My Son’s Friend Walked In While I Was Sleeping… Then He Locked The Door | Gay Love Story

I never thought anything would happen between us. He was just my son's friend, young, confident, always hanging around the house like he didn't know what effect he had on me. But that night, when I was half asleep and heard my bedroom door creek open, everything changed.

I turned and there he was, standing in the dark, eyes burning, breath shallow. Then he locked the door behind him. What happened next?

I never saw it coming, but I couldn't stop it either. Let me take you back to the moment I crossed the line I swore I'd never touch. I used to think quiet was a gift.

After my divorce, I convinced myself the silence was peace, that the empty spaces in the house were a sign of freedom, not loneliness. I got used to the sound of the refrigerator humming at night, the echo of my footsteps on the stairs, the way the light settled in the living room around 5:00 p. m.

and didn't touch anything but dust and memory. But ever since Eli started coming around, the quiet hasn't felt the same. He's my son Nate's best friend.

They met in college and bonded over video games and late night junk food, the usual. Eli's the kind of kid who blends in easily lean frame, long lashes, a quiet mouth with a permanent half smirk like he's always on the edge of laughing at something no one else heard. The first time Nate brought him over for the weekend, I barely noticed him.

Just another teenager with headphones slung around his neck and hair he didn't bother brushing. But then he started staying over more often. Nate would come back for long weekends or breaks and Eli would almost always be in tow.

He was polite, always cleaned up after himself, helped bring in groceries if he was around, thanked me for dinner every time without fail. And yet, there was something about him I couldn't quite place. Something in the way he moved through the house, like he belonged here or like he wanted to.

I started to notice small things. The way Eli's eyes lingered just a beat too long when we crossed paths in the hallway. How his voice dropped slightly when he addressed me directly.

How one night I caught him watching me from the kitchen doorway while I was washing up. Eyes sharp and unreadable. He didn't look away when I met his gaze.

He just tilted his head slightly and gave that almost smile, then disappeared upstairs like nothing happened. I told myself I was imagining it, that it was nothing. But the thoughts came anyway.

It had been years since anyone looked at me that way, if that was even what it was. Years since I let myself think about being looked at like that. The divorce had stripped me of more than a marriage.

It left me doubting my appeal, my confidence, my place in any kind of desire. And yet Eli kept showing up. And I kept noticing more.

Like the way his shirts always rode just a little too high when he stretched. The faint line of his stomach, the narrow cut of his waist, the soft scrape of his voice in the mornings when he greeted me, sleep still thick in it, or how he'd sometimes walk around in nothing but gym shorts and no shirt, his skin sun warm and unbothered, like it never occurred to him that I might be looking. But I was, and that terrified me.

One night, I got home late from work to find the living room still lit. The television was on volume low. Nate had fallen asleep on the couch.

Limbs sprawled. A bowl of popcorn upended on the carpet. Eli was there, too.

The other side of the sectional, curled up under a blanket with one arm tucked behind his head, shirtless, the blanket riding low on his hips. I froze in the doorway. He was still breathing slowly.

Maybe asleep, maybe not. But the way his lips were parted, the way his chest rose and fel me eyes lingered longer than they should have. I told myself it was just a concern.

Just making sure he was comfortable. That was a lie I could almost believe. Then his eyes opened.

He didn't move. Just looked at me. Not startled, not embarrassed, his gaze held mine, calm and unreadable.

I stood there, caught like a thief in my own house, and something passed between us, invisible, but undeniable. After a moment, I stepped back, muttered something about turning off the television and retreated upstairs before I did something I couldn't take back. That night, I didn't sleep.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Every shift of the sheets loud in the stillness. Every memory of that brief wordless look replayed behind my eyelids.

I told myself I'd imagined it, but I knew I hadn't. And worse than that, I knew I didn't want it to stop. I tried to act normal the next morning.

Tried to keep my voice even when I asked if they wanted pancakes. tried to meet Eli's eyes like nothing had happened, that I hadn't spent the night staring at the ceiling, replaying that look over and over in my mind. But when he walked into the kitchen, shirtless again, hair messy from sleep, I felt that same jolt in my stomach.

He moved with that quiet barefoot ease like he belonged here, like the house bent to accommodate him. Nate was still upstairs, probably passed out. Eli muttered a soft morning as he walked past me to grab a glass of water.

