Heat flashes through me so fast I almost stumble.My thighs clench.My breath comes fast.My nipples tighten beneath my blouse like they’ve been waiting for this moment longer than I have.My body doesn’t care about closure.My body remembers everything.
The way he touched me—like he’d memorized every inch, every nerve ending, and knew exactly where to press to make me break apart.Like I was his favorite song and he couldn’t stop playing the parts that made me moan.
The way his hands explored me—like he was charting territory he already owned but still craved to rediscover, just to feel the tremble beneath his fingertips.Every brush of his palm down my spine was a prelude.Every kiss behind my ear, a promise wrapped in heat.He made me unravel like a melody he refused to play the same way twice—familiar, yet entirely new each time, as if he was addicted to the way I came undone for him.
And now he’s standing here.Looking at me like I’m both unfinished business and a dare.
“Of course you’re important,” Bernice jumps in like she’s trying to patch a sinking ship with a paper towel.
“She’s just?—”
Roderick cuts her off with a quick glance.Two taps to his ear.“I heard her right.She’s focusing on what matters, which is obviously not me.”
That smug asshole smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth like it belongs there.Like he’s been waiting to use it on me.I want to slap it off—or kiss it until he forgets why he’s wearing it.Maybe both.Maybe I want him pinned against the nearest wall, mouth bruised and breathless, forgetting every woman who’s ever made him feel more than I ever did.
His voice slices through the room—velvet and smoke, addictive in that way that makes people do stupid things.It settles in my chest like a slow burn that wants to detonate.
He doesn’t even blink.His gaze stays locked on mine, like he’s trying to crawl inside my head and stake claim over a space that should’ve been condemned years ago.He holds me there—trapping me with nothing more than the curl of his lip and the heat behind those stupidly beautiful eyes.
He’s still the arrogant bastard who believes he can walk back into my life and pull my strings with just a glance and a sarcastic smile.
And the worst part?
He might be able to do it.
“Roderick.”I nod like it’s just a name.As if my pulse isn’t thrumming in places I swore were dead.As if my entire body isn’t leaning forward, desperate for something I swore I didn’t want anymore.
I nod like I’m fine.Like I haven’t spent years pretending I didn’t feel his absence like a phantom limb.Everything is flooding back.I remember the way we used to sit for hours.He’d play guitar.I’d be at the piano.He’d bang the drums while I wept through my cello.We traded melodies, letting music speak because nothing else felt safe.
Then I started to realize that his music shifted just like his mood.He chased trends, trying to placate his father, trying to find a sound that would make him special without understanding he already had it.Young Kit loved him too much to realize he was an entitled asshole.
That poor girl ...she felt too much and everyone just disregarded her, taking her for granted.I want to build a time machine and have a good talk with her.If Mom hadn’t died, she would probably have been there to explain to me what love is—and what it wasn’t.
Roderick was ...not love.
He was ...that’s when it all comes back to me.That night.That fucking night.The one that broke me and made me into who I am today.
He was playing a dive bar in Seattle, trying to look bigger than the room and smaller than the damage.
Dad always said that was the best way to reach people—to start from nothing and build into the kind of band everyone swears they discovered first because they felt like yours.
The point is—I went to surprise him.Naively hopeful.Stupid in love.I planned to slip into the crowd, wait for his set to end, then wrap my arms around him and remind him exactly who the hell he was.
Only I was the one who got surprised.
He was out back.Shirtless.Eyes glassy.A bottle dangled from his fingers.A woman knelt between his legs, her hand curled possessively around his thigh, her mouth on his cock like she’d done it a hundred times.Maybe she had.
A roadie leaned over and said, “Wait your turn, sweetheart.He always has some for everyone.”
I should’ve turned and walked away.I should’ve saved myself.
Instead, I stepped toward him.To this day, I don’t know where I found the strength—I just know I did.I pulled that woman away from him by her hair and slapped him across the face so hard the bottle dropped and shattered at his feet.He blinked at me like I was a hallucination—like he couldn’t tell if I was real or just another ghost behind his glassy eyes.
“Fuck you, Roderick Wilder.It’s over,” I told him.“We’re over.”
He stumbled after me, shirt half-open, belt hanging loose, eyes glossy with booze and regret.Or maybe just confusion.Maybe both.His voice cracked, unraveling like thread in a storm.“Don’t go.This ...don’t leave me, baby.I didn’t know she was—it didn’t mean anything.I didn’t even realize—Kit, please?—”
He was too fucked up to understand what he’d done.Or maybe he did know and just didn’t care enough to realize it hurt me.Maybe that was the worst part.Either way, it didn’t matter.
