Chapter 11-Maya
“Take your bath, Maya. We’ll talk again later.”
His voice is flat, almost too controlled.
Then Rico turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stay frozen where I am, staring at the empty space he left behind. My arms drop uselessly to my sides.
The echo of his words lingers, heavy and sharp.
He sounded angry. Hurt. Like I’d cut him deeper than I meant to.
And maybe I did.
For long minutes I stand there, replaying the look in his eyes, the pain that threaded through his voice.
My throat tightens.
Could I really have been wrong about him?
Eventually, I shake myself out of it. The tub is full, the water steaming gently.
I slip inside, sinking into the bubbles I set on low. The water’s warm but not too hot—I was already flushed with heat from the summer wave, and my hormones make it worse.
My body sighs into the comfort of it, easing some of the tension strung so tight in my chest.
I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and for a little while, I let myself float.
When the water cools, I step out, wrap myself in a towel, and steel my nerves. I know Rico.
He doesn’t let things go. I’m braced for him to be waiting, for round two of a fight I’m not sure I can survive.
But the bedroom is empty.
So is the condo.
The soundproofed studio door is shut, faint vibrations of bass thrumming from behind it.
Of course. That’s where he is.
Rico always turns to music when the world weighs too heavy on him.
I let out a shaky breath.
Too tired to knock, too drained to try again, I pull on a pair of soft pajamas—cotton boxer shorts and a tank top that doesn’t do much to hide the curve of my body.
Then, I climb into his enormous king-sized bed.
There’s another bedroom in the condo, but it’s been gutted and outfitted into that same studio I suspect he’s in right now.
The couch is way too narrow, and I’m too damn pregnant— and, let’s be real, too damn fluffy —to sleep on it.
Besides, I want the bed. His bed.
I curl against the pillows, burying my face in the pillowcase and snuggling into the sheets.
They smell like him— clean and spicy, with just a whisper of his aftershave.
Not the heavy, choking colognes so many men wear. Rico never liked that, thank God.
His scent is subtle, natural, and grounding.
I close my eyes, breathing him in, letting it settle into me.
I shouldn’t love it. I shouldn’t love him, not after everything.
But I do.
And wrapped in his scent, surrounded by the warmth he left behind, I drift off to sleep with my heart aching in ways I don’t know how to fix.