Chapter 12 #2
Her answer is a broken moan, her body trembling as her orgasm rips through her. Her walls pulse around my cock, milking me, and I can’t hold back. I thrust one last time, deep and hard, and let go, my cum shoots into her, hot and relentless. Her body shudders against mine.
When it is over, I am trembling, my forehead pressing against hers, our breaths mingling. As I pull out slowly, her lips parting with a soft, wet sound, I slid her off the counter, her legs shaky as she stood.
She leans against me, her head on my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight. The silence is heavy, dangerous, but it was ours. For now, it is enough.
The world takes its time coming back.
For a long moment, all I hear is our breathing — ragged, uneven, too loud in the small kitchen. The air smells like heat and salt and something faintly metallic, the leftover edge of adrenaline. My hands are still braced on the counter beside her hips, every muscle locked, afraid to move.
Sage leans back against the cabinets, skin flushed, lips parted. Her hair sticks to her temple in messy strands. When her eyes meet mine, something in my chest twists. There’s no triumph in her expression, no satisfaction — just shock. And underneath it, something that looks a lot like regret.
She reaches for the nearest fabric — her shirt, my jacket, maybe both — and pulls it around herself like armor. “This was a mistake,” she whispers.
The words hit harder than any body check I’ve ever taken. I step back a little, trying to find my breath. “Sage—”
“Don’t,” she says, voice soft but steady. “Please don’t.”
The quiet between us stretches again, sharper now.
I can still feel her everywhere — on my skin, under it — but her walls are already rebuilding faster than mine can drop.
I drag a hand through my hair, searching for something to say, something to fix it, but there’s nothing that won’t make it worse.
So I don’t say anything.
I just find my sweats on the floor, pull them on, and grab the nearest water bottle from the fridge. The plastic crackles as I twist the cap open and take a long swallow. It’s too cold, burning its way down, but it gives me something to focus on that isn’t the ache behind my ribs.
She’s watching me the whole time, one hand gripping the counter for balance, the other clutching the fabric against her chest. Her voice barely carries when she speaks again. “I can’t be the thing you run to when you’re angry.”
“I wasn’t—” I start, but stop. Because maybe I was. Maybe that’s exactly what this was. I exhale, slow and shaky, setting the bottle down with a hollow thud.
“Do what you need to do, Winslow,” I say finally. It comes out harsher than I mean it to, but I can’t pull it back. Using her last name feels like drawing a line — one that neither of us knows how to cross again.
Her face tightens. She nods once, like she expected it. Then she gathers the rest of her clothes and walks past me without another word. The sound of her bedroom door clicking shut feels final.
I stand there in the wreckage — clothes scattered, sauce still drying on the counter, the air heavy with everything we just ruined. I finish the rest of the water in one swallow and drop the bottle in the sink. The silence swallows me whole.
The apartment feels too quiet after she’s gone.
I stand there for what feels like forever, staring at the door she locked behind her. My pulse is still racing, the heat of her touch still under my skin, but all that’s left now is the hollow ache where adrenaline used to be.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. No — that’s the problem. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just needed something to make it stop. The noise. The pressure. The feeling that everyone’s waiting for me to fail.
And she’s the only person who doesn’t look at me like a headline.
I scrub a hand over my face and lean back against the counter. My body feels heavy, like all the energy burned out at once. The water bottle from earlier rolls slightly, hits the edge, and falls into the sink with a soft clatter. The sound feels too loud in the silence.
Across the room, one of my socks is still tangled in her apron on the floor. I pick it up, then drop it again — like even touching it’s too much. My hands won’t stop shaking.
My phone buzzes against the counter, screen lighting up the dim kitchen. For a second, I think about ignoring it. I can’t take more bad news tonight.
But the name on the screen makes me pause.
Trevor Stein: Media’s eating it up. Keep your head straight, man.
A hollow laugh escapes before I can stop it. Of course. Of course it’s Trevor. He’s probably loving this — the chaos, the storylines, the slow unravel of Leo Voss. I can practically hear his smug tone in the words.
“Keep my head straight,” I mutter, shoving the phone facedown on the counter. “Yeah, sure.”
I drag in a breath, but it doesn’t stick. Everything feels too tight — my skin, my chest, this entire damn apartment. I want to move, to hit something, to skate until my legs give out. Instead, I press my palms to the counter and stare at the floor.
There’s a faint thump from down the hall — Sage moving in her room. The sound is small, barely there, but it hits harder than anything else tonight. She’s in there because of me. Because I couldn’t keep it together.
I glance toward the door, wanting to fix it, to say something — but the words aren’t there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
My phone buzzes again, lighting up with another notification. Headlines, probably. Or texts from teammates pretending they care. I don’t check.
I just stand there in the dark kitchen, jaw tight, staring at the closed hallway door.
The one she locked.
And for the first time all season, I don’t know how to get back up.