To Choose to Believe in Always

The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks spiraling upwards into the darkening sky. William adds another branch to the flames whilst Millie wraps her hands around her mug, savouring the warmth that seeps through to her palms. The forest around them settles into its evening rhythm, birdsong giving way to cricket chorus, the rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth, the whisper of wind through the pine needles.

Their little tent sits a few metres back from the fire circle, William's parents' camping gear that smells faintly of old adventures. It's not much. It's just a two-person dome that's seen better days with sleeping bags that are more functional than comfortable, but to Millie, it might as well be a palace. Because it's theirs, this weekend. Their first real trip together, away from school mates and family, just the two of them and the woods.

"That was possibly the best meal I've ever had," William says, gesturing towards their empty tin of meatballs in tomato sauce. The pot they cooked it in still sits at the edge of the fire, crusty with remnants.

Millie laughs. "You're easy to please. It was literally tinned meatballs."

"Ah, but they were tinned meatballs cooked over an open fire by the most beautiful woman in the World. That elevates them considerably."

She nudges him with her shoulder, but she's grinning. They've been together four months now, four months since that party where he'd spilled beer on her shoes and spent the rest of the evening apologising with such earnest concern that she'd fallen in love with him right there. Four months of discovering each other: his terrible jokes, her midnight baking experiments, the way they fit together like puzzle pieces that didn't know they were incomplete.

"What are you thinking about?" William asks, noting her distant expression.

"Just... this. Us. How we got here." She shifts closer to him, and he wraps his arm around her shoulders. "Sometimes I can't believe you're real."

"I'm definitely real. Want me to prove it?" He tickles her ribs gently, making her squirm and laugh.

When they settle again, the mood has shifted into something more contemplative. The fire paints their faces in warm gold and deep shadow, and above them, stars are beginning to pierce the darkening fabric of sky.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?" Millie asks, the question emerging from some deep place of wondering.

William considers, taking a sip of his tea. "Honestly? I see us. Maybe in a small flat, nothing fancy, but ours. I imagine coming home to you every day, not more dates and stolen weekends when my parents are away. Maybe a cat. You'd probably name it something literary like Darcy or Gatsby."

"Brontë," Millie suggests with a smile. "If it's a girl."

"Brontë," he agrees. "And I'd probably still be working at the garage, but maybe by then I'd have saved enough to think about our own place. Not just working for someone else, you know?"

Millie nods, seeing this future they're sketching together in the firelight.

"I'd be teaching by then, hopefully. Primary school, all those little faces learning to read. Coming home exhausted but happy."

"Coming home to me," William adds softly.

"Coming home to you," she confirms, and something in her chest grows tight and warm simultaneously.

"And after that?" he continues. "Ten years? Twenty?"

"A house," Millie says, allowing herself to dream. "Somewhere with a garden. Not huge, but enough for vegetables and maybe a swing set. For..." she pauses, suddenly shy.

"For kids," William finishes, and there's wonder in his voice. "God, can you imagine? Little people who are half you and half me?"

"Terrifying," Millie admits. "But also... wonderful?"

"Two, I think," William muses. "Close enough in age to be friends, but not so close that we lose our minds entirely. I want to be the kind of dad who builds blanket forts and doesn't mind muddy shoes in the hall."

"I want to be the mum who reads bedtime stories with silly voices," Millie adds. "Who bakes birthday cakes that might be slightly lopsided but are made with love."

They sit in silence for a moment, this imagined future hanging between them like something precious and fragile. It's too soon, perhaps, to be talking like this. They're hardly twenty, barely adults themselves. But here in the firelight, removed from the practical concerns of bills and careers and all the reasons to be sensible, it feels right to dream together.

"Do you think we'll make it?" Millie asks quietly. "To all of that?"

William turns to face her fully, his hand finding hers.

"I think we've got as good a chance as anyone. Better, even. Because when I look at you, I don't see someone I want for right now. I see someone I want for always."

Tears prick at Millie's eyes.

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"It's just the truth." He leans in, pressing his forehead against hers. "I love you, Millie. I know we haven't said it much yet, and maybe it's too soon, but I do. I love you in a way that makes me believe in all those futures we've just talked about."

"I love you too," she whispers. "So much it scares me sometimes."

When they kiss, it's different from their previous kisses. For the first time it feels deeper somehow, weighted with promise and possibility. Millie feels heat building that has nothing to do with the fire against her cheeks. William's hand cups her face with such tenderness that she feels cherished, protected even.

