Because I’d somehow woken up in his bed—not mine. That was a massive problem I hadn’t expected to encounter this morning.
He was warm against my side. Heavy in that loose, unguarded way that only sleep allowed. His hair fell into his eyes. His mouth was parted slightly. There was a faint crease between his brows like even his dreams weren’t kind.
My hand hovered an inch above his shoulder. Desperate to touch his warm skin again. But I refused to allow it. That was the first wrong thing.
I shifted carefully out from under him, inch by inch. Every fraction of movement felt wrong. Like pulling away from heat in winter. I paused halfway, suspended between staying and going, before forcing myself to finish what I’d started. He didn’t wake. Relief hit first. Then something like grief about what could have been if I was…
No! I shook my head and darted to my room to shower and get dressed for the day before he woke up. Downstairs, I made coffee I didn’t want and drank it too fast, burning my mouth.
The silence felt suffocating. I fiddled with my button down to drown it out. Buttoned, unbuttoned, buttoned again. Anything to stop myself from creeping back upstairs to see if he was awake.
I told myself I was giving him space. I told myself I was doing the right thing. But the truth was simpler and uglier: I was afraid of what I wanted.
And worse—I was afraid of what he wanted from me.
When he came down, I felt it before I saw it. That quiet pull in my chest. The awareness. The hairs on my exposed arms standing on end.
He looked smaller in the daylight. Pale. Guarded. His collarbones stood out more sharply. The fabric of his hoodie hung looser at the shoulders, as he tugged the sleeve a little lower over the wrist he was so desperate to hide. Even though we both knew I knew what was under it.
I kept my eyes on his face. That was the second wrong thing. His hazel eyes shone in the sunlight that streamed through the window by the coffee maker highlighting the freckles that covered the bridge of his nose.
“Morning,” I said. It came out neutral. So neutral I cringed.
He answered me the same way. We stood in the kitchen like people who had no idea how to act around each other. Like something had fundamentally changed between us and we couldn’t go back.
He poured coffee. His hands shook. I noticed but pretended I didn’t see. Just carried on looking at the newspaper. That was the third wrong thing.
“You sleep okay?” I asked instead. That was a safe question, or so I thought.
“Sure. Great,” he said, sipping on his coffee. He lied.
I let him. That was the fourth wrong thing.
“You busy today?” Elliot enquired.
I hesitated. Barely. But he saw it. “Yes,” I said. “A couple of things to take care of for work.” It wasn’t a lie. Just wasn’t the truth he needed.
His face closed a fraction. It was almost nothing. But it was everything to me.
“Oh,” he said.
I felt it land in my ribs. “I’ll be back later,” I offered. A promise.
He nodded. Didn’t ask me to stay. Didn’t ask me not to go. That hurt more than if he had. He just took what I’d said and turned his back on me.
At the door, I almost turned back. Almost said something better. Almost crossed the space I’d just created.
I didn’t. That was the fifth wrong thing.
The house swallowed the sound of the door closing behind me. In my truck, my hands stayed on the steering wheel longerthan necessary. I closed my eyes, tipped my head back against the headrest.
Saw him on his bed. Saw the blood on his wrist. The jagged lines carved into his skin. Saw the words in the journal I shouldn’t have read.He kissed me like I was still savable.
My throat tightened. “Please don’t want me like this,” I whispered into the empty cab. Because if he wanted me this way—as a lifeline, as an anchor, as a reason not to disappear?—
I didn’t know how to survive that without ruining him. I didn’t know how to survive it without wanting him back. So I drove away. With every mile that passed, I had the sickening certainty that I was not creating distance.
I was creating damage. Again.
