the overly fussy appetizers. That's not a meal, that's a hostage situation for a single pee. Did you need tweezers? They eat it. The waiters seemed very proud. I think it costs more than my flight to the wedding. Unacceptable. You should have demanded a hot dog instead next time. How are things in your world? Commander? All quite on the Western front for now? I put my phone down, a smile still on my face. It's just easy. There's no pressure and no expectation. Talking to him is like a pocket of sunshine in the middle of a dreary work day. It's just friendship, of course. It is. A year passes, then another. The texts become a daily habit, the lifeblood of a friendship that feels more real than most I have in person. The keep the married club has gone from a joke to a full time, unpaid and increasingly stressful job. One night, around one am, my phone rings. It's Mark. He's drunk, slurring his words, going on and on about a huge fight he had with Jess about her career. He says she's selfish. He says she doesn't care about their future. It's ugly, and I spent an hour talking him down from a ledge of pure self pity. When I hang up, the silence in my apartment is deafening. My first and meta instinct isn't to go to sleep. It's to call Chloe. She picks up on the second ring, her voice thick with sleep. Liam, what's wrong? Sorry to wake you. I just got off the film with Mark. Oh no, let me guess. He thinks Jess is a career obsessed workaholic because she's up for a promotion. The accuracy is so perfect, so complete, that I feel a wave of relief wash over me. She gets it, She's the only one who gets it. That's the one I sink on to my couch. He was talking about leaving her. We talk for the better part of an hour. We talk about the context that both Jess and Mark seem to miss or refuse to communicate about the sacrifices Jess has made that Mark conveniently forgets Mark's toxic responses to conflict. I give her insight into Mark's deep seated fear of being left behind. Together, we piece together the full, messy, complicated truth of their marriage. A team. After we hang up, I stare out at the Austin skyline, and a profound lonliness settles over me. The most connected I felt to anyone all year was just now on the phone with a woman a thousand miles away, talking about a marriage that isn't even mine. Three years after the wedding. The text FUD with Liam is the first thing I check in the morning, in the last thing I see at night. It's a sprawling secret history of our lives. It's filled with our friend's crises, yes, but now it's mostly filled with us. Pictures of terrible attempts at baking, his complaints about his new running shoes, links to articles and songs and stupid memes. He's the person I tell everything too. I've just gotten home from another spectacularly bad date. This one was a finance guy who used the word synergy and a sentence about our dinner order, I text Liam, just got home. I think I need to be put in a medica induced coma until tomorrow morning. That bad Let me guess he told you about his portfolio worse? He said, our shared love of Barrata showed strong conversational synergy. Oh wow, And I thought I was bad at dating. I'm so sorry. No one deserves that. Did you at least get good Barata? It was mediocre at best. Oh, an absolute tragedy. He sounds like a moron. You're too smart and funny for guys who talk like corporate email templates. I lie back on my couch staring at his message, a warm feeling spreading through my chest. The hollow, irritated feeling from the date is gone, replaced by the effortless comfort of talking to him. He always knows exactly what to say. He's funnier, sharper, and more supportive via text message than any man of actually dated in person. The thought hits me with a sudden, uncomfortable clarity, like a light flickering on in a dark room. The most significant and honest relationship in my life is with a man I haven't seen in three years. My phone buzz is. It's an email, an evite from Mark and Jess. The subject line is bright and cheerful. Come celebrate our fifth anniversary with us in Cabo. I grown no, I mean I literally grown out loud. Another destination event, another desperate, expensive attempt approve to the world and to themselves that everything is fine. I know it's a last ditch effort. Chloe and I had just talked about it last week. I scroll through the details, the planned excursions, the cocktail hours. It sounds exhausting. It sounds like a nightmare. There's too much going on. They're trying too hard at the wrong things. But then my eyes land on the guest list for the Core Party Best Man, Liam made of Honor Chloe. My first thought is about Mark and Jess. It isn't about the coming drama or the forced smiles. It's a single, selfish, electrifying thought that courses through me with a force that surprises me. Chloe will be there. I'm going to see her again. I get the invite and it immediately made my day, my month, my year. The air and Cabo is warm and thick, with a scent of salt, but it does nothing to relax the not in my stomach. This isn't a vacation. It's a deployment to a war zone. I feel like I'm walking into a trap. Mark and Jess are a mess of forced smiles and brittle cheerfulness. The whole thing feels fragile, like a beautiful