She's not coming to me tonight.
That much is clear. She pulled away this evening, chose distance over connection, drew the line between day and night more firmly than ever.
I stay in my study. Pour another scotch. Then another.
The darkness outside is absolute now. Inside, only my desk lamp provides illumination. A small pool of light in an ocean of darkness.
Appropriate, really.
1 AM passes. Then 2 AM.
I replay the day obsessively. Her laughter in the car. The way she looked at the mountain view. Her smile over coffee. The casual way she touched my arm before disappearing upstairs.
One of the best days I've had in a very long time.
But not good enough to want more of. Not good enough to choose me over solitude.
As three AM approaches. I'm still here in the dark, refusing to go to my room because going to my room means admitting I hoped she would come.
And I can't admit that.
Can't give voice to that devastating hope because saying it out loud makes it real, makes it something that can actually destroy me when it doesn't materialize.
Better to stay here. To drink in the dark. To convince myself I never expected anything different.
Today was a fantasy.
A beautiful, perfect fantasy.
Tomorrow I'll go back to being the man who makes her coffee and maintains respectful distance. The man who gives her space to heal. The man who's grateful for whatever scraps of connection she's willing to offer.
But tonight, I sit in the darkness with my scotch and my shattered hope.
And I wait for nothing.
Chapter 45: Camilla
I can't sleep.
I've been thinking about today. About his laughter in the car. About coffee in the mountains. About the way he looked at me when I said it was one of the best days I'd had in a long time.
About the disappointment that flickered across his face when I said I wanted to rest instead of having wine with him.
I saw it.
That flash of hurt before he covered it with understanding. Before he gave me space like he always does, like he's trying so hard to be the man who deserves me instead of the man who took me.
I told myself I needed distance. That extending our perfect day into evening would blur the lines too much, make things too complicated. That maintaining the boundaries between day and night keeps me safe, keeps me in control.
But lying here alone, I realize the truth.
I’m scared.
Scared of how much I enjoyed today. Scared of how easy it was to laugh with him, to be with him, to forget—just for a few hours—everything that brought us here. Scared of wanting more.
I ran to a safe place and retreated to my room.
And now I can't stop thinking about the look on his face when I turned him down.
