“No.”
Mallory sighed, stepping forward. “Then why the hell did you leave?”
Savannah squeezed her eyes shut. Because I was scared.
“Of what? Being happy?” Mallory’s voice was sharper now, tinged with frustration.
Savannah swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Of getting hurt,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Of waking up one day and realizing it wasn’t real.”
Mallory let out a slow, deep breath. “Savannah.” She stepped closer, placing her hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at her. “You already hurt. And it was real. It is real.”
Savannah shook her head, her voice breaking. “I don’t know how to go back.”
Mallory studied her for a long moment, then let her hands fall away.
“You don’t have to know how.” Her voice was softer now, less frustrated, more pleading. “You just have to want to.”
Savannah did want to.
More than anything.
But how the hell was she supposed to undo what she had done?
Day Two
The morning came too soon. Savannah woke to a suffocating stillness, the weight of an empty bed pressing against her chest.
The sheets were cold. The pillow beside her was untouched. And worst of all?
It didn’t smell like him.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers curling into the fabric, desperate for something—anything—to tether her back to the warmth she had left behind.
But there was nothing.
No trace of him. No rough hands pulling her close. No deep, raspy voice murmuring, "Morning, Monroe."
Nothing but silence.
She lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling, caught in the wreckage of what she had done, drowning in the echoes of what she had walked away from.
A soft knock at the door.
Then, the hesitant creak of it opening.
Mallory.
She stood there, holding a plate of food and a cup of coffee, her expression unreadable.
“You need to eat,” she said softly.
Savannah didn’t move.
Mallory sighed, setting the plate down before sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I know this is hard. But lying here all day isn’t going to change anything.”
Savannah finally turned her head, her voice hoarse.