sand castle about to be washed away by the tide. Then I see her. Chloe is standing by the pool bar, talking to the concierge. She's wearing a simple green sun dress, and the five years since I last saw her have only made her more. We're beautiful, the disembodied voice from my phone, the witty avatar in my text thread, is suddenly breathtakingly real. She turns sees me in a smile of such genuine, unadulterated relief breaks across her face that it knocks the air out of my lungs. Thank god, you're here. I need a co conspirator. Jess has already alphabetized the spice rack and they're sweet, just to distract herself from Mark. Oh no, we are so screwed. I laugh, and the awkwardness I've been fearing for weeks vanishes. We're just us again. But it's different. Standing this close, I'm aware of the faint freckles on her nose, the way the sunlight catches the gold flex in her brown eyes. The easy intimacy of our texts now has a physical charge that is impossible to ignore. The first night, at the big anniversary dinner, the cracks start to show it's a small thing. Mark orders a bottle of wine that just doesn't like, and her polite Oh, I thought we'd get the souving don blanc is laced with enough ice to freeze the entire table. The argument that follows is a masterclass in passive aggression, a quiet, vicious battle fought with tight smiles and clipped sentences. It's just fucking wine, I want to scream, But of course it's so much more than that. Liam and I are caught in the crossfire. A captive audience to their misery will exchange a single, exhausted look across the table. It's the same look from the wedding five years ago, but now it's not tinged with surprise, it's heavy, with a grim resignation of a prophecy fulfilled. Later, Mark is several whiskeys deep at the bar, complaining about how nothing he does is ever right. I watch his Liam expertly navigates his friend's self pity and bitterness, not validating it but not antagonizing him either. He just listens a calm, solid presence, before staring the conversation to a lighter topic. He handles him with such a quiet, patient strength, I find myself staring, thinking he's so sexy in how he stays calm. Yep, you guessed it. The big explosion happens, and predictably, it happens on a private catamaran trip, meant to be the romantic highlight of the vacation. Out on the open water. With nowhere to run, Jess finally confronts Mark about a friendly lunch he had with a female coworker. It's an ugly, screaming match in the middle of paradise. Jess is crying, her accusation sharp and painful. Mark is defensive and angry, and his voice rises with every denial. Chloe immediately goes to Jess's side, her arm around her, speaking in a low, soothing voice, trying to absorb her friend's pain. She's so fiercely loyal, so protective in the face of this tidal wave of ugly emotion. She is an anchor. I'm in awe of her. Holy shit, she's amazing. Jess eventually runs below deck, sobbing. Mark storms to the stern of the boat, gripping the railing, his back to all of us, and Chloe and I are left standing in the wreckage. The beautiful sunny day rendered bleak and hollow. That night, after hours of counseling my sobbing, heartbroken friend, I escaped to a deserted terrace overlooking the dark ocean. I'm emotionally hollowed out, exhausted in my very bones. I hear footsteps and turn to see Liam walking toward me, a pottle of tequila and two shot glasses in his hand. He doesn't say anything, he just pours and we drink. The liquid fire is a wocome shock to my system. We stand in silence for a long time, listening to the waves crash against the shore. I I don't think they're going to make it. The words are easier to say than I expected, I know. He turns to me, his face etched with a sadness that mirrors my own. Thank you for being here, Chloe. I couldn't do this without you. Me neither. And in that moment, and in that moment, all the years of texts and phone calls, all the shared secrets and unspoken truths converge. We're not just friends. We're partners in this, the only two people in the world who understand the weight of this failure. He looks at me, and his gaze is no longer just friendly or appreciative. It's filled with five years of pent up emotion, with an intensity that makes my breath catch. He reaches out his hand, coming up to my face. His thumb gently brushes a tear I didn't even know had fallen from my cheek. This simple tender gesture is my undoing. He leans in slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. I lean in to meet him, my own resolve crumbling. This is it, This is the moment I've been secretly, subconsciously waiting for. Our lips are a millimeter apart, the air thick and electric with the promise of a kiss I've been dreaming about for half a decade. And then he stops. He pulls back just a bit, His eyes are filled with a deep, agonizing regret, and then he drops his hand and the connection is broken. But the truth of it is left hanging in the air between us, undeniable and irrevocable. The smooth ride is over. We haven't kissed, but everything has changed. We both know it. Maybe I'm an idiot. Of course I'm an idiot. But it was all wrong. Our first kiss shouldn't have a foundation of pity or concern, or emotions based on a