Page 73 of The Ache That Stayed

She was a drug that got under my skin and carved herself into my bones. And now that drug was in my bloodstream, burning through me.

My gaze drifted down the hallway. Toward the closed bedroom door. The locked door was probably the smartest thing she’d done tonight. Because if it wasn’t—I wouldn’t still be standing here. That truth sat heavier than I liked.

I turned away before I could think about it too long and walked into the bathroom. The light came on too bright, too sharp. I just stepped under the shower and turned the tap all the way cold. The water pelted my back, like a volley of icy bullets, as if trying to blast away the memory of her touch and the guilt of the kiss.

I wanted to kill the pressure lodged behind my ribs.

I was still hard, the cold water biting at me, but it did nothing for the ache in my balls. It should’ve helped, but didn’t.

She’d left me wrecked.

I braced my hands against the tile, head bowed, letting it run over me, down my face, my neck, my chest—but all I could feel was her. The way she’d said my name—half anger, half something else I didn’t want to name.

“Stop,” I muttered, more to myself than anything.

The second I closed my eyes, it was worse.

Her mouth. Her breath. The soft weight of her breast against my palm. The way she’d opened for me—not fully, but not resisting either. The hesitation. The second she could’ve pulled away—and didn’t.

My hands curled into fists against the tile.

I’d spent long enough telling myself I knew where the line was. That I wouldn’t cross it. That I didn’t want to.

That had been a lie.

At first, I thought it was rebellion. Some sick joke fate played on me.

The Don’s woman.

My best friend’s woman.

The forbidden fruit hanging low enough to torture me.

I told myself that was all it was. Defiance. A phase. An ugliness that lived in my chest because I wasn’t built right. But it wasn’t.

Because we never had anything. No kisses. No secrets. No stolen nights.

Nothing.

And somehow that made it worse. Because whatever existed between us had never needed touching. It had been there from the beginning. From the moment she walked up to me in that ridiculous dress with sunflowers and asked for a ride.

I knew she was doing it to piss Marcello off. The little menace. But something sparked that day. Something neither of us understood. And instead of dying, it only grew teeth.

Every argument. Every time she fought me when I was trying to keep her safe. Every insult, every laugh. Every time she looked at me like she wanted to murder me.

Every goodbye that lasted too long. Every time she walked away and I watched anyway.

Fuel.

All of it just fuel for the fire simmering underneath. And I was too stupid to see it.

I thought obsession looked like madness. Like violence. Like lust. Turns out it looked like memorising how she liked her chai. Remembering her favourite chocolate.

Knowing she bit the back of her finger when she was anxious.

Watching her from a distance because being near her hurt too much. And still thinking that was enough.

Fool.