Something felt wrong.
Something felt off.
And then I saw him
Brooks stood near the bathroom, fully dressed, his hair still damp from our shoulder together, his shoulders tense.
I went ice cold.
He’s sneaking out.
After all that happened. After everything I shared. I wanted to throw up.
The night flashed in my mind, piece by piece—the way he touched me like he never wanted to stop, the way he pulled me close in his sleep, the way his lips traced my skin like he needed me just as much as I needed him.
And now?
Now, he was standing there, dressed and ready to leave, not even looking at me.
Oh my God.
I felt exposed, like I’d handed him too much, and now he was running before he had to deal with it. My pulse spiked, my breath coming faster, shallower, the familiar weight of panic pressing down on my chest.
I could feel it creeping in, that choking, smothering sense of inevitability.
This is why I didn’t do this.
This is why I didn’t let people in.
This is why I set rules.
Had I really been so stupid to think this time was different?
I swallowed against the lump in my throat, debating my next move. Did I confront him?
Or did I pretend I was still sleeping, give him the easy out he so clearly wanted?
A sharp ache settled in my ribs at the thought.
Was I just a piece of ass to him?
Like all the other guys had been to me?
Wow, Karma. Well done.
My chest squeezed painfully, my thoughts spiraling fast, my fingers gripping the sheets like I needed something solid to hold onto.
How dare he?
How dare he pull me closer, break down my defenses, only to leave the second the sun came up? I slammed my eyes shut as he moved toward the bed, trying to regain control, trying to breathe past the panic, the anger, the sting of regret clawing its way up my throat.
I could feel him now. Sitting on the edge of the bed.
His large, warm hands landed on my calves, gentle, cautious.
I tensed.
I just wanted him to leave so I could get on with my life, so I could start patching myself back together.
