Chapter 4
1174 Words
Morning ruins everything.
Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly. Light creeping in, thin and unforgiving. The kind that makes things clearer than you want them to be.
He was already dressed when I woke up.
That’s how I know something is wrong before I even open my eyes properly. His side of the bed is cold. Empty in that way that feels intentional. Like he didn’t just leave. Like he left carefully.
I sit up, pulling the sheet higher even though there’s no one left to see me. Habit. Or dignity. Or maybe both.
He’s by the window, phone in hand, voice low. Controlled. CEO voice. The one he uses when he’s back in the world that doesn’t include me.
“Yes,” he says. Then pauses. “That works.”
There’s no trace of last night in his tone. No warmth. No softness. Like it never happened. Like I never happened.
I swallow.
When he finally turns, his eyes flick to me for half a second. Not unkind. Just… distant. Polite, almost. Like I’m a room he passed through and already forgot.
“Did I wake you?” he asks.
I almost laugh. It sits in my throat, sharp and bitter.
“No,” I say. “I was already up.”
That’s a lie. I’ve been lying a lot lately. Small ones. Quiet ones. The kind that keep things from breaking too fast.
He nods, distracted. Reaches for his watch. Slides it onto his wrist with practiced ease. The same wrist that held me a few hours ago. The same hand that knew exactly how to make me soften.
I watch him do it. The watching hurts.
There’s so much I want to say.
So much I don’t know how to ask.
Instead, I say, “You’re leaving.”
It’s not a question.
“Yes.” He hesitates. Just a bit. “I have meetings.”
Of course you do.
I nod like I understand. Like I don’t feel stupid sitting here wrapped in sheets and feelings while he’s already stepped back into his life.
He moves closer, presses a quick kiss to my forehead. Not my mouth. Never my mouth in the mornings. It’s gentle. Careful. Like you’d comfort someone who’s sick. Or fragile.
Something in me tightens.
“Last night…” I start, then stop.
He looks at me. Really looks this time. There’s something in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or caution. Like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t want to hear.
“Yes?”
I don’t even know what I was going to say. I just know I wanted more than this. More than the quiet leaving. More than the way he compartmentalizes me.
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Just… drive safe.”
His jaw relaxes. Relief. That hurts too.
“I’ll call you later,” he says.
I nod again.
He leaves.
The door closes softly. Like he didn’t want to wake the house. Or me. Or whatever this is.
I lie back down and stare at the ceiling, replaying everything. The way he touched me like he needed me. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing that made sense in that moment.
And then this.
The clean break between night and day.
I press my palm to my chest. It still feels tender there. Like something bruised itself from the inside.
I tell myself not to cry.
I cry anyway.
Just a little. Quiet. Embarrassed tears.
Because the truth is starting to form, slow and undeniable.
He comes to me when he wants closeness without consequence.
And leaves before I can ask for anything real.
I tell myself I won’t wait for him.
I wait anyway.
The day drags. Time stretches thin. I move around the apartment like a ghost. Drink water. Forget to eat. Check my phone more than I want to admit.
Then, late evening.
The sound of the door.
I freeze.
My heart jumps stupidly, traitorously, like it’s been rehearsing for this moment all day.
I hear him move around. Keys. Jacket. The low sound of his voice on a call that ends quickly. His footsteps slow near my door.
A knock.
Soft.
Almost hesitant.
“Are you up?” he asks.
I stare at my phone like it might answer for me.
I say yes slowly. I hesitate and say it again, loud enough for him to hear.
Yes.
Three letters. Too easy. Too much power for something so small.
There’s a pause. Just long enough for me to wonder if I imagined the knock. If he’s changed his mind. If this is where I finally get spared.
Then the door opens.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
He just stands there, looking at me.
Really looking.
Something in his expression shifts. Darkens. Like a thought settling into place. Like a decision being made without words.
“You’re sure?” he asks quietly.
I nod.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him.
The room feels smaller instantly. Thicker. Like the air itself is holding its breath. He doesn’t touch me right away. Just moves closer. Close enough that I can feel his warmth. Close enough that my skin starts to buzz.
He lifts my chin gently.
Not rough. Never rough. That’s almost worse.
I think, this is how he does it.
The silence. The waiting. The way he makes me feel chosen, even when I know I’m not.
His thumb brushes my lip. Just once.
I don’t pull away.
I should.
I don’t.
When he finally kisses me, it’s slow. Measured. Like he’s reminding himself of something. Or reminding me. I can’t tell which.
My hands find his shirt. I grip it, like if I let go I’ll float away. Like this moment might dissolve if I don’t hold on tightly enough.
He exhales against my mouth. Low. Controlled. Familiar.
For a second, I almost believe this is more.
That he came back because he missed me.
That he couldn’t stay away.
That this means something different now.
Then he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine.
Just like that.
No explanation.
No apology.
My chest tightens.
“You don’t have to,” I say, softly. Too softly.
He doesn’t answer right away.
“I know,” he says finally.
But he doesn’t move.
And that’s when it hits me.
He’s here because he wants my body.
Not my questions.
Not my heart.
Not the parts of me that wake up hurting in the daylight.
Just this.
Just now.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I let him, even as something inside me starts to split. Even as a quiet voice in my head whispers that this closeness has an expiration date.
And when his hands slide to my waist, familiar and sure, I feel it.
The c***k.
Small. Sharp. Impossible to ignore.
Because I realize I don’t know what hurts more anymore.
That he keeps choosing me like this…
or that I keep letting him.
- Writer
