Fallon
By the time I came down for breakfast, Reid was already gone.
Of course he was.
I stared at the empty coffee pot like it had personally offended me, my fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. The kitchen was spotless — too perfect, too sterile — and the air still carried the faintest trace of his cologne.
It was a reminder I hadn’t asked for.
And I hated how much it made my chest ache.
I shouldn’t have cared.
I shouldn’t have still felt the ghost of his touch — the warmth of his hands sliding into my hair, the press of his body against mine, the way his lips had devoured me like he was starving.
But my skin still tingled where his fingers had gripped my waist. My mouth still burned from the kiss we weren’t supposed to have.
And the worst part?
He’d been the one