"Millie," he murmurs against her lips, but doesn't finish his sentence.

She instinctively knows what he's asking. They've danced around this moment for weeks now. Bold touches, kisses that left them both breathless and wanting, careful explorations that stopped just short of everything. But something about tonight, about this perfect evening under the stars with their dreams spread between them like a map of the future, everything feels right.

Millie's eyes flutter closed because the sensation of what's about to happen is too much and not enough all at once, and she needs to reduce the input to just the warmth of William's mouth, the salt-taste of tears she isn't sure belong to whom, the way their breathing has syncopated into something that feels like a secret rhythm only they know.

Her fingers curl into his jumper, pulling it up slightly and her hands slide underneath, brushing against the fine hairs on his chest. She kisses him back, not skilled, not practised, but honest in the way everything about her is honest when she stops being afraid of being seen.

 

When they finally break apart — because oxygen is a necessary evil — Millie doesn't let go. She keeps her forehead pressed to William's, their noses brushing, breathing the same air like they might run out if they don't share it carefully.

 

William's thumb traces small circles against Millie's neck, the motion unconscious and grounding. The world beyond their small circle of space feels muffled, like someone turned down the volume on everything that isn't her.

 

"I don't know how to do this," she whispers, the admission falling between them like a confession.

 

Her voice cracks slightly from the weight of saying something true out loud.

 

"Any of it. The..." she gestures vaguely with the hand still holding William's, the movement awkward and imprecise, "...everything. But I want to learn. With you."

 

William pulls back just enough to look at Millie's face properly, his blue eyes searching for something he doesn't have words for. The firelight catches in Millie's dark hair, turns her green eyes almost translucent, and William feels something shift in his chest, something warm, more expansive, but also terrifying at the same time... the realisation that tonight it's going to happen.

 

The silence stretches between them, but it doesn't feel heavy anymore. It feels... full. Like the space between their bodies is holding all the words they haven't figured out how to say yet. Millie's hold on William's chest tightens, the fingers of her other hand intertwined with his. She thinks about how an  ocean never apologises for being what it is, vast and dangerous and beautiful all at once. How it doesn't try to be smaller or safer or different than it is.

 

She speaks without looking away from him, her voice quiet enough that William has to lean slightly to catch it.

 

"I'd like to think..." 

 

She pauses, the power of the words she's about to pronounce suddenly becoming clear to her.

 

"... to think that love isn't about finding someone who completes you. It's about finding someone who sees all your broken pieces and stays anyway." 

"Yes," he replies simply. "I feel it too. With you. Here."

The kiss hits like a rogue wave, unexpected, powerful, carrying them somewhere they've never been. William’s fingers dig into Millie's side, anchoring himself against the undertow of want that surges up from his belly. Mint and Millie’s breath mingle on his tongue; the taste is electric, terrifying, necessary.

She presses closer, chest to chest, feeling the drum of his heart through his skin. Every point of contact burns brightly: knees knocking, hips brushing, the soft give of William's lower lip caught gently between hers. Millie has no roadmap for this, only instinct, slow, curious sweeps of her tongue, a quiet hum in her throat when William answers with equal pressure.

 

His hands slip under the hem of her shirt, just enough to skim the warm skin at the small of her back. The simple fact that he’s allowed to touch, that Millie's breath stutters in response, sends a dizzy spike of heat between his legs.

 

When they part, Millie’s lips feel swollen and tender. She keeps her eyes closed an extra beat, memorising the echo of his breath on her skin. When she finally blinks, the World has narrowed to the blue flecks in William's irises, brighter now, glassy with the same stunned hunger.

 

Her thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, wiping away the shimmer of shared wetness.

 

"I..." she starts, voice rough, then stops.

 

Words feel too small. Instead she leans in again, but softer this time, pressing a closed-mouth kiss to the hinge of his jaw, then another just below his ear, learning the map of him by heart.

 

Each contact leaves a spark drifting down Millie's spine, pooling low and warm. She’s trembling... no, they both are... two tuning forks struck at once. The crackle of the fire fades until it’s only the rush of blood in her ears, the soft gasp she gives when William's teeth graze her earlobe.

 

Millie pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together again.

 

"Is this… okay?"

