Kieren
I woke to the kind of stillness that felt wrong.
The kind that told you something was missing before you even opened your eyes.
The sheets were still warm beside me, but the pillow was empty—and it hit me like a punch to the gut. That hollow space where her head had rested, where her hair had fanned out across the linen like ink in water, now stared back at me like it had something to say.
I stared at it like it had personally betrayed me.
And maybe it had.
Because she was gone.
No note. No sound. No scent lingering on the air anymore. Just the ghost of her and the ache she’d left behind.
I sat up slowly, dragging a hand over my face. My chest felt too tight, like I hadn’t taken a deep breath since she walked out. Since she slipped through my fingers like she always does. Quiet. Slippery. Soft.
Memories of last night hit me in waves—her mouth on mine, the way she whispered my name like it meant something, the way she let me touch her like no one ever had.
And that last whisper—“This wasn’t part of the contract.”
No. It wasn’t.
But neither was the way she made me feel like the world stopped spinning if she wasn’t in the room.
I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over her name. I shouldn’t text her. I knew that.
I did it anyway.
You could’ve at least said goodbye.
Ten minutes passed. Nothing.
I sent another.
Running doesn’t suit you, Daphne.
Still nothing.
I exhaled sharply, jaw tight. Pushed off the bed and paced the length of the room like that might burn off the restlessness clawing under my skin.
She thought she could just disappear?
Not this time.
Not after that.
I wasn’t some one-night decision she could forget by morning. I wasn’t a mistake she’d bury with coffee and a tight ponytail.
I was the man who kissed her like he meant it.
Touched her like she was something sacred.
Held her like she was already mine.
And she was—whether she wanted to admit it or not.
“You’re running,” I muttered to the empty room. My voice was low, rough, like I hadn’t spoken since she left. “But you’re not getting far.”
