I woke up reaching for him before my eyes were even open. My hand slid across cool sheets, empty space, the faint indent where his body had been. For one stupid second my heart forgot how to beat.
Then memory slammed in—he had to leave early. Work trip. New York. Few days.
Right.
I exhaled, slow and deliberate, staring at the ceiling like it owed me an explanation. The room still smelled like us—like sex and smoke and the kind of night that rewrites everything. My thighs were sticky. Actually sticky. I shifted and felt the slow slide of him still inside me, and Jesus Christ, how was that even possible? The man came like a fire hose and apparently left souvenirs.
I laughed—short, sharp, a little unhinged—into the empty room. Perfect. Just perfect.
Phone on the nightstand. Screen black. Switched off. Of course, he'd done that—Mr. Control Freak didn't want notifications waking me. I powered it on, thumb hovering.
Good flight, babe. Land safe. And a kissing emoji.
Sent.
I tossed the phone aside and swung my legs out of bed. The air hit my bare skin and I shivered—not from cold, but from the sudden, ridiculous awareness that I was naked in sheets that smelled like him. Like what we'd just done.
Shower. Now. Before I did something stupid like bury my face in his pillow and inhale until I passed out.
The hot water did nothing to wash away the ache between my legs or the one in my chest. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting it pound my shoulders, trying to rinse off the panic that kept trying to crawl up my throat.
The bathroom mirror fogged completely. I wiped a hand across it—and froze.
A handprint. Not mine.
Larger. Masculine. Like someone had pressed their palm against the glass from the other side.
I blinked. It was gone.
I'm just tired. That's all.
He left for work. People do that. Normal. Adult. Not the end of the world.
I told myself that three times. Didn't believe it once.
Black jumper, black sweatpants—armour. Hair twisted up wet, no makeup. Good enough.
I padded to the kitchen barefoot and stopped dead.
Coffee machine primed, timer blinking ready. Little green light like a smug wink.
Every. Fucking. Time.
That bastard. He could be halfway across the Atlantic and still manage to take care of me from thirty thousand feet. I hated how much I loved it. My mouth curved without permission—stupid, helpless smile.
Then I saw the note on the counter, propped against the fruit bowl like it belonged there.
My smile faltered.
Baby,
Coffee's ready, sandwich in the fridge.
I had to go early, but fuck I miss you already. As I always miss you when I'm two steps away from you.
Think of me when you drink the coffee. Think of me when you're alone. Think of me every second until I come back.
I love you, Alena.
