21. Skye
Skye
I lock the bathroom door behind me and turn on the water. Hot. Scalding. As hot as it’ll go.
Steam curls against the mirrors before I even finish stripping off my clothes. I don’t care. I just step in, like maybe the water will wash everything away if I let it burn long enough.
My back hits the tile. The water slaps against my face. My chest. My knees. The silence of the apartment disappears under the spray, and it’s just me, the water, and the ache I’ve been trying to outrun since last night.
He let me leave. He just stood there.
I dig my fingers into my scalp, my hair already soaked, mascara bleeding down my cheeks in ugly streaks. I slide down the wall, my knees buckling, and land hard on the porcelain. My ribs hurt. My eyes hurt. Everything hurts.
It replays in my head like a cruel loop. Reece’s voice, cold and controlled. “It ’ s best if you go.”
And Archer. His face twisted in horror. I curl into myself and sob, soundless and raw. I can’t remember the last time I cried like this. Maybe when my dad left. Maybe when Archer broke up with me. Maybe never.
The bathroom door rattles behind me. Maya’s voice is muffled through the steam. “Skye? Are you okay?”
I press my lips together. I can’t speak.
I don’t trust what will come out. I don’t want her pity.
Or comfort. Or reminders that I’m strong and brave and resilient.
Because I’m not. I’m stupid. Pathetic. A walking, talking punch line to the world’s cruelest joke and I keep making the wrong fucking decisions over and over again.
“I thought he’d stop me,” I whisper, more to the water than to her. “I thought he’d fight.”
I tip my head back, eyes squeezed shut, the water pouring down over my face until I can’t tell what’s tears and what’s not.
Somewhere in the noise, I remember the way his hands felt on my hips.
The way he looked at me when he pushed inside.
Like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to this planet.
It makes me nauseous. It makes me wet.
I hate myself for it. Hate that my body doesn’t know the difference between love and loss, want and ruin.
My nipples tighten under the water, my thighs clench, and I scream.
Just once. A ragged, throat-tearing sound that gets swallowed by the roar of the shower.
I slap the tile. Once. Twice. Like maybe pain will shake something loose.
Like maybe if I bruise, I’ll heal faster.
I told myself I was playing the game. Flirting. Tempting. But somewhere along the way, I started hoping. Started dreaming. And now I’m drowning in it.
I curl my arms around my knees, forehead pressed to my thighs. My breath hiccups through sobs as water splashes in uneven rhythms around me. The only thing louder is my heartbeat. And the echo of his voice telling me to leave.
I stay like that until my skin turns red. Until my fingers wrinkle. Until the water runs cold. Only then do I crawl out and collapse onto the bathmat, shaking and silent, water pooling beneath me like blood from a wound I don’t know how to stop.
It’s close to midnight when I finally crawl into bed.
Not my bed, I can’t bear that yet. Just the left side of Maya’s, the one she cleared for me without asking.
She’s already asleep, breathing softly, her back to me, the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders steady as a heartbeat.
I want to reach for her. I want to say thank you. But I can’t even speak.
I lie on my side, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen like it’s a detonator. I haven’t opened the text between us since he sent me one singular message after I left.
Reece: You don ’ t have to finish out the contract. I ’ ll pay you through the end.
But I open it now. And of course, there’s nothing new. No apology. No explanation. Not even a goddamn breadcrumb. I scroll through our short message history, my eyes still pooling with tears. I close them, willing them to stop as I replay our history.
I don’t know how he can just move on. Like he didn’t strip me down and worship my body. Like he didn’t bury his face between my thighs and whisper that I tasted like salvation. Like he didn’t push into me slow and deep and say my name like it was his favorite word.
A muscle in my jaw ticks. My hand tightens around the phone. I shouldn’t care. I should delete his number, erase every trace of him from my life and start over. Clean break. Rip the bandage. Be strong. But my brain is a traitor. And my body is worse.
Because as I stare at his name, heat curls low in my belly. My thighs press together. My mind floods with memories. His mouth on mine. His hands in my hair. His voice in my ear—low, wrecked, begging me to ride him harder.
God, I can still feel him. The scratch of his stubble against my inner thigh. The way his cock throbbed inside me. The way he whispered, “ Come for me, sweetheart ,” right before I shattered.
And then he let me walk away . I choke on a laugh that turns into a sob.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth, but it’s too late. The tears are already coming. Hot, silent, unstoppable. My shoulders shake as I curl into a ball, the phone slipping from my fingers onto the comforter beside me.
I swipe the tears from my eyes and pick it back up. I stare at his name for what feels like forever.
Then I tap his name, going into the contact… Then Delete.
But I hesitate. My finger hovers over the confirmation button. God, this is pathetic.
“I know his number,” I whisper into the dark. “I memorized it.”
I say it again, like that makes it better. Like that makes it hurt less. Like if I have it tattooed on my brain, it’s okay to let go of the thread I keep clinging to.
I hit delete. Just like that, he’s gone. Except… he’s not. Because he’s in my chest. My throat. My bloodstream. He’s in the way I touch myself now, hesitant, unsatisfied. Like nothing else measures up.
I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
The fan spins lazily above me, and I imagine him above me instead.
Holding my wrists down. Telling me I’m his.
Fucking me like he’s trying to stake a claim.
I squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself that this is it.
This is the last time I’ll let myself sink beneath these memories as they crash over my body in waves of regret.