Chapter Nineteen
Lingering Heat
Ethan
T he room feels too quiet, too still, the faint hum of the air conditioner doing nothing to drown out the thoughts in my head. I sit on the edge of the bed, my phone resting on the nightstand, her last words replaying in my mind.
I need time to figure out if this is something I want again.
The words are simple on the surface, but they’ve been digging into me since the moment she walked away. I let out a slow breath, dragging my hands down my face. Time. She deserves that, deserves the space to figure out what she wants. But God help me, the waiting is already killing me.
I push off the bed and start pacing, the carpet muffling my restless footsteps. My thoughts keep drifting to the way she looked at me, her eyes a mix of vulnerability and strength. She’s still Emma—the same girl who used to curl up on my couch with a book, stealing glances at me like she thought I wouldn’t notice. But there’s something about her now, something that makes my chest ache and my blood heat at the same time.
I glance toward the window, the city lights spilling through the curtains, painting streaks of silver and gold across the walls. My mind slips into dangerous territory, replaying the way her lips parted when she spoke, the way her hands fidgeted with the strap of her bag. I can almost feel her in front of me again, the scent of her perfume, the warmth of her body radiating in the space between us.
Before I can stop myself, I’m lying back on the bed, my eyes closing and my mind conjuring memories from the the past.
My mind drifts back to that summer before college and before everything went to hell, to the way she used to look at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. There was always something unguarded about her then, something soft. I used to crave those moments, the ones where it felt like the world faded, and it was just the two of us.
I’d wake up some mornings to find her curled up on the couch in my sweatshirt, her hair a mess, her face peaceful. She didn’t know I’d stop and just…watch her. Like she was something sacred, something I couldn’t believe I was lucky enough to have in my life.
Now I hear the hum of the night pressing in around me, and I’m caught in a whirlwind of memory and desire. Or maybe it’s just my subconscious betraying me, pulling me into something I’ve imagined a thousand times but never allowed myself to truly believe could’ve happened.
We’re in my car, parked at the edge of a quiet overlook. The city lights below are a scattered patchwork of gold and silver, flickering like the stars above. Emma’s sitting beside me, her hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, her laughter soft and melodic as it fills the space between us. The windows are slightly fogged, the cool night air meeting the warmth inside.
“Ethan,” she says, her voice low, her tone teasing. “Are you even listening to me?”
I turn to her, the corner of my mouth tugging up in a grin. “I’m listening. You were saying something about… physics? Or was it your latest book obsession?”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright, and it’s like I can feel the air shift between us, charged and heavy. I’ve felt this before—a dozen times, a hundred—but now, there’s no holding back, no fear of what might happen next.
I reach out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. She freezes, her breath catching, her gaze locked on mine. “Emma… ”
The way her name feels on my tongue is electric, grounding and electrifying all at once. She doesn’t pull away; instead, she leans into my touch, her eyes searching mine for something I’m not sure I can name.
“Ethan,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “We can’t—”
But the words are cut off as I close the distance, my lips brushing against hers. It’s hesitant at first, a test, but then she kisses me back, and everything else falls away.
The world narrows to this moment, to the feel of her lips on mine, the way her hands curl into the fabric of my shirt. My heart pounds in my chest, and my head spins as the kiss deepens, as the barriers we’ve kept between us crumble like they were never there to begin with.
I pull her closer, one hand sliding to the nape of her neck, the other gripping her waist like she might slip away if I don’t hold on tight enough. She’s soft and warm and everything I’ve ever wanted but never let myself have.
And just as quickly as it begins, it shifts. Things darken, the warmth replaced by a cold emptiness. She’s gone, the seat beside me empty, her voice echoing faintly in the distance.
“Ethan.”
I jolt awake, my heart hammering against my ribs, my breathing ragged. The room is dark, the faint glow of the alarm clock casting shadows across the walls. Fuck me! It was just a goddamn dream. It clings to me, so vivid and real, and for a moment, I have to remind myself that it wasn’t.
That it never was.
I drag a hand over my face, my skin damp with sweat, my chest tight with the ache of something just out of reach. The dream wasn’t entirely a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. It was a version of what could have been, twisted by the edges of memory and longing. And now, staring at the ceiling in the quiet darkness, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s a sign—a reminder of everything I’ve lost, and everything I still have to fight for.
My hand drifts to my chest, fingers curling over my shirt as if I can physically hold back the yearning clawing its way through me. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse.
Because all I can see is her.
Her on my lap, her hands clutching at my shoulders, her voice whispering my name like it was a prayer. I can almost feel the way her skin felt under my hand, the way her hips moved against mine as we finally gave in to everything we’d been holding back.
A ragged breath escapes me, and I sit up abruptly, raking a hand through my hair. “Jesus, Ethan,” I mutter under my breath, trying to shake off the haze of desire. But it’s no use. She’s in my head, under my skin, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get her out.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, my thumb hovering over her name. I could text her, ask if she’s okay, tell her I can’t stop thinking about her. But I know it’s too soon. She needs time, and the last thing I want to do is push her away.
