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So I stay still. Letting her hold me. Letting me hold her. Because no matter how deep I’ve had my fingers inside her tonight, I still don’t know if there’s any room for me left in her heart.

FORTY-TWO

Sierra

I felt it the whole time.

Even in the way his hands moved over me. Even in the places he touched… and the ones he didn’t. The way he kept his mouth away from mine like it was something forbidden. Like he was something forbidden.

And now, standing here—still catching my breath, my skin still humming from every stroke of him—I see it in his eyes too. The distance. The restraint. The way he’s watching me, not with tenderness, not even with anger, but with something far colder.

Regret.

My chest caves in. The moment it hits, it’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. Shame claws its way through me, wrapping tight around my ribs like a vice. I can barely look at him. My skin burns, but not from his touch this time—from the humiliation pooling under every inch of me.

God, what did I do?

I turn to zip up my jumpsuit, my finger trembling, fumbling. I feel exposed in ways that have nothing to do with nudity. I’ve never felt smaller. Never felt more seen—and more discarded—in the same breath.

And when I glance back at him—hoping, begging—for even the smallest flicker of softness, of the man I love…

He groans low, dragging a hand through his hair. It’s not desire. It’s not satisfaction.

It’s frustration. Pain. Resentment, maybe.

“You got what you came for, Sierra.” His voice is hoarse, low, cutting. “Now you can leave.”

The words slice straight through me, sharp and deliberate. No warning. No hesitation. Just impact.

My heart stutters in my chest, refusing to catch the next beat. I just… stare. Confused. Petrified. Cold.

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t even look at me again, just turns his back and walks away, his bare shoulders tense, every step up the stairs heavy like he’s trying to put distance not just between our bodies—but between us. Between what we were and what we’ll never be again.

I watch him reach the landing and disappear down the hallway. And then I hear it—the quiet click of the bathroom door, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock turning.

He shut me out.

Literally. Emotionally. Entirely.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the space where he used to be. The silence in the room is more deafening now—no more ragged breaths, no more shuddering gasps. Just emptiness.

I blink, and tears threaten, but I won’t let them fall. Not here. I clutch my jacket off the floor and sling it over my arm with more force than necessary, swallowing down the ache in my throat.

My fingers are still trembling as I grab my purse, and I can’t stop the sting rising in my chest—the bitter, suffocating cocktail of humiliation and heartbreak.

I came here to fix things. To speak. To explain.

Instead… I gave in.

Instead… he used me.

And I let him.

God, what is wrong with me?

I press my lips together, forcing myself to move. One foot in front of the other—like muscle memory—I walk out. Not because I want to. But because staying any longer means shattering completely. And he already broke me once tonight.

As soon as I reach the car, I sink into the seat, curling my fingers tightly around the edge of my jacket, willing the tears to stay buried a little longer.