couple's crumbling marriage. But Chloe's face is full of confusion, and I wonder if I just ruined everything. Maybe we'll never have a first kiss, and this was my last chance. But then, and maybe I imagined it, or dreamt it, or hoped for it. She nods ever so gently, as if she's telling me I get it. I want it too, someday. The flight home from Cabo is the longest five hours of my life. I'm trapped in a metal tube, suspended between a moment that almost happened in a future that is now completely terrifyingly uncertain. My mind is a looping reel of the night on the terrace, the sound of the waves, the sadness in his eyes, the warmth of his thumb on my cheek. He leaned in, I leaned in, and then nothing. Why did he stop? The question tortures me first split second. I'd been so certain, the years of quiet, text based intimacy, the easy rapport, the shared secret of our friend's failing marriage, it had all been leading to that one inevitable point, and he's stopped. I know Liam well enough to know that there's a reason, an important one, and I think, in the moment, my trust of him is so complete that I accepted it. But back in my quiet apartment, the tap begins to fester. Maybe I imagined it all, maybe the weak the stress that tequila. Maybe I projected my own feelings onto him. He was just being a good friend, comforting me, and I tried to turn it into something more. He probably thinks I'm pathetic. The easy, constant flow of our text has dried up. A painful silence stretches for days. I'm terrified to be the first to break it to seem too eager. I'm devastating to think that, in one moment of near vulnerability, I've broken the most important friendship I have. A week later, I'm lying in bed, tangled in my sheets, my body aching with a frustration that's more than just physical. I close my eyes and I'm back on that terrace. I can feel the warm he would err on my skin. I see him lean in, his eyes, dark and full of that same agonizing want that I feel, But this time in the privacy of my own mind. He doesn't stop. His lips meet mine, and a fantasy is so vivid I gasp. It's not a gentle kiss. It's a kiss of pure, desperate desire, his mouth claiming mine, his hands sliding from my face down to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. I imagine him backing me up against the cool, stuck a wall of the resort, his body pressing into mine, the hard ridge of his cocas solid, undeniable promise against my stomach, not to be denied, even while separated by clothing. My hand slides down between my legs, my fingers finding my clit already wet and swollen. I stroke myself to the rhythm of our imaginary kiss. My orgasm a short, sharp, almost angry release, a wave of pleasure mixed with a bitter taste of a moment that was stolen from me, or worse, a moment that was never really mine at all. An idiot. The thought has been on a constant loop in my head since I got back from Cabo. I had her, She was right there, looking at me with an expression that was so open, so ready, and I stopped. I choked in some misguided attempt to be noble. Not now, not like this. I killed the moment, and now I've killed a friendship too. Her silence is deafening. I checked my phone a dozen times an hour, hoping for a text, a meme, anything to show that we're okay, but nothing. She must think I'm not interested. She must think that for me it was just the tequila talking. She has no idea that, in that moment, leaning in to kiss her, it felt like the only sane, real thing that had happened all week. I've made everything awkward. I've broken our secret world. I'm alone in my home office at my drafting table a few weeks later, trying to work, but my mind is useless. My own dating life feels like a joke, a series of hollow conversations with women who feel like strangers. No one gets my humor like Chloe does. No one listens like she does. High lean back in my chair in the scent of the jasmine blooming outside my window reminds me of the tropical air and Cabo. I close my eyes. I think of her, the way her lithe body effortlessly makes a sun dress the sexiest clothing known to man. Now, just being close to her makes me adjust my pants in a way that I hope she's not noticing. We're so connected that our lives are effortlessly erotic. My hand drops to my lap and I release my hard cock. I think of Chloe and I wrap my fingers around it, stroking as I picture what should have happened after the kiss we should have shared. I imagine her in my hotel room, the tension finally breaking her back against the door. As I kiss her deeply, I see myself kneeling before her, parting her legs, my tongue finding the sweet, wet heat of her. I can almost taste her, hear the little gasps and moans she would make as I licked her. My fantasy isn't about me taking. It's about her letting go, about being the one to finally make her come apart. But thought is so powerful, so consuming, that I come with a few quick strokes, a hard, frustrated orgasm that leaves me feeling empty and full of regret. I'm going to be honest. I've always masturbated to Liam, but now I do it like a lot. I can't stop thinking of him, and for some reason, it's about us together, naked in doing everything, fucking, making love, holding each other. Dudes are going to say online, but