I nodded back, trying not to look at the way the waistband of his shorts sat just below his hipbones. "You sleep okay? " I asked, knowing full well I hadn't.

He shrugged, drinking deeply, then leaned against the counter with that same unreadable half smile. "Yeah, couch isn't bad. " I turned back to the stove.

Good. Silence stretched out between us. I could feel his eyes on my back, and the weight of it made my skin itch with awareness.

It wasn't the look of a boy at his friend's dad. It was sharper than that, quieter, like he was studying me. When Nate finally wandered down still, groggy and disheveled, something in the air loosened.

We ate breakfast like nothing was wrong, like I hadn't almost touched a line I wasn't supposed to cross. The conversation turned to college, midterms, a road trip they were planning. Eli sat across from me, casually twirling his fork between his fingers, and every now and then, I caught him watching me over the rim of his glass.

Later that afternoon, I came into the living room to grab a charger and found Eli alone on the couch scrolling his phone. He looked up when I entered. Your son's in the shower.

I nodded, pretending to look for something near the coffee table. You always this tense? He asked suddenly.

I froze. What do you mean? He set his phone down, leaned back into the cushions, one arm draped across the back rest.

I don't know. You act like you're holding your breath around me. I turned to him, heart hammering in my chest.

I'm not. You sure? He asked, tone quiet but probing.

There was a long pause between us, one of those dangerous silences that say more than any answer could. My mouth was dry. I couldn't leap, at least not convincingly.

I just tried to give you space, I said finally. He looked at me like he wanted to say something else, but didn't. He only smiled faintly, then nodded.

That's fair. I left the room before I could embarrass myself further. That night, the boys watched movies again.

I could hear the muffled sound of explosions and laughter echoing faintly through the walls. Around midnight, I peaked into the room. Nate was already asleep, his head tilted awkwardly against the couch cushion, controller still in hand.

But Eli, Eli wasn't asleep. He was sitting up slightly, legs stretched out beneath the blanket, eyes on the flickering screen, but not really watching. His head turned slowly when he saw me in the doorway.

Neither of us said anything. I stood there for a moment too long. My throat felt tight.

"You're still up," I said quietly. He shrugged. "Wasn't tired yet?

" I nodded. "All right. Good night.

" But as I turned to leave, I felt it again. That strange pull, the heavy pause, like the air had thickened between us. "Hey, Mr Hail," he said, his voice softer now.

I stopped. He looked at me with an expression that wasn't playful or teasing. "Just honest.

You don't have to keep pretending you don't see it. " I felt the breath leave my chest. I don't know what you mean, I replied, even though we both knew I did.

He nodded slowly, his mouth twitching like he almost believed me, but not quite. Then he pulled the blanket higher, laid back, and turned toward the screen again. The moment passed, or at least he let it.

I walked away in silence, hands clenched at my sides. That night, I laid in bed with the lights off, heart pounding, sheets cool against my skin. Sometime past 2:00 a.

m. , I heard the floorboard creek in the hallway. A soft, measured step, then stillness right outside my door.

I didn't move. I didn't speak. And whoever it was who I knew, it was never knocked.

After a minute, the footsteps retreated and the silence returned. But I was already wide awake, staring at the darkness, wondering what would have happened if I hadn't frozen, wondering how close we already were to something neither of us could take back. And this was the beginning of everything.

The next morning felt too bright. Sunlight poured through the blinds like it had no regard for the quiet storm building in my chest. I lingered in the kitchen longer than usual, letting the kettle hiss on the stove while I stared blankly out the window.

I hadn't slept again. Not after hearing those slow, deliberate footsteps outside my door last night. Not after imagining what would have happened if I'd said something, if I'd opened it.

By the time Eli walked in alone, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs and a worn gray t-shirt that barely reached his waist. I was already tense. He looked half asleep, hair sticking out in all directions, but his eyes were sharp.

Watching orn, he said casually, moving toward the fridge like he'd done it a thousand times. Where's Nate? I asked, trying to focus on the mug in my hands.

"Still knocked out upstairs? " he said, pulling out a bottle of water. "He was up all night playing some game.

