Can't stop thinking about the video my friend sent me - Chapter 2

I deleted it.
I swear I did.

Right after I came, I hit the trash icon like it was a crime scene. Like if I scrubbed it fast enough, it would erase the fact that I jerked off to my best friend moaning my name.

But it stayed.
Not on my phone — in my fucking head.

Every blink, every shower, every moment I’m alone, that video creeps back. Milo’s voice, the way his hand moved, how his hips bucked like he was imagining someone else touching him. Someone named Andy.

Or maybe… maybe he meant someone else.
Maybe there’s a girl with the same name.
Maybe it was just noise — a name blurted out in the haze of getting off.

But I keep hearing it. Clear as a bell.

“Andy—fuck…”

Why would he say it like that?

Next time we hang out, it’s just us again. Casual as always — drinks at the park, walking barefoot in the grass, passing his vape back and forth. But I can’t stop watching him. His lips, wet from the vape. His fingers — long, calloused from guitar. I keep thinking about how they moved in that video. The pressure. The grip.

I can’t stop imagining those hands wrapped around my cock.

And I start pushing. Testing the air.

I lean in a little closer than usual when I laugh. Let my knee brush his under the table. I reach for the vape at the same time as him, fingers touching, letting them linger. He doesn’t pull away — but he doesn’t lean in either. Doesn’t look at me weird. Doesn’t shift, flinch, blush, nothing.

It’s like nothing happened. Like he never sent me that video. Like I’m insane.

Part of me hopes he’d react. Smirk. Ask if I’m trying something. Nudge back. Anything.
But it’s flat. Cool. Just Milo. My best friend. The same as always.

And that’s what fucks me up most.

Why am I so disappointed?

Why do I feel like I lost something that was never mine?

Later that night, I’m laying in bed, scrolling on my side, trying to sleep without my brain spinning. I haven’t even said goodnight yet when my phone lights up.

Milo. FaceTime.

I answer, wiping sleep from my eye.
He’s shirtless in his kitchen, bowl in hand, grinning like a dork.

“Look what I made.”

He angles the camera toward the counter — it’s some kind of pasta situation, slightly charred, and steaming way too aggressively.

“Bro, what is that?” I laugh.

“Pain,” he mutters, shoveling a bite in anyway. “Anyway. I’m gonna die, but just wanted to say goodnight.”

His voice is warm. Familiar. That low sleep tone he always gets at night, kind of raspy and soft.

“Night, Milo,” I say, smiling. “Don’t burn your house down.”

He blows a kiss like a joke, then hangs up.

Or so I think.

I put my phone down on my nightstand, face up. Still glowing. Still on.

My eyes drift toward it… and then downward.

I bite my lip.

No.

No, don’t do it again.

But I do.

I go to the “Recently Deleted” folder.

Redownload the file.

I hold my breath as it opens — that same black screen flickers, then light, then Milo’s body, bare and open, glistening, writhing, moaning.

And I’m already hard.

I pull my briefs down, stroke slowly, my breath syncing with his like we’re caught in some fucked-up duet. His hand twists. I match it. His mouth opens. So does mine.

“Fuck…” I whisper. “Fuck, Milo…”

It’s like he’s there. Like I’m the one under him, or over him, or with him. My hand moves faster. I feel that heat winding up in my belly, that buzzing wave, getting closer—

“Andy…”

His voice in the video. My name again. Hotter this time.

I break.

“Milo—fuck, Milo…”

And then—

“Andy?”

I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks up.

That wasn’t the video.

“Andy? Are you—hello?”

I whip my head toward the nightstand.

The FaceTime call.
It never ended.

Milo’s face is still there. Blinking. Confused. Half-lit by his kitchen lights.

He heard me.
Oh my god. He heard everything.

And I’m sitting here — dick in hand, screen still playing his naked body on loop.

My blood runs cold.

I grab for the phone, but I have no idea what to say.

Milo’s still there. Watching. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

And I know.

There’s no way to take this back.