But that was the thing. The thing I was only now starting to understand, two weeks too late.
I wasn’t restless.
I wasn’t bored, or itching to move on, or eyeing other women with that hungry dissatisfaction my father wore like a second skin. I didn’t wanttons of girls. I didn’t want parties or one-night stands or the endless carousel of meaningless connections that had defined my life before.
I wantedher.
Just her.
Only her.
Every goddamn day for the rest of my life.
I wanted to wake up to her stealing the covers and complaining about mornings, to watch her dance around in my old T-shirts, and to hear her laugh at something stupid I said—that bright, happy sound that made my chest feel too full.
I missed her laugh. God, I missed her laugh so much it felt like a physical wound.
I missed the way she smelled—that damn vanilla-cinnamon lotion that made her smell like a delicious cookie. In a moment of weakness, I’d bought a bottle that I would smell whenever I really wanted to torture myself with missing her.
I missed the way she felt in my arms. Not even sexually—though fuck, I missed that too—but just her presence. The weight of her head on my chest. The way her fingers would trace across my tattoos when we snuggled. The peace that settled over me whenever she was close, like all the jagged pieces inside me finally fit together.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed that peace until it was gone.
You’re saving her, the voice in my head insisted, but it sounded weaker now. Less certain.
Was I saving her? Or was I just punishing us both for a future that might never happen?
My father had been so sure. So confident that the blood running through my veins made me incapable of fidelity. But my father was also a selfish bastard who’d spent his whole life making excuses for his own choices.
He’dchosento cheat. Chosen to lie. Chosen to put his own desires above the woman who loved him.
That was character, not genetics.
And maybe my character was different.
Maybe genetics didn’t define who we were. Maybe it was possible to break away from that cycle.
My defining trait had never been restlessness.
It was loyalty.
I’d been loyal to my friends my whole life.
You’re my son, Liam. You’ve got my face, my charm…
But Iwasn’tmy father.
I’d spent my whole life terrified of becoming him, and in that terror, I’d done exactly what he would have done—I’d run. I’d hurt the person I loved most because I was too scared to stay and fight for her.
The realization hit me like a check to the chest, knocking all the air from my lungs.
I’d thought leaving her would feel like relief. Like setting down a weight I’d been carrying for too long. Instead, it felt like I’d cut out my own heart and left it bleeding on her floor.
Not being with her wasn’t saving anyone.
It was the worst pain I’d ever felt.
I pulled out my phone again, staring at her name. My thumb hovered over the call button, desperate to hear her voice, to tell her I was wrong, to beg her to give me another chance.
