Hungry for you

Chapter Six – What We Pretend Not to Feel

The days blur, stitched together by silence I can’t cut through. I wake up with my phone beside me, screen black, no new messages. Sometimes it’s Eli’s name I want to see, sometimes it’s Ian’s. More often, I don’t even know which one I’m hoping for. All I know is that the absence—of one, of both—sits like a stone in my chest.

Nate’s texts come steady, reliable, like clockwork. Dinner tonight? Want me to bring a bottle? The words feel like obligation—safe, predictable, a rhythm I know by heart. Ian’s texts are rarer, sharper, like sparks against flint. You awake? I keep thinking about you. His words make the air feel different, charged, dangerous.

And Eli? Eli calls sometimes. Never when I expect it. Never long enough. His voice is warm but thin, like static through a weak connection. “I’m sorry, sunshine. It’s just been crazy here.” He says it like a prayer, like an excuse, like he’s hoping I’ll still believe it.

But each call feels shorter. Each silence after it feels longer.

Tonight, I’m pacing my apartment with a glass of wine I haven’t touched, staring at the door like I’m daring someone to knock. My phone buzzes. My stomach jumps.

It’s Ian.

I can’t do this anymore.

My breath catches. I type fast, before I can think. Do what?

The dots appear instantly. Pretend I don’t want you.

The glass nearly slips from my hand. I grip it tighter, my pulse racing so loud it fills my ears. I stare at the words like they’re a cliff edge. All I’d have to do is step forward.

Another buzz. I’m outside.

I freeze. My legs move before my head does. I pull the door open, and there he is—leaning against the wall like he’s been pacing, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw tight. His hair’s a little messy, his shirt wrinkled, like he didn’t bother fixing himself before driving over. His eyes lock on mine instantly, and the intensity there makes my stomach flip.

“Hi,” I whisper, my voice caught somewhere between relief and panic.

He pushes off the wall, steps closer, but doesn’t cross the threshold. “Can I come in?”

The question isn’t casual. It’s heavy, deliberate, lined with all the things we’ve been avoiding.

I step back. He follows, and the room changes with him in it—smaller, heavier, like the walls are leaning closer just to listen.

He doesn’t sit. He just stands there, staring at me like he’s memorizing every piece.

Finally, I break. “Why are you here, Ian?”

His throat works, his voice low, rough. “Because I can’t keep pretending. I think about you all the damn time, Reese. And it’s driving me insane.”

The confession is a blow to the chest. My hands shake. My heart feels too big for my body.

“You can’t say things like that,” I manage. “You know I—”

“Eli?” His jaw clenches. “You mean Eli, the guy who barely calls you? Who leaves you staring at your phone night after night, waiting for something that never comes?”

“That’s not fair.” The words rush out, defensive, automatic. “You don’t know what it’s like. He’s—he’s busy. He’s trying.”

“Is he?” Ian steps closer, his voice sharp now. “Or are you just trying for both of you?”

The words slice through me because they sound too close to the truth.

I want to tell him to stop. I want to shove him back, slam the door, protect myself. But my body betrays me. I don’t move.

Ian’s hand lifts, hesitates in the air, then brushes my hair back from my face. The touch is gentle, careful, almost reverent. My breath stutters. My eyes close without meaning to.

“Don’t,” I whisper, though it doesn’t sound like a protest.

His hand slips into my hair, fingers curling like he’s anchoring himself. He leans in, his breath grazing my neck. My knees go weak.

And then—his lips touch my bare shoulder where the sweater slips. Soft. Lingering. My body burns instantly, fire racing up my spine.

“Ian,” I breathe, not sure if I’m begging him to stop or begging him not to.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, unsteady, raw. “If I kiss you, Reese, I won’t stop. And I don’t know if you’re ready for that.”

My heart lurches. The honesty in his voice wrecks me more than anything else could.

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes on the counter. The sound slices the air between us.

I glance at the screen. My stomach drops.

Nate.

Ian sees it. His jaw tightens, his eyes darken. “Of course.”

He steps back, like the distance is armor. “You should answer him.”

“Ian—”

But he’s already moving toward the door.

I follow, desperate. “Don’t walk out like this.”

He pauses, hand on the knob, his back to me. “Then don’t let him in.”

And with that, he’s gone.

The silence he leaves behind is brutal.

My phone buzzes again. Nate: On my way.

I stare at the words, my chest splitting in two.

Because the truth is, I don’t know what’s worse—letting Nate in, or letting Ian go.

And then, as if fate wants to break me completely, Eli calls.

His name lights the screen, familiar and foreign all at once. My throat closes. I swipe to answer, my voice trembling. “Hey.”

“Sunshine,” he says, his voice tired but warm. “God, I miss you.”

And just like that, I’m back where I started—caught between three men who all want different pieces of me, and a heart that doesn’t know which way to turn.