Instead, I set the phone back down and lie back, staring up at the ceiling. The tension in my body refuses to ease, every nerve on edge, every thought consumed by her.
If I close my eyes, trying to push thoughts of her out of my mind but I can’t. She’s always there and well… she’s already haunting me while I’m awake.
After about an hour of tossing and turning, the frustration boiling in me doesn’t settle. It lingers, sharp and raw, making the air in my room feel too stifling, the walls too close. Every time I try to push her out of my mind, she pulls me back with a gravity I can’t fight.
I throw the covers off and stand, pacing the small space. My body feels like it’s buzzing, every nerve thrumming with restless energy. It’s not just the physical pull—it’s everything. The memories, the regrets, the way she looked at me tonight like she didn’t know whether to trust me or bolt.
That hesitation… I caused it. Every moment of doubt, every piece of the wall sh e’s built between us—it’s on me. And that truth cuts deeper than anything else.
I grab my phone again, not to text her this time but to scroll through old photos. It’s masochistic, but I can’t stop myself. The album is labeled College Years, and it’s filled with snapshots of moments I thought I’d always have.
There’s one of her sitting on the hood of my car, a faded sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, her hair windblown and her smile bright. She’d been teasing me about something—probably my shitty taste in music—and I’d snapped the photo when she wasn’t looking.
Another shows her curled up on the couch with a book, her glasses slipping down her nose. She hated wearing them in public, but I thought they made her look irresistible. I used to joke that she was secretly a librarian by day and a rebel by night. She’d always roll her eyes, but the blush on her cheeks told me she loved it.
Then there’s the last one. The one I can barely look at without feeling like my chest is caving in. It’s the two of us, taken by Sarah during our junior year of college. Emma’s tucked under my arm, her head resting on my shoulder, both of us grinning like idiots. We’d just finished a water gun fight on campus, a spontaneous way to blow off steam after finals. Her hair was damp, stray strands clinging to her face, and her tank top was soaked, clinging to her skin. She’d laughed about how ridiculous she looked, shivering as the cool spring breeze hit her. I’d pulled her close, trying to warm her up, and Sarah snapped the picture before we could protest.
I stare at it now, the memory hitting me like a freight train. The way her body fit against mine, the way her laugh had felt like the sun breaking through clouds. It was one of those rare moments where everything felt right, where I could almost believe we had all the time in the world.
I didn’t know it then, but that was the last picture we’d take together before everything fell apart.
I swipe out of the album and toss my phone onto the nightstand, the ache in my chest growing unbearable. I lean against the wall, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.
What the hell am I doing?
I can’t keep living this way—caught between the past and the future, wanting something I’m not sure I deserve. But the thought of letting her go again, of watching her slip away without a fight—it’s unthinkable.
I need to see her. Not tomorrow, not later. Now.
The realization hits me like a jolt of electricity, and before I can second-guess myself, I grab my hoodie and my room key. I hesitate for a moment before pulling out my phone and texting Jace.
Me : What room is Emma staying in?
It takes less than a minute for his reply to come through.
Jace : 814. Why?
I don’t bother answering him. The hallway is quiet as I step out, my footsteps muffled by the carpet as I make my way toward her floor. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat louder than the last as I step into the elevator and hit the button for the eighth floor.
As the elevator hums its way up, doubt creeps in.
What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if I’m pushing too hard, too fast?
When the doors slide open, I hesitate for a moment before stepping out. The corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit and silent. I stop in front of her door, the number 814 shining faintly in the glow of the hallway lights. My fingers twitch at my sides, torn between knocking and turning back. The faint glow of light seeping from beneath her door is the only sign that she’s awake, and my breath catches as I raise my hand.
The truth is, I don’t know what’s right. All I know is that I can’t go another night like this, wondering what might’ve been, haunted by everything I didn’t say .
“Don’t screw this up,” I mutter under my breath, my jaw tightening as I stare at her door. My heart hammers against my ribs as I raise my hand to knock, but it falters.
This is it. No turning back now.
With a deep breath, I let my knuckles tap against the wood.
“Emma?”
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, the faint sound of footsteps and the door creaking open.
Her eyes meet mine, wide and filled with a mix of surprise and something else—something that makes my chest tighten and my pulse quicken.
“Ethan? What are you doing here?” She whispers, her voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
“I couldn’t wait,” I admit, my voice rough and raw. “I needed to see you.”
She hesitates, her hand gripping the edge of the door, her gaze searching mine. And in that moment, the world fades away, leaving just the two of us standing on the precipice of something we can’t ignore.
“Come in,” she says softly, stepping back to let me inside.
And just like that, the space between us disappears and my lips are on hers.