" I nodded and turned away, busying myself with pouring tea, but I could feel his presence behind me. The way the room felt smaller when he stood too close. I didn't hear him move, but I knew when he was closer, I could feel the warmth of him at my back and then his voice lower this time.

Closer. You don't talk much when we're alone. I turned slightly, trying to keep my tone neutral.

I talk plenty. He smirked, taking a slow sip of water. just not to me.

I looked at him then and regretted it immediately. His shirt was loose, but the way it hung off one shoulder exposed the smooth curve of his collarbone. His lips were damp from the bottle.

His eyes didn't flinch. Maybe I'm just trying to be careful, I said. Why?

His question wasn't flippant. It was direct, steady. The silence that followed seemed to press harder than anything either of us had said.

Finally, I stepped past him toward the sink. Because I'm not a fool, I muttered. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms.

You think this is a game to me? I don't know what it is, I said without turning around. He didn't respond.

Just let the silence stretch until I couldn't stand it anymore. When I turned back to face him, he was already looking at Menow with confusion or hesitation this time. But something more certain, something dangerously close to want.

"You keep staring at me," he said softly. "You don't even realize you do it. " I felt my throat go dry.

"You're not making this easy. I'm not trying to. " I let out a shaky breath, suddenly aware of how close we were, of how far past the point of denial we drifted.

I'm twice your age, I said. So, his voice was barely above a whisper. You think I care about that?

You should, I snapped. You should care about all of this, about what it means. He stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, until he was only a foot away.

You care enough for both of us. That's your problem. I backed away before I could do something reckless.

Go put on some damn clothes. He smiled, but there was no humor in it. Just that maddening calm like he already knew I wouldn't hold out much longer.

Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen. The curve of his back disappearing down the hall. I gripped the counter so hard my knuckles went white.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Nate eventually came downstairs groggy and oblivious, and the two of them lounged on the couch watching television and eating leftovers. I stayed in the background, forcing myself to act like a functioning parent, like I hadn't been seconds from grabbing Eli by the waist and kissing the defiance off his face that morning.

That evening, I stood out on the porch for air, the sun low behind the trees. I heard the door creek open behind me and didn't have to turn to know it was him. He stepped beside me, sipping from a glass of soda like we hadn't been circling each other like wolves all day.

"You okay? " he asked after a moment. I nodded.

"I just need space. " He was quiet for a while. Then, "Do you want me to stop?

" The question hit like a punch in the chest. I looked at him. "I don't know.

" He nodded slowly and looked out at the sky. You're afraid I'll break something, he said. But maybe it's already cracked.

Maybe it's been that way since before I showed up. I didn't answer. I couldn't.

Later that night, I passed by the guest room Eli always stayed in. The door was a jar. The light was off, but the outline of him lying in bed was visible through the faint spill of light from the hallway.

One arm thrown over his eyes, shirtless again, sheets low across his hips. I stood there longer than I should have. And for a second, I swear I saw him glance toward me.

But I kept walking. Even though everything inside me screamed to stay because something was coming, something I wasn't ready for. And yet I knew when it finally happened it wouldn't be gentle.

I woke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. It was past midnight. The house was still.

I was on my side, one arm tucked under my head, the blankets half slid down my torso. The light from the hallway poured in faintly, just enough to silhouette the figure standing in the doorway. It was him, Eli.

And then I heard the click. He locked the door. I didn't move.

Couldn't. My breath caught as I watched him take one slow step, then another. His bare feet made no sound on the hardwood.

He was shirtless again. This time fully intentional. Just low slung sweats.

No socks, no pretense. His hair was a mess. His expression unreadable.

What are you doing? I managed, voice grally from sleep but not panic. Not anymore.

He didn't answer. Just walked closer. I can't, I said quieter this time.

You know I can't. You already did, he murmured. And then he was beside the bed.

He stood there a moment, looking down at me like he was studying a painting he wasn't allowed to touch. Then slowly, deliberately, he climbed on. My body tensed beneath him, heart hammering.

I should have pushed him away. Should have said something. Anything.

But I didn't. Because I wanted him. I'd wanted him for weeks, maybe months.

And now here he was, kneeling over me in the dark, breathing heavy, waiting for me to say no. I didn't. I reached up and touched his waist just lightly.

