☆▽☆
"What are you doing here?" he asks me, his eyes raking over my drenched body and widening. Instantly, he opens the door further, allowing me to slip inside and grab a towel from somewhere, handing it to me.
My sobs may have taken a backseat f...
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I close the door behind me with trembling hands.
My room is dark, quiet, familiar. But tonight, it feels... lonelier than usual.
Like something sacred just brushed against my skin and left a mark no one can see.
I lean against the door for a second, chest rising and falling with the weight of everything I just saw. His room—our memories, immortalised in things I never knew he kept. Scribbled notes between candid shots. Torn wrappers. My pillow in the smack middle of his bed as if he cuddled it to sleep. A photograph of me laughing, eyes crinkled, hair flying in the wind—taken when I wasn’t looking. Probably by him.
I should feel invaded. But I don’t.
I feel seen.
I drag my fingers over my lips, still swollen from our kiss in the cafe. The one I didn’t plan. The one I couldn’t stop. His mouth still lingers on my skin like something warm and dangerous.
I sit on the edge of my bed but can’t stay still. My body feels wired, lit up from the inside like someone turned all the lights on at once. I think of his voice. That reverence. That restraint. That sinful, patient devotion.
No one has ever worshipped me like this. Not Neil. Not even myself.
I shouldn’t want more.
But I do.
God, I do.
And I don’t know what scares me more—that he’s still everything I want, or that no part of me can pretend otherwise anymore.
It starts with silence.
The kind that sits too loud in the corners of a room you don’t belong in.
My room suddenly feels foreign like I’m an intruder in a life I haven’t quite stepped back into. The pillow smells like fresh lavender—my shampoo—but it’s missing the undertone of something warmer, something stubborn and cinnamon-sweet.
It’s missing him.
I try not to let myself spiral. I try not to remember how carefully he’d kept those flowers by the sunlit window, how he hadn’t touched me even when I’d practically burned with need. He’d said he just wanted me close. Just to sleep. Just to breathe. And he’d meant it. Of course he had.
And that should have been enough.
But I’m aching.
My body hums like a live wire, strung too tight under skin that still carries his touch. My thoughts feel slow, but my heart—my heart is a riot. It refuses to fall in line. Refuses to play calm when all it wants is the man across the hall who looks at me like I’m worth being loved.
