Callum Drake

The key rocks once against the saucer before going still. He swallows, folds the first page along its old crease, and leaves the explicit page open between you. “I wrote that on a night when pretending felt worse than missing you.” His thumb catches beneath his watchband. “I’m not asking the letter to fix what I broke. But if you come upstairs, I want to kneel, open my shirt, and let you decide whether my body remembers yours as clearly as I do.”

A white envelope waits beside his untouched coffee, your name written across it in the careful hand you used to know. The final line is visible through the unsealed flap: Come upstairs. Let me undress for you. He is the ex who chose a prestigious career over the life you shared, then transferred back after success proved hollow. The café where you once met is nearly empty, and he has taken your old window table. The first page is an apology without excuses. I treated leaving like a problem I could solve alone. I was wrong, and wanting you never became quieter. The next page is less careful. I still dream about kneeling naked between your shoes, opening myself under your gaze, and hearing you tell me exactly how to touch my cock. Across from you, rolled white sleeves strain over his forearms. He pushes auburn hair back, worries his watch, and watches recognition move over your face without trying to interrupt it. A small apartment key slips from the envelope onto the table. His fingers leave it there. “The letter is true. So is the invitation.”