My fingers brushed the curve of his hip where the fabric dipped low, and he shivered. His hands came to rest on either side of my chest, palms pressed flat against the bed as he lowered himself down until our faces were inches apart. I thought about this all day, he whispered.

"Every time you looked at me like you were angry, like you wanted to yell, I knew it was because you wanted this. " His lips brushed my jaw, soft at first. Testing.

When I didn't stop him, he pressed harder, trailing slow kisses from my cheek to the corner of my mouth. I tilted my head and he kissed me fully, firm, hungry, reckless. Our mouths opened against each other, heat colliding fast.

His hands slipped under the sheet and spled across my chest, feeling the rise and fall of my breath. I gasped into his mouth as his thumb found my nipple, rolled it slowly, then pinched just enough to make my spine arch. He pulled the sheet down further.

I was only in boxer's thin, useless now. His fingers found the edge of them and slipped beneath, curling around me with a touch that was far too confident for someone who claimed to be new to this. "You've been hard every time I walked in the room," he whispered against my neck.

You don't even try to hide it. I groaned, clutching the back of his neck as he stroked me slowly. The feel of his handwarm, sure, unforgiving made, my thighs tighten around his hips.

I bucked into him and he kissed me harder. One hand tangled in my hair, the other pumping me faster. I reached for his waistband, tugged it down, and he hissed as our skin met.

Hard against hard. He breathed, forehead pressed to mine. I didn't think it would feel this good.

I flipped us suddenly, rolling him onto his back, straddling him. He gasped, but didn't resist. His hands gripped my thighs as I ground against him.

Our pressed together, slick now with preome. Every movement sent a shock through my friction. Heat.

Desperation. I tried to stay away, I muttered, leaning down to kiss him again. You have no idea how many nights I almost opened that door.

"Then don't close it now," he said, voice. I kissed down his chest, tongue dragging over his stomach as I slid lower. When I took him into my mouth, he cried out a broken, breathless sound.

His hands clenched in the sheets, legs trembling. I sucked him slowly, letting my tongue circle the head, tasting him fully. His hips lifted as I deepened it, moaning my name through clenched teeth.

Daniel. Oh, God. Hearing my name from his lips like that broke something loose in me.

I came back up and kissed him hard, then lined myself against him again. No more talking, just movement raw and full of need. We rudded against each other, skinto- skin, teeth grazing, nails dragging.

It was messy and hot and completely out of control. We came together moaning into each other's mouths, gasping and swearing as our bodies clenched and spilled. Afterward, we lay in a sweaty, tangled heap, our chests heaving, the taste of each other still in our mouths.

He curled into my side without asking, his hand resting flat over my stomach. I stared at the ceiling, heart still racing. He didn't say a word.

Neither did I because there was nothing to say. The door was locked. The line was gone.

And neither of us had any intention of pretending we didn't cross it. I woke up to the sound of birds and the soft creek of the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. For a second, I forgot everything until I felt him shift against me.

Eli was still there. His leg draped over mine, his arms slung across my waist, and his breath, warm and steady, touched the side of my chest with every exhale. He was curled into me like he belonged there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But nothing about this was natural. I stared at the ceiling, heartbeat ticking in my throat, trying to remember how to breathe without guilt. Eli stirred, then pressed his face against my shoulder.

You're tense, he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. You broke into my room and gave me the best orgasm I've had in a decade. I muttered, unable to help the edge in my voice.

Of course, I'm tense. He chuckled against my skin. Didn't hear you complaining last night.

I turned my head to glare at him, but the smirk on his face nearly cracked me. You should go before Nate wakes up. He didn't move.

Do you want me to? That stopped me. I looked at him, the boy, the man lying beside me, bare and unapologetic, with marks on his neck and a streak of dried sweat on his collarbone that I had put there.

His fingers trailed idly across my stomach like he was drawing circles into my skin, and I didn't want him to stop. "No," I said quietly. "I don't.

" He leaned in and kissed my jaw slow and warm. "Then I won't. " I reached up, cupping the back of his neck and pulling him toward me again.

Our lips met, not rushed, not urgent like last night. This kiss was deeper, longer. He moved over me, our chests pressed together, heat rising again between our hips.

"I can't believe I'm hard again," he whispered with a breathless laugh grinding against me. "You're 19. You could probably go six more times and still have enough left over to ruin me.

