His bedroom waits beyond the door, grand and dark, all clean lines and shadows. On the bed, laid out with quiet intention, is a black t-shirt and a pair of track pants, both unmistakably his. Too big.
I choose the shirt.
It slips over my head and falls almost to my knees, the fabric heavy with his scent. I hesitate at the door, then ease it open and move down the hallway, steps soft, careful.
Khai stands by the window.
Dry now. Dressed again. A glass of amber liquid cradled in his hand as he looks out over the city like it belongs to him. Like he’s already rebuilding the walls he tore down moments ago.
I stop a few steps away.
“Hi,” I murmur.
And in the quiet that follows, I realise something with a slow, sinking certainty:
Whatever this is between us, it isn’t finished.
It’s only just begun.
Khai
“Hi.”
I turn, and my pulse stutters like my body forgot the rhythm it’s supposed to keep.
She’s standing in my t-shirt, hair wet, face bare, eyes too honest. She looks like something I shouldn’t be allowed to touch, something the world would punish me for wanting.
She swallows, and I watch her gather herself, like she’s bracing for impact.
“Is everything okay?” she asks softly. “Because you… you look like you’re somewhere else.”
I don’t answer quickly enough.
Her throat tightens. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” The word comes out harsh with urgency. I take a step toward her, then stop myself before I close the distance completely. “You didn’t.”
Her brows knit together, hurt slipping through her composure. “Then why does it feel like you regret me?”
That one lands deep.
My jaw tightens. “I don’t.”
She searches my face like she’s trying to catch the lie. “You walked away,” she whispers. “You held me like you couldn’t let go… and then you left the room like you couldn’t stand to be near me.”
“That wasn’t regret,” I say, voice rough. “That was restraint.”
Her lips part. “Restraint from what?”
“From myself.”
The honesty costs me. I feel it in my chest, sharp, immediate, like a bruise forming under the ribs.
She takes a half-step closer. “Why? Why stop if you wanted me?”
Because wanting you is the first mistake I haven’t been able to undo. Because the moment I want you out loud, you become visible. Because I’ve spent my whole life learning not to have anything that can be taken.
I don’t say all of it.
