My fingers slip away from his skin.
“Then why did you leave?”
He doesn’t answer.
His eyes drag down my body again. Slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize what he’s missed or trying to convince himself not to touch me.
When his eyes meet mine again, I’m already unraveling.
He exhales sharply.
“I’m going to take a shower.”
There’s no sharpness in his voice.
No anger.
But it’s strained. Tense. Like he’s choking on restraint. Like if he doesn’t get out of this room, he’ll do something he’s not ready for.
And just like that, he steps past me.
Doesn’t touch me.
Doesn’t look back.
The air that rushes into the space he leaves behind is cold and too quiet.
I turn slowly, watching his back disappear up the stairs.
***
I'm leaning against the bathroom door, pressing my shoulder into the cool wood like maybe, just maybe if I stay still enough, everything will make sense.
But it doesn’t.
The sound of running water behind the door only makes my heart pound harder. Knowing he’s in there, just on the other side, so close and yet completely unreachable, unspoken, unreadable…
This is the version of Alex I don’t understand.
I replay the look in his eyes over and over. That intensity. That silence. The subtle longing I saw in them. I wish I could crawl inside his head, pull apart the knots and shadows, and figure out what the hell he’s feeling. He said he’s not mad at me—but I don’t know. It feels like he is. Or maybe he’s mad at himself. Or the world. Or everything.
The water cuts off, and I hold my breath. Waiting for footsteps. The creak of the door. Anything.
But the silence stretches.
And stretches.
I rake a hand through my hair, frustration building like a scream stuck in my throat. My fingers tremble as I lift them to knock.
“Alex?” My voice comes out softer than I intend, too thin and too loud in the stillness. I swallow. “Are you… Are you done yet?”
Nothing.
My chest tightens.
“I need to talk to you,” I say, the words catching, uncertain. “Please.”
The silence lingers for one heartbeat. Two.