 

The question hangs between them, small and enormous. Millie’s fingers stay curled against William's bare chest, knuckles white with the effort of holding back. She wants to devour and be devoured, but the fear of taking too much still gnaws. She can feel his answer before it comes: the way his body leans in, the soft exhale that ghosts across her cheek.

 

William's hand finds hers, interlacing their fingers, grounding them both.

 

"Yes," he whispers, and the word lands like a benediction. "More than."

 

Relief crashes through Millie, followed immediately by a fresh wave of hunger. She tilts her head, capturing his mouth again. There's no more hesitation now, just the slow burn of exploration. Her tongue traces the seam of William’s lips, tasting something darker, sweeter.

 

When Millie opens for him, William makes a small sound in the back of his  throat, half-sob, half-prayer. His free hand slides up her side, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through the thin fabric. He pauses there, not quite touching, waiting for the smallest nod or shift that says yes, keep going. When Millie's fingers tighten between his, William exhales, shaky, and lets his palm settle fully, feeling the soft weight, the quick hitch of Millie’s breath against his own chest.

The forest suddenly feels tiny, intimate, and Millie's heart is pounding as they kneel facing each other. 

William’s fingers find the hem of Millie’s shirt, knuckles skimming the strip of bare skin at her waist, undoing each button with unhurried care. The touch is tentative, like he still can’t believe the heat of her is real. Millie lets the shirt slide off her arms, releasing the sweet note of her own skin. Only just above, her vest is paper-thin, her nipples already peaked against the cotton. William’s gaze drops, pupils blown wide, and for a moment he simply stares, breathing through parted lips as if in awe by the rise and fall of her chest.

Millie reaches for him next, and William lifts his arms without being asked. The fleece peels away in one slow glide. The jumper parts to reveal the long, lean line of him, with his collarbone sharp in the glow, his breath accelerating fast. She slides her palms over his warm skin, learning the faint tremor that lives just beneath. When she brushes a thumb across his nipple, William’s breath hitches; the sound is small, involuntary, and it sparks straight to her core.

 

They sink onto the blanket in a tangle of limbs. The nylon whispers beneath them, a hush that feels almost sacred. Millie’s back meets the yielding fluff; William hovers above, bracketing her head with his elbows, his hair falling forward to curtain their faces. For a breathless beat they simply look, blue eyes locked on green, while the fire paints shifting gold across his cheekbones.

 

Then Millie lifts her hips, letting him ease the denim down her thighs. Cool air kisses the newly bared skin and leaves goosebumps in its wake. William’s exhale trembles as he traces the lace edge of her knickers, a trembling fingertip exploring the scallop until it dips beneath. The touch is feather-light, yet it snaps her spine into a gentle arch. She answers by sliding her palm along the flat of his stomach, past the button of his jeans, feeling the rigid proof of how much he wants this.

 

When she cups him through his worn jeans, William’s forehead drops to her neck, a ragged “Christ, Millie” escapes against her throat.

 

Somehow the rest of their clothes vanish... socks, jeans, knickers, boxers... discarded in a quiet rustle that feels like shedding skin. Millie lies bare beneath him, firelight shadows dancing across the tent walls, painting her breasts in shifting copper. William’s gaze travels the length of her, shoulders, breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, before settling on the neat triangle of auburn between her thighs. He swallows, his throat working overtime, then lowers himself slowly, skin meeting skin with a hush that steals what little breath they have left.

 

The first press of him is careful: hips swaying, their heat aligning. Millie feels the slick head nudge, withdraw, nudge again, like an unspoken question. She feels a tension, a sting that intensifies with every push but which she answers by tilting up, parting her thighs wider, to let the tip of his cock catch and glide along her folds until they both shudder. William braces on one forearm, his other hand slipping down to guide himself. When he eases in, the sting suddenly flashes through her body, making her toes curl but not from the pain alone. He enters her by increments... one inch, pause, another... her body stretching around the unfamiliar thickness with a sweeter ache. The sound she makes is half sigh, half sob; he stills instantly, forehead dropping to the hollow beneath her ear.

 

"Too much?" he whispers with a ragged voice.

 

Millie shakes her head, her nails grazing the nape of his neck. 

 

"Just enough," she gasps.

 

He exhales, a tremor rippling through his shoulders, then rocks deeper... slowly, deliberately, until he’s seated to the hilt. The stretch burns deliciously; her breath fractures. William’s hairy pubis tickles her clit, each glide builds, the friction of their shared heat burning harder than the fire that's casting an orange glow across their entwined bodies. 

