Forever and Ever

Happy 30th Birthday

May 22, 2026

Your birthday. May 22nd.

The air was warmer than it had been in months as we pushed through the heavy door of the old pub you loved off Brewer Street. Laughter and the sharp scent of spilled ale and sticky cider greeted us.

The place was packed with the usual mix of locals, tourists, and thirsty office workers shedding their jackets after a long day.

You looked… ridiculous. But perfect. Cheeks already flushed from the first couple of pints, shirt unbuttoned one too many, that boyish grin that made my heart happy splitting your face every time you caught me looking at you. I couldn’t stop. Looking. Touching. Finger laced through yours at the bar, hand on your thigh under the sticky wooden table, leaning into the solid warmth of your shoulder while you told some exaggerated version of a story that had us all howling.

‘Mmm, baby,’ you murmured against my ear during a quiet moment, voice low and filthy in the way that always made my tummy flip. ‘You wore that dress for me, didn’t you? This little milkmaid looking thing that makes me wanna drag you to the bathroom and get on my knees.’

I laughed, cheeks burning, and squeezed your thigh under the table. ‘Behave. For five minutes, could you?’

‘Never,’ you replied, delighted with my answer. You nipped my earlobe right there in front of everyone and your hand slid higher up my thigh, palm hot on my bare skin, fingertips painting promises for later. You didn’t care who saw. You never did.

We drank. We sang— badly— when someone put a bunch of music from the year you were born on the jukebox. You pulled me onto the tiny patch of floor that passed for a dance space and pressed close, hands low on my hips, thumbs pressing possessively against my skin. You rolled your hips against mine with zero shame, whispering exactly what you planned on doing to me when we got back to our flat.

‘I’m going to ruin you tonight, baby,’ you said, breath warm against my ear and neck, the growing scruff of your beard scratching deliciously. ‘Slow at first. Then I’m going to bend you over the kitchen counter and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. Gonna make that pretty cunt drip down your thighs for me.’

I shivered despite the warm air and kissed you. Hard. You tasted like beer and mischief. Around us, the pub carried on, oblivious. No one knew this was the last one. Certainly not us. Not you, laughing as you bought another round for the table and some shots for the pretty young girl who was freshly legal and her friends. Not me, glowing under your hungry gaze, already wet from your words and the casual possession of your hand on my bum as we stood at the bar.

Later, we spilled out onto the pavement, shouting goodnight to our mates. The air was still thick and sweet. You pulled me into the narrow alley just beside the pub, pressing my back against the warm brick under the spill of a streetlight. Your mouth found me instantly— greedy, smiling, alive. One hand slipped under my dress, fingers pushing aside my damp knickers to stroke me with the lazy confidence of a man who knew all my tells, and planned to read them to get what he wanted. Who knew what every sound meant.

‘You’re fucking soaked already,’ you groaned against my lips, delighted as you always were. ‘And you’re all mine. My beautiful, filthy girl.’

I gasped into your mouth as you circled my clit, two thick fingers sliding inside me without warning. The city moved around us, soundtracking our bodies moving together— sirens in the distance, laughter in the street, music from the pub thumping on the other side of the wall— but it all faded. There was only you: the heat of your body, the low filthy praise you whispered in my ear, the way you kissed me like you had the rest of our lives to do it.

We didn’t fucking know.

You made me come right there in that alley with your fingers in my cunt and your wicked mouth at my throat.

My perfect girl. So wet. So tight. You’re going to choke my cock when I finally get it inside you, aren’t you baby?

Here, taste yourself. Aren’t you sweet? Fucking delicious.

Come for me, baby. Come all over my hand like the sexy little slut you are.

You held me while my legs trembled, stroking my hair, calling me perfect, calling me yours.

‘Best birthday I’ve ever had,’ he said softly, eyes bright in the half dark. ‘Love you madly, you know that?’

I laughed. One of those full bodied, loud laughs that are less about something funny, and more about being completely comfortable.

‘Love you stupid,’ I replied, kissing the corner of your mouth and pulling you back into the street, ready to take you home to our bed. Or our kitchen.

We left that pub believing we had years of this ahead. More pubs. More filthy train rides. More birthdays. When I picture our lives, I’d imagined a messy wedding, and a lifetime of messy, desperate, laughing sex in tiny London flats.

That night we walked home arm in arm through the warm night, planning round two and giggling like giddy children. Because we were.

Neither of us knew the clock was ticking. And it was only going to get louder from there.

I carried that memory like a secret as we walked— no, as I walked home from the pub tonight. Your ghost stayed close, as it always does, the phantom heat of your palm still burning my skin.

You’d have married me in a heartbeat that night, if I’d asked— registry office at midnight, terrible, rumpled suit, me in my “milkmaid” sundress, short enough for you to slide your hands under during the photos.

We’d have had a chaotic life, filled with books and half-dead plants and a bed that complained loudly every time you fucked me into it. Silly giggling mornings where you’d tickle me breathless before sliding into me so tenderly I cried. Filthy afternoons on the lounge room floor because you couldn’t wait another fucking second. Lazy, sweaty nights where you’d talk me through every wicked thing you wanted to do to me, voice rough and reverent all at once.

Baby, you made the ordinary world catch fire. A crowded train became foreplay. A birthday pint became foreplay. Breathing near you became foreplay.

Tonight, I smiled at the empty air— the same small, private smile I saved for you— because I knew if you were here, you’d tease me about getting wet again just from remembering. And you’d be right.

Ten years, my love. The sharp agony of missing you has softened into something smoother now— an ache like missing summer when winter drags on too long. I still feel you. The scratch of that beard that never seemed to grow in right. The low chuckle when you whispered dirty promises. The way you looked at me like I was the best thing you’d ever gotten away with.

I hope you knew I would have married you too. Right there in Soho, if you’d asked— terrible, rumpled suit, me in my “milkmaid” sundress, short enough for you to slide your hands under during the photos. I would have let you ruin me every single day for the rest of our lives— silly and filthy and laughing and moaning and so fucking alive. No one else has managed that miracle. I can’t imagine they ever will.

Happy 30th Birthday, baby.

I miss you.

Forever and ever.

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