Only gritted teeth, desperate gasps, filthy promises growled against my skin. The frantic slap of skin on skin. The sharp sting of his teeth marking my neck. The helpless way I fall apart under his hands again and again and again.
Every morning, I wake up bruised, aching, and empty.
And every morning, he’s already halfway across the room, pulling on his jeans without looking at me.
By the last day, the only thing left between us is sweat on the sheets and the wreckage of everything we never said. I know I’m just as much to blame as him, I can’t bring myself to care. Not when I’m barely hanging on.
We pack in silence. No goodbye. No apology. No promise this was anything more than what it was. Just a thousand ghosted touches burning under my skin, and the broken pieces of me he’ll never see.
We meet Teddy and Bessie for our last breakfast, the four of us crowded around the big farmhouse table like nothing’s changed. Liam and Teddy pass the contract back and forth, pens scratching paper. Hands shaking on a deal we worked so hard for. A deal we bled for.
I should be happy. Proud, even. But all I feel is hollow.
I stare down at my plate, my stomach churning, the smell of eggs and coffee suddenly unbearable. The future we fought for is signed, sealed, delivered and all I can think about is what it cost me.
Bessie reaches across the table, squeezing my arm with a soft, maternal smile. “You’ll have to let me know.”
I blink, forcing myself to focus. “Know?”
“If the baby-making room worked.”
Her words hit me like a blow to the gut, but somehow, I manage a laugh. Small. Brittle. “I will.”
It’s a lie. A lie stitched together with every other one I’ve told myself this trip just to survive. There’s no way it worked because that wasn’t making love. That was just fucking.
We load up in the truck after that, making the quiet ride to the airport under a heavy sky. I keep the conversation going with Bessie, asking questions, making small jokes and playing the part so well even I almost believe it.
But the second we’re through security, the mask crumbles.
I bolt for the nearest bathroom, barely making it to the stall before I lose everything—breakfast, dignity, hope—heaving it all into the toilet bowl until I’m shaking and empty.
When I finally emerge, Liam is there, waiting.
He watches me, concern flickering in his eyes like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to care anymore.
“You okay?”
I swipe the back of my hand across my mouth and lie again. “Just ready to get home.”
Home.
The word tastes like bile in my mouth. Because that house we’re flying back to isn’t my home. Not really. Not anymore.
Which is why, as we sit in the terminal waiting for our flight, I pull out my phone and quietly start looking for a way out.
There’s a flight leaving Sheridan two hours after we land.
Perfect.
I book it without hesitation, the confirmation email sliding into my inbox like a secret I’m not ready to say out loud. I tuck my phone deep into my bag, sealing the decision away before I can second-guess myself.
Liam doesn’t try to make small talk. He doesn’t even look at me. We move through boarding like ghosts, sitting side by side but miles apart as the plane cuts through the sky, carrying us back to the place that feels heavier than any weight I’ve ever known.
I press my forehead against the window, staring out at the endless stretch of clouds, my stomach coiled tight, my pulse ticking like a countdown.
Because I know what’s waiting for me when we land. Not forgiveness. Not understanding. Not a real future. Just a fight.
The plane touches down with a jolt that rattles through my bones. We make our way to baggage claim in silence, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the air stale and heavy with everything we’re not saying.
