HIS ROOMMATE

SIX INCHES AGAIN

CHAPTER 35

KAI'S POV

I will get you coffee," he said and walked away. The door to the kitchen clicks shut behind him.

Did we just make everything worse with last night? Even though he said he didn't regret it... I still feel something was off about him.

The way he looked at me before he stood up. Like he was reading something on my face I hadn’t said out loud. Like he already knew.

Did he know about me leaving to Australia? But I didn't tell him, not yet. Because I am so scared.

Scared that if I say “Australia” out loud, “always” stops meaning anything. Scared that if I don’t say it, I’m lying to the man who just held me through my first time like I was something precious.

I press my forehead to my knees. The sheet slips. I yank it back up. Like fabric can cover the mess I’ve made.

Central Park. The wine. The door. The bed. “Yes.”

I chose him last night. But I chose Melbourne months ago. I chose the email. I chose Jan 15. I chose a dream I’ve had since I was a little girl and working double shifts to afford textbooks.

So why does it feel like betrayal now?

I hear water running. Mugs clinking. Terrible coffee, he said. But he’s making it anyway. Because “always” meant even this. Even awkward morning-after coffee.

My phone lights up on the nightstand. Another beep. The Australia message. The one I haven’t replied to yet. The one I was going to tell him about after Friday. After I figured out how to breathe without breaking.

But he was looking at me like he was expecting me to tell him something I'm not saying.

What if he saw it? What if he checked my phone while I slept? The thought makes my stomach drop. Not because I have anything to hide. But because I didn’t want him to find out like that. From a text. Not from me.

“Coffee’s… drinkable,” he calls from the kitchen. Voice careful. Too careful. CEO careful. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

I almost laugh. Almost.

I stand up. Sheet wrapped around me like armor. Walk to the doorway. He’s at the counter, back to me. Shirt still in his hand. Shoulders tense. Not relaxed. Not Adrian-from-last-night relaxed.

“Adrian,” I say.

He turns. Mug in each hand. Smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You take it black, right? Like a criminal?”

“Like a criminal,” I echo. Small smile. Fake one.

He hands me the mug. Our fingers don’t touch. Six inches again. Back to where we started.

We stand there in silence. Steam between us. Everything we didn’t say last night pressing against our throats.

“Adrian, I—”

“Eat something first,” he cuts in gently. “Then we talk. Okay? No decisions before caffeine.”

But we both know it’s not about coffee.

It’s about Australia. It’s about next week. It’s about whether “always” can survive a plane ticket.

I take a sip. Burn my tongue. Welcome the pain.

Because telling him is going to hurt more.

I take another sip. Burn my tongue again. Like if it hurts enough, I won’t have to say the words.

“Adrian, I—” My voice cracks. I set the mug down on the counter. Hands shaking.

He doesn’t look at me. Still facing the sink. Still washing a mug that’s already clean. CEO Adrian avoiding a conversation. But I saw it last night — the man underneath. The one who kissed my tears away.

“Eat first,” he says again. Soft. Firm. “Kai. Please. Just… eat first.”

It’s not about the toast. It’s about time. He’s buying time. Or giving me time. I can’t tell which one hurts more.

I grab a piece of burnt toast. Break it in half. Crumbs fall on the floor. My hands won’t stop shaking.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” I whisper.

His hands still in the water. For one second. Then he keeps washing.

“The message?” he asks. Voice empty. No inflection. Like he’s reading a quarterly report.

I close my eyes. “My phone. Last night. While I slept.”

Water keeps running. He doesn’t turn around. “I muted it. So you could sleep.”

That’s not an answer. That’s CEO speak. That’s deflection.

“Adrian, look at me.”

He shuts the tap off. The silence is worse than the water. He dries his hands on a towel. Slow. Methodical. Then finally turns.

Mug in his hand. Smile still not reaching his eyes. But this time he looks at me. Really looks. That Central Park stare. The one that sees too much.

“I didn’t read it, Kai,” he says quietly. “I saw the preview. ‘Ms Moore… Australia… next week.’ Then I put the phone down.”

The air leaves my lungs.

So he knows. He’s known since this morning. Since before coffee. Since before “I don’t regret last night.”

“Next week,” he repeats. Not a question. A fact. “The formality.”

I nod. Can’t speak. The sheet feels too thin now. Like everyone can see the mess I am.

“I was going to tell you after Friday,” I force out. “After we… after I figured out how to say it without it sounding like goodbye.”

He sets his mug down. Doesn’t drink it. Takes one step toward me. Stops when there’s still six inches between us. Always six inches.

“Kai,” he says. My name. Not CEO voice. Not Adrian-the-board-member. Just him. Tired. Honest. “You don’t have to explain. You chose Melbourne months ago. You told me that night at the Cafe, while I wait for you to close for the day. ‘I’m not staying.’ Remember?”

I do. God, I do. I just didn’t think “not staying” would mean him.

“So what now?” I ask. Voice small. “You said you wouldn’t ask me to choose. But morning always comes, Adrian. And with it, decisions.”

He reaches up. Thumb brushes under my eye. I didn’t even realize I was crying.

“I meant it last night,” he says. “I don’t regret it. Not one second. Not even knowing you’re leaving in seven days.”

Seven days. He counted too.

“But I’m not going to make you choose between me and your dream,” he continues. “I said ‘always.’ And ‘always’ means I’m here for you. Even if ‘here’ is the airport. Even if ‘here’ is goodbye.”

The words hit harder than last night’s kiss. Because they’re true. And they’re tearing me apart.

“Adrian—”

“Eat your toast, criminal,” he cuts in. But his voice breaks on the last word. He turns back to the sink before I can see his face. “Then we talk. About whatever you want. About nothing.”

I look at the toast. Look at his back. The man who gave me everything last night and is already preparing to let me go.

And I still don’t know which would hurt less — telling him to stay, or letting him watch me leave.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.

The sound cut through the quiet like a blade.

Adrian glanced at the screen. And just like that, the man who kissed me like I was precious last night vanished. Shoulders squared. Jaw set. CEO Adrian slid back on in the space of one breath.

He reached for the suit draped over the chair. The same suit from last night. Wrinkled now. Like me.

He started buttoning it up, slow and methodical. One button, two, three. Each click felt like a door closing. Like he was sealing himself back into a version of him that didn’t know what my skin tasted like. A version that could walk away without looking back.

“I need to go,” he said to the mirror, not to me. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

Okay.

Okay.

The word hung in the air between us. Light. Casual. Like I was a neighbor he was leaving, not the girl who whispered “yes” under him at 3am.

My chest caved in.

Why wasn’t he asking me to stay?

Why wasn’t he saying “Kai, don’t go” or even “We’ll talk tonight”?

Was last night really nothing? Just heat and grief and bad decisions we’d both pretend didn’t happen?

If he felt anything — anything real, anything that mattered — he would fight for it, right? He would reach for my hand. He would tell me to sit back down. He would make “always” mean something other than goodbye.

But he wasn’t fighting. He was leaving. Neat. Professional. Clean.

The pain hit slow at first. Then all at once. Like stepping off a curb and realizing the ground wasn’t there. My ribs hurt. My throat burned. I wanted to scream “stay” and “do you not feel it too?”

Instead I nodded.

TBC