Two Tiny Stories That Wouldn’t Leave Me Alone
I tried to ignore them.
Tiny stories are the literary equivalent of cats. They show up uninvited and then sit directly on whatever you were trying to work on. Most of the time, I can scribble a note down and promise I’ll come back later. They’re usually satisfied with that arrangement. Not these two.
They’ve been rattling around in my head while I’m trying to finish the last few chapters of my 145,000-word romantasy. I’m so close to the finish line and these little gremlins have chosen this exact moment to demand their turn. Instead of fighting them, I’m releasing them into your inbox.
The first is “You Always Come Back,” which has been begging to escape the app since I shared it as a Note. The second is “The Things He Always Wanted,” an even smaller story that refused to let me concentrate last night.
I hope they find a home in your head for a little while, too.
- xo, Kestrel
You Always Come Back
I wake before the alarm because I feel him waiting. The sheets are still warm, my body heavy with sleep and my will soft around the edges. That’s when he takes me easiest. Before I remember I’m supposed to resist.
The kitchen is dim when I step into it. Dawn is just beginning to stretch over the horizon and he’s already waiting at the counter. He’s so smug and self-assured. Damn him. He knows exactly how this will unfold.
“I’m not in the mood,” I say, but even I don’t believe it.
He doesn’t answer. He never does. He likes to let the silence work for him. He enjoys watching me try to deny the pull between us. The way I lift my chin like I have any control here.
“You’re bad for me,” I murmur, and the air around him warms in response. It’s subtle at first, a slow bloom of heat. Then steam rises in slow spirals, deliberate as a man loosening his cuffs after a long night.
His scent hits next. It’s dark and decadent, laced with something nutty and sinful. It curls into my lungs, and I inhale deeply before I can stop myself.
The machine clicks as it cools and my pulse jumps. My body is traitorous and eager as it reaches for the ghost of his beckoning fingers. He knows exactly what I’ll do, and I hate that he’s right.
“I could walk away,” I whisper. He lets me believe that for a heartbeat.
“Say it.” His silence seems to demand. “Admit you’re mine.”
The moment my hands close around him, warmth floods into my palms. I lift him slowly, aware of my surrender, and his heat brushes my lips.
When I take him in, the first sip burns. It’s bitter, edged with hazelnut. It slides down my throat as my head tilts back and a moan escapes my mouth. He settles into me, clearing the fog from my mind while staking his claim.
I swallow again. I can’t stop this.
Every dawn, I come to him.
Every dawn, I let him have his way.
It’s only coffee. But he rules me like a king.
The Things He Always Wanted
He told her all the things he had always wanted but had never known. Gentle arms to hold him. A kiss against his brow. Someone who listened and told him his eyes were beautiful. Who looked for him every morning and reached for him in the dark.
She gave him every one. Again and again. But each kindness drove him farther away.
“Why? Why do you love me?” he asked. “I have never been enough for anyone.”
At first, she could not understand. He woke parts of her she believed were gone, finding beauty in every broken thing except his own reflection. He was everything she wanted, if only he could see himself through her eyes.
In the end, he taught her why he’d been alone for so long. He had spent so much of his life bleeding that the places that needed love most could no longer bear its touch. And every time she told him he was enough, he tried to prove her wrong.
So the last time he pushed her away, she let him.
She let him keep the pain that had become his compass. Let him make her the villain in the story he would tell for the rest of his life.
She loved him exactly the way he had always dreamed of being loved.
It wasn’t enough.
© 2026 Kestrel Caim. All rights reserved.
This is an original work of fiction. Do not reproduce or redistribute without written permission. Stealing stories is stealing souls. Don’t do it. Theft will be pursued with ink and lawyers. All of my writing is AI-free. Every terrible choice was made by me personally.
Feature image by Emiliano Vittoriosi via Unsplash.
The coffee scene got me completely — that slow build from resistance to surrender, dressed up as a morning ritual, is such a clever way to write desire without a single explicit line. And the second story's twist, loving someone exactly how they dreamed of being loved and it still not being enough, is the kind of ache that lingers longer than any spice would. Do these devastating little shorts come from a different place than the longer romantasy, or do they feed each other?
Loved both of these. Emotional whiplash!