I haven't looked at porn in ages. I had just close my eyes, think of Chloe and get instantly hard. I'm actually starting to wonder if it's a bad thing, like I've replaced our real friendship with this fantasy sexual life that never existed. But then my phone buzzes. It's her, Hey, just checking in, heard from Jess. Things are still tense. I stare at the text. It's so formal, so distant, a status report. I feel a chill despite the Texas heat. Yeah, Mark's been quiet. Thanks for letting me. Know, no problem. Years of constant, easy, intimate conversation and we've been reduced to no problem. I want to type what happened to us? I want to type I'm sorry, I stopped. I want to type I think I've fallen in love with you. Instead, I type nothing. Three more months of this excruciating, polite distance pass. We exchanged logistical updates about our friends, like two co workers on a project that has gone sour. Every stilted text is a fresh twist of the knife. Then one Thursday afternoon, my phone rings. It's Liam. My hand trembles as I answer, Hey, did you hear hear? What is just okay. There's a pause, and I hear him take a deep, weary breath. On the other end of the line, Mark. Called me this morning. He and Ess are getting a divorce. The words hang in the air between us, shattering the awkward, fragile silence we've been living in for months. I sink onto my couch, a wave of sadness for my friends washing over me. But underneath it, another feeling surfaces, something I'm ashamed to even acknowledge, the realization that the official reason for our connection, our whole shared project, is now over. The crisis we always talked about has finally arrived, forcing its way through the wall of doubt and silence we've built, and now there's nothing left to hide behind. But more than anything, I'm filled with profound sorrow. What the fuck am I doing? This can't be the end? Can it? After the call, I sit in the dark of my apartment for a long time. The divorce is a tragedy, a sad, inevitable end, is something that started with so much hope. I feel a deep egg for my friends, But underneath that sadness is a current of something else, something sharp and urgent clarity. All the reasons for keeping my distance from Chloe. All the carefully constructed barriers have just been bulldozed. The fear of making things awkward, of betraying our job, of ruining our friendship. It all seems so small now, so pointless in the face of this undeniable truth. Life is too damn sure not to be with the person you love. And I love her. I've loved her through years of text and late night phone calls. I've loved her from one thousand miles away. I'm not sure how the tense anniversary made me push away, but the divorced us the opposite. I think I've said this before. I'm an idiot, and in wallowing in my idiotness, it hits me there's no context for love. Loving someone while bad things are happening doesn't make a love less real. How could I think that? And then other thought hits me. I needed Chloe to teach me that, and she did, but I was too dumb to see it. I don't think, I just act. I'd booked the first flight out in the morning. I text her from the taxi on the way to her apartment, my heart hammering against my ribs. I'm in Chicago. I need to see you. His text isn't a question, It's a statement, and it sends a shockwave of terror and relieved through my entire body. I spend the next twenty minutes pacing my apartment, a frantic mess of hope and fear. When the doorbell rings, I feel like my soul is going to leave my body. I open the door and he's there. He looks tired from the flight, but he's real. He's here. All the stilted, awkward distance of the last few months evaporates in the face of his physical presence. Liam Chloe, I'm so sorry for being weird after Cabo. She smiles, her incredibly charming and unbelievably sexy smile. Now, Liam, doesn't this fit me? It could have been an email category. Her casual humor is so natural, so perfect, so us I don't reply. I just step forward and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into a hug. She buries her face in the crook of my neck. It feels so comfortable, so right. Definitely not an email. The feeling of his solid, warm body against mine is a lit fuse. I'm not just holding my friend, I'm holding the man. I want more than anything in the world. I cling to him, the hug becoming a desperate, silent plea. We hold ourselves together and it feels like we are one. The feel of her, the reality of her in my arms, shatters any illusion that this is a hug between just friends. It can't be not anymore. I pull back just enough to look at her. My hand's coming up to cup her face. Her eyes are shining with a fire I've seen in her before, but the fire now is different, and it's focused entirely and thoroughly on me. All the doubt, all the fear of the last few months, is gone, replaced by a single, searing certainty. I close the space that has separated us for five long years and I kiss her. It's not the almost kiss from Combo. This is a kiss of absolute conviction. It's a deep, searching, soul bearing kiss that says everything we've been afraid to say. It's years of longing, a friendship, of shared secrets, all poured into one moment. Her lips are soft and yielding, her