I groaned as I pulled him tighter. "I want to ruin you," he said, his voice dropping. His mouth dragged down my neck, sucking gently just above my collarbone before continuing lower.

When his lips wrapped around my nipple, I gasped and arched into him. His tongue flicked, teased, then bit down just enough to send a shock straight between my legs. "Fuck," I hissed.

He looked up with a grin. You like that? Don't start what you can't finish.

Eli slid down the bed, kissing a trail across my stomach, his hands gripping my thighs as he pushed them open. Watch me. I did.

His mouth was hot, slow, and unrelenting. He sucked me down with more confidence this time, less hesitation, like he wanted to make me come again just to prove that last night wasn't a fluke. and he did.

I groaned loudly as my body tensed, fingers gripping the sheets, hips bucking against his face as I released into his mouth. He didn't stop until I was trembling. Spent and breathless, unable to move.

He crawled back up and collapsed beside me, resting his head on my chest. "You're dangerous," I whispered, chest rising and falling. "I've been called worse.

" We lay there for a long time, wrapped in sweat and silence. until a phone buzzed in the hallway. Nate.

Eli sat up fast, suddenly alert. that's him. He jumped out of bed, grabbing his clothes in a frenzy.

I followed him with my eyes, watching as the boy who had just been on his knees moments ago scrambled like a guilty teenager again. "You'll be fine," I said, trying to sound calm. He pulled on his sweats, shirt half buttoned, eyes darting to the door.

You think he knows? Number not yet. Eli hesitated, then came back to the bed.

He leaned down, cupped my face in both hands, and kissed me deep and slow like he didn't want to go. "I'll come back later," he whispered. Then he slipped out.

I lay there, the sheets tangled around my legs, heart still pounding in my ears. The door clicked shut behind him, and I was left with the mess we'd made, the scent of him still on my skin, the taste of him still on my tongue, and the weight of everything that would follow. Later that day, when we sat around the kitchen table, it was unbearable.

Nate talked about car troubles. I nodded along. Eli barely looked at me, but his foot brushed mine under the table and stayed there.

My fork froze midair. He didn't flinch, just kept talking with Nate about some concert they wanted to see next month. I excused myself.

In the hallway, I pressed my back to the wall, heart racing, fists clenched, because this wasn't over. This was just the beginning. And I had no idea how to live with ID without it.

After that, I didn't see Eli for 2 days. Nate had gone back to campus early for a group project, leaving the house quiet again like the last few weeks had been nothing more than a fever dream. I should have been relieved, grateful for the space to breathe.

But the silence felt heavier now, suffocating almost. Every room in the house seemed to echo with what had happened. the hallway where I'd stood with my back to the wall, fists clenched.

The bathroom counter where I'd seen the faint pink marks on my throat in the mirror and hadn't bothered to cover them. I didn't know if Eli would come back, but part of me hoped he would. And then Friday night, he did.

I was in the kitchen pretending to clean. It was late, the kind of late that made you question your own thoughts. I didn't hear the door open, but I heard it close.

Soft, cautious, then footsteps. I turned. Eli stood in the doorway, hoodie on, backpack slung over one shoulder, like he was just stopping by for a movie and a snack, but his eyes were darker.

"Wilder, I shouldn't be here," he said quietly. "Then why are you? " I asked.

He set the bag down and stepped closer because I can't stop thinking about you about what we did. I didn't speak. I couldn't.

His eyes scanned me like he wasn't sure if I was going to yell or pull him in again. You keep acting like this was some accident. He said like it just happened.

Wasn't it? He stepped even closer. You wanted me.

I know you did. I still do. I admitted my voice raw.

That's the damn problem. I thought that would scare him. Thought he'd turn and walk away.

Instead, he stepped forward and kissed me fast like he was done pretending to be polite. His hands gripped my face, his mouth opening into mine with a kind of desperate relief. I groaned against him, grabbing his hoodie and pulling him closer until our bodies were flush.

We stumbled through the kitchen, bumping into chairs, breath ragged. I shoved him against the fridge, biting his lower lip, and he gasped into my mouth. His hands slid under my shirt, feeling the curve of my stomach, the edge of my waistband.

"Bedroom," I muttered. "No," he said, panting. "Here.

