He says nothing.
His rhythm stutters for half a second. His eyes squeeze shut, jaw locking like he’s choking on something he refuses to swallow. Then he fucks me harder, like force might drown the sound of it out.
When it’s over, we’re both shaking. Sweaty. Disheveled. The city still burns beneath us, unchanged. Unimpressed.
He steps back first.
Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me.
I pull my dress down with unsteady hands, smoothing the torn slit like fabric can fix what just happened. My heart is pounding too hard, too fast.
“I—” I start. But there’s nothing there. Nothing that won’t make this worse.
He’s already walking away.
I don’t understand what shifted. What broke. Why it suddenly feels like I was the only one standing inside it.
But I know better than to chase a man who only knows how to take and leave.
So I don’t.
I wake up alone in my bed.
The space beside me is empty, already cold. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, the sky is thick with clouds, dark and swollen with rain. Gray in every direction, like the world decided to match me instead of arguing.
The sheets are twisted beneath me, damp with sweat and regret. My dress is still on, bunched and clinging to my skin, wrinkled where I must have slept wrong. The lace panties are only halfway on, one strap caught awkwardly around my thigh. I didn’t undress. I don’t even remember coming in here.
I just collapsed.
After he left.
After he didn’t say it back.
After I told him I loved him.
And he just… walked away.
For a second, I let myself pretend.
Maybe he’s in the kitchen. Maybe he stayed up all night, pacing, thinking, while replaying it over and over until it finally hit him what he almost lost. Maybe he’s making coffee right now, waiting for me to wake up so he can say it sober. Say it without anger, teeth, and control wrapped around it.
I swing my legs off the bed. The ache between my legs flares, dull and tender, but it barely registers. It’s nothing compared to the hollow pressure sitting in my chest. The floor is cold under my bare feet as I stand.
Kitchen first.
Empty.
The living room is still, untouched. No jacket thrown over a chair. No glass left behind. The rooftop doors are closed, rain streaking down the glass outside. His office door is shut.
Locked.
No music. No low murmur of his voice on a call. No sense of him lingering anywhere in the air.
He never came looking.
The realization settles slowly, like something heavy pressing down on my lungs.
He left me on the floor in a torn silk dress, mascara streaked down my cheek—