response immediate and overwhelming. This isn't a spark, It's an inferno. I break the kiss, breathless. Let's get out of here. She looks at me, a beautiful rye smile on her face and just shakes her head. We're already here. She takes my hand and leads me toward the bedroom. The world narrows the just this, his hand in mine, the soft light of my bedroom, the unspoken promise of a Finally, he undresses me, each unsnapped button, followed by a light kiss. When he gets on his knees and pulls my jeans down, his hands are on my ass and his face is inches from my pussy. I'm wetter than I've ever been before. He slides my panties down and kisses me on the lips, a gentle kiss in the most erotic way possible. He stands up and looks at me. You are the hottest, most gorgeous woman that has ever walked the planet. I pull his arm and playfully shove him on the bed. Let's get you more comfortable, and then I do the same for him. My fingers trace the hard lines of his chest and the muscles in his arms as I undress him. When we are finally skinned to skin, tangled together on my bed, it feels less like a beginning and more like a place We always were. He has all gentle hands and soft kisses, and I want to scream. He lowers himself and continues the kiss he started earlier, licking me, socking my pussy lips and then my clit. I could come at any moment. As I arch into him, my body desperate for more, I give his arm a slight tug. William. He looks down at me, his eyes dark with a passion that mirrors my own. I know. He positions himself above me, and we kiss again, his hard cock pressed against my pussy. I can't stop myself, and as we kiss, I rub my pussy up and down against his hard length. He pulls back and reaches down. The moment he enters me, a soft, involuntary cry escapes my lips. It's a sound of pure, unadulterated desire, finally fulfilled. The feeling of him filling me, of our bodies finally joined after years of being separated by circumstance and fear, is the most profound sensation of my life. Finally being inside her is everything. It's the end of a long, lonely journey. It's a feeling of rightness so absolute it almost brings tears. To my eyes. She's warm and wet and tight around me, and she feels like she was made for me. I thrust in and out of her, just enjoying the feeling, just enjoying us. It's not just sex. It's a conversation. Our bodies have been waiting years to have. I thrust faster and deeper, everyone a declaration of something I knew but never said. Every moan she makes is an answer. I lean down and whisper into her ear. I love you, Chloe, I love you too. Her fingers dig into my back. I've always loved you. I grab her and roll us over, and she's now on top of me. She gives me a sly smile and slowly rocks her hips. It feels unbelievable. You are so going to regret that. I smile back at her. All the comfort and joy we've experienced on the phone and via text and even in stressful environments is here too. Everything feels so natural. I seriously doubt that our conversation continues with our bodies. She rides me with a fierce, beautiful abandon and I'm completely lost in her. Then she leans down, her hair falling around us like a curtain, and her mouth finds mine. As her hips continue, They're perfect, relentless rhythm. It's the ultimate intimacy, a complete joining of mouth and body and soul. My orgasm builds with an intensity I've never known, a tidal wave of five years of waiting. I cry out her name as I come, a raw, unrestrained sound of pure, explosive joy. I feel him throb inside me, and the intensity of his orgasm sends me over the edge. My own orgasm explodes, and I throw my head back and press my hips down, feeling my body pulse. A smiling liamb beneath me. We go to sleep together, we wake up together, We go to sleep together again, and we wake up together. I spend the week with Chloe, but I eventually have to return to Austin, and when I do, I'm filled with a deep sadness. The week felt like a moment, it felt like a lifetime. It's too wonderful. Years later, and I'm standing in a beautiful rustic garden, the late afternoon sun warm on my shoulders. I'm in a simple white dress. Liam's standing opposite me, his eyes shining, looking at me with that same look of love and passion he had on his face in my bedroom that first night. Our friend is officiating and he's just gone to the part about the rings. I turn in. My mate of honor hands me Liam's ring. Jess gives my hand a squeeze, her eyes bright and genuinely happy for me. I turned to Liam and I see him standing with his best man, Mark catches my eye and gives me a warm support of nod. They had both been so gracious, so happy for us, their own pain, having settled into a quiet, respectful friendship. Their marriage had been the reason we met. It's failure the reason we finally came together, a strange, painful, beautiful journey. Liam slides the ring on my finger, his hand warm and steady you. He whispers the words just for me, a callback to another lifetime, on another beach. We did it. I whisper back, a perfect joyful smile breaking across my face, and this time there is no doubt in my mind at all. Thanks so much for listening to my podcast. I'm Roxy Callahan and my Erotic Whispers are brought to you by tenth Muse Studio.