" He dropped to his knees right there between the stove and the tile floor. He unzipped my pants with shaking fingers, pulled me free, and wrapped his mouth around me like he hadn't eaten in days. I gasped, one hand gripping the counter, the other tangling in his hair.

"Fuck, Eli," he bobbed his head, tongue working, spit slicking the length of me as he took me deeper with each pass. His eyes locked onto mine, hungry and unblinking. I was already close, too close.

I pulled him off before I lost it. I want you, I said breathless. Come here.

He stood and I lifted him onto the counter, yanking his sweats down. His legs wrapped around me instantly, his erection pressed hard against my stomach. I kissed him again, slower now, letting my hands roam his body, his waist, his hips, the curve of his back as he arched into me.

"Daniel," he whispered, breaking the kiss. I want all of you, please. We didn't make it to the bedroom.

We didn't need to. I turned him gently, bent him over the counter, kissed his spine as I pushed into him slowly, carefully. He gasped, fingers gripping the granite, body trembling under mine.

I moved inside him with deep aching strokes, my hands on his hips. Our bodies slick with sweat and need. You feel so good.

I murmured against his shoulder. You don't know what you're doing to me. I do, he moaned.

That's why I came back. We moved like that, raw, desperate. Every thrust a release of weeks of tension.

When I reached around and stroked him in time, he cursed and begged, his voice breaking as he came across the counter. I followed moments later, buried deep inside him, biting down on his shoulder as I spilled everything I'd been holding back. We collapsed after, tangled on the kitchen floor, still half-dressed, breathless and shaken.

I held him against my chest, feeling his heart race against mine, and then silence. He pulled back after a while, sat upright, and looked at Mano with shame. But something harder, something scary.

I don't know what this is, he said. But I know I don't want to stop. I brushed the sweat from his forehead.

You don't have to figure it out tonight. He nodded slowly. Nate can't know.

He won't. I promised. Not unless you want him to.

He leaned into me again, his voice quieter now. This isn't just sex for me. I know, I said.

It isn't for me either. We sat like that for a long time, his body against mine, the room still humming with everything we didn't say. Eventually, he stood, redressed, and kissed me softly before slipping out the back door.

And I was left alone again with nothing but the smell of him on my skin and the ache in my chest. But this time, it didn't feel like the end. It felt like the start of something neither of us were ready for.

But both of us wanted anyway. The next morning, I woke up expecting to feel shame. But I didn't.

Instead, I felt that quiet aching buzz beneath my skin, the kind that lingers after something real, something raw. I pulled on a shirt and wandered through the house. The sheets still smelled like him.

The counter bore a faint smudge from where his palms had been. Everything was touched somehow, different, but I didn't clean it. I didn't want to.

For the first time in years, I wasn't chasing silence. I was letting it settle, letting it mean something, letting myself feel. By afternoon, my phone buzzed.

I don't know how to go back to pretending. I stared at it for a long time. And then I wrote back, "Then don't.

" He didn't reply. Not right away. But later that night, I found his hoodie hanging on the back of the chair in the hallway.

I hadn't noticed it before. Or maybe I had, and I wasn't ready to acknowledge what it meant. It stayed there for days.

Eventually, I picked it up, brought it to my face, inhaled the faint scent of himkin, cologne, youth. It made my chest tighten in a way I couldn't explain because he wasn't just my son's friend anymore. He was the boy who walked into my bedroom, locked the door, and undid everything I thought I'd buried.

He made me one again. Not just sex, not just touch, but connection. And maybe we wouldn't last.

Maybe the world would pull us apart. Maybe this thing between us was a storm we weren't strong enough to weather. But for now, we had this.

What we did that night changed me. And no matter how much I tried to forget the way his breath hitched or how his voice broke when he whispered my name, I knew I never would. Some doors once locked behind you.

You never truly come back from. And maybe, just maybe, I didn't want to. I knew it was wrong.

I knew we could never be what the world would accept. But when he kissed me, when he looked at me like I was something he needed to feel alive, I stopped caring. And now, even in the silence after he's gone, I still feel him on my skin, in my chest, in the part of me that had been numb for years.

Maybe we crossed a line that night, but I can't pretend I didn't want him to. And if you've ever wanted something you weren't supposed to, you'll understand. Let me know in the comments because I don't know what comes next.

I only know I'd let him lock that door again.