 

William’s hips retreat by a fraction, then roll forward again, unhurried. The slide is slick, her pussy soaking wet, the faint rasp of nylon beneath her ass. Each inward push nudges Millie’s thighs wider, opens her a fraction deeper, each withdrawal leaves her empty enough to clench, chasing him back. She feels every ridge, the blunt crown catching just inside her entrance before gliding home again. The rhythm is patient, almost devotional. There's no hard thrusting yet, only a slow grind that seats him fully, holds, then eases.

  

Millie’s palms skate down his back, mapping the shift and flex as he moves. When she cups the curve of his arse, fingers digging lightly, William’s breath stutters. The next glide becomes a deliberate circle, pubic bone pressing to her clit. A low, involuntary sound leaves her throat, half hum, half whimper and she tilts her hips even more to meet him, seeking that sweet pressure again. He gives it, circling twice, three times, until her pulse is a thick drum behind her ears and the first faint flutter ripples through her vagina. William feels it, his exhale shivers across her collarbone, and he stills, buried to the root, letting her body learn the shape of him. When he moves again it is with longer strokes: a slow drag back until only the head remains clasped, then a single, steady push that fills her completely. Each glide takes an eternity, each withdrawal a held breath. The air smells of crushed grass and warmed skin; the fire blazes, throwing their fused shadow across the canvas of their tent in trembling silhouette.

 

Millie’s thighs begin to tremble. She hooks her ankles at the small of his back, urging him deeper, but William keeps the leash tight with his hips rolling, circling, never quite surrendering to the frantic pace her body's begging for. Instead, he layers sensation: a nip at the slope of her breast, a thumb drawing wet circles around her clit, his thick penis stroking that aching spot inside on every forward rock.

 

The pressure builds like water behind a dam, steady, inexorable. She feels it first as a hot heaviness low in her belly, then as a bright, electric thread spiralling upwards through every nerve. William senses the shift... her inner muscles clamp, release, clamp again in a fluttering pulse that drags a groan from deep in his chest. He eases back until only the crown remains, then drives home with deliberate force, fucking her now hard, unleashed, slamming against her clit. Millie’s spine arcs clear off the blanket; her cry is soft, throttled, as if the sound itself is too large for the forest. Each frantic thrust becomes sharper, deeper, in complete oblivion, until the dam inside her begins to crack. Sweat beads at his temples and drops onto her breasts; she feels it cool against her fevered skin and shivers, clenching even harder around him.

 

The rhythm finally fractures: no more patient circles, only the raw slap of his balls against her ass, the wet clutch of her body drawing him in. Millie meets him stroke for stroke, heels digging into the flex of his arse, urging him faster, harder. The electric thread pulls taut, vibrating, ready to snap. William’s breath is ragged at her ear, her name a broken litany against her neck. Millie’s vision whites out; the thread snaps, pleasure flooding through her in hot, rolling waves that clench around him again and again. William follows on the next thrust with stuttering hips, digging deep as he spills with a feral groan, their bodies locked in this final, shuddering pulse.

Millie feels overwhelmed... by sensation yes, but surprisingly more by emotion. In the aftermath, they lie tangled together on the narrow blanket, with damp skin and their hearts still racing.

"That was..." Millie begins, but can't find words adequate to the experience.

"Perfect," William finishes. "Perfectly imperfect. Perfectly us."

She laughs softly against his chest, feeling more content than she's ever felt.

"I love you. I love you so very much."

"I love you too." He presses a kiss to the top of her head. "First of many times, I hope. We'll get better at the mechanics, but I don't think the feeling part can get any better than this."

"The feeling part is what matters," Millie agrees.

They lie awake for a long time, talking in whispers, touching gently, occasionally kissing with renewed tenderness. Outside, the fire has burnt down to embers, and the forest holds them in its ancient embrace.

Eventually, sleep claims them, wrapped around each other in their borrowed tent, under a sky full of stars. And in the morning, when they wake with stiff joints and rumpled hair, they'll look at each other and remember: this is where it all began. Not just their physical relationship, but the real commitment to building that future they'd sketched by firelight.

A future with a flat and a cat named Brontë. With teaching and mechanics and coming home to each other. With a house and a garden and children who'll grow up knowing what love looks like.

It all starts here, in this humble tent in the woods, with two young people who chose each other and chose to believe in always.