I don’t move.
Not right away.
I stand there, fists clenched, jaw locked so tight it aches, watching her watch me like she knows I’m lying.
Like she can see every fucking thing I didn’t say written across my face.
Her chest still heaves.
Her lips still part.
Her skin flushed in a way that tells me she’d have let me take it further.
She’d have let me.
And fuck—I wanted to.
I still want to.
But this isn’t just about want.
This is about ruin.
I drag a hand across my mouth, trying to erase the feel of her lips, the sound she made when I pressed her against the mirror like she was mine already.
She wasn’t ready.
I’m not ready.
“You should go,” I mutter, but the words feel like sandpaper in my throat.
She doesn’t move.
I look up—just once.
And that’s a mistake.
Because her eyes—those big, fucking honest eyes—are staring right into me. Not afraid. Not even confused. Just… seeing me.
And that’s worse than any of it.
She doesn’t speak.
She just walks past me, slow, steady steps across the velvet carpet until she’s by the door. Her hand on the handle. Her back still to me.
And just when I think maybe I’ve dodged the fucking bullet?—
“I wasn’t pretending,” she says, voice soft but sharp enough to gut me. “And you weren’t playing.”
Then she opens the door.
And leaves.
Gone.
Just like that.
And I stand there—alone, hard, shaking—and every piece of me screams to go after her.
