CHAPTER NINETEEN
SIXTEEN YEARS OLD
· · ·
It’s been a few days.
And Cassian hasn’t come back.
Not really surprising.
He always leaves first.
Even when I’m the one who walks away.
· · ·
I texted Taylor some excuse that night.
Told him I had to go.
I felt bad about it.
But the next day he smiled at me like nothing happened.
Like I hadn’t left him in the middle of something that should’ve meant more.
Like I didn’t just use him to forget someone else.
He deserved better than that.
I know that.
I just didn’t have anything better to give.
Cassian probably went back to Abby.
Of course he did.
She’s easier.
She doesn’t make him feel like this.
· · ·
But he kissed me.
And I can still feel it.
The way he shook against me.
The way he said God like it escaped him.
The way his hands held my face like I was something he’d been starving for.
He kissed me like he meant it.
Like he’d been meaning it for years.
And then he said I know and stepped back and let me walk out.
Like knowing was supposed to be enough.
Like knowing was supposed to make it better.
· · ·
Would it really be that terrible to love me back?
I sit on my bed staring at nothing.
The room feels different since the bathroom.
Like the air itself has changed.
Like something that was always theoretical is now real and solid and taking up even more space.
He kissed me back.
And then he still walked away.
Cassian does something to me.
He always has.
Like he reaches inside me without asking and rearranges everything until nothing feels right unless it’s him.
Being around him is too much.
Being without him is worse.
There’s no good version of this.
There never was.
· · ·
There’s a knock at my window.
Soft.
Familiar.
My heart stops.
I should lock it.
Every rational part of me knows I should cross this room and turn the latch and go to sleep and stop letting him do this to me.
I’m at the window before I finish the thought.
Self-preservation: zero. As always.
Because if it’s him —
I’ll always let him in.
God help me.
I’ll always let him in.
· · ·
I open the window.
Cassian climbs in like he belongs here.
Like he never left.
Like he didn’t just break something between us and walk away from it.
He looks — different.
Not the wrecked version from the bathroom.
Something quieter.
Tired in a way that goes deeper than sleep.
· · ·
“Ro.”
His voice is low.
Unsteady.
“I’m sorry. I just — you have to understand.”
“Understand what?” My voice cracks before I can stop it. “You don’t tell me anything, Cassian. You just show up whenever it’s convenient and expect me to be okay with it.”
I shake my head.
“Just let me in. Just once.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Yes, it is.”
He laughs under his breath.
No humor in it.
“You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me.” I step closer. “I’m right here. It’s me. It’s always been me.”
For a second —
I think he might.
But he doesn’t.
He just looks at me like I’m asking for something he physically cannot give.
Like there’s something between him and the answer that I can’t see and he won’t name.
I should tell him to leave.
I don’t.
· · ·
He moves to my bed like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Like this is still his place.
And the worst part — it still feels like it is.
I stand there for a moment.
Looking at him.
The way he fits into this room.
Into my life.
Into the specific shape of everything I am.
Like he was always meant to be here.
Like I was always meant to be his.
I hate that I still believe that.
But I cross the room anyway.
Every step a choice I know I shouldn’t make.
· · ·
I sit beside him.
Close enough that our knees brush.
Neither of us says anything.
His hand finds mine.
Gentle this time.
Like he’s asking.
Like he knows he doesn’t get to just take anymore.
Like he knows the foundation is starting to crack.
I lace our fingers together.
I always do.
I always will.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
It’s a lie.
He knows it.
His thumb moves over my knuckles.
Slow.
Familiar.
Like he’s memorizing.
Like he knows something I don’t yet.
“I know,” he murmurs.
And then — he leans in.
This time it’s different.
Not the bathroom.
Not desperate.
Not eight years of wanting finally snapping at the seams.
· · ·
This is softer.
Slower.
Like he’s trying to be careful with something he already knows is broken.
His hand comes up to my jaw.
Not pulling.
Just — holding.
Like if he’s gentle enough this won’t hurt.
Like if he’s gentle enough it’ll mean something other than goodbye.
· · ·
I know what this is.
Some part of me has always known what this is.
He kisses me like he’s memorizing me.
Like he’s pressing this into himself somewhere permanent.
Like he’s saying something he doesn’t have words for and never will.
And I let him.
God —
I let him.
Over and over again.
I lean into him and close my eyes and let myself have it.
The warmth of his hand on my jaw.
The way he exhales against my mouth like being here costs him something.
The way he holds me like I’m the most important thing he’s ever been careful with.
It feels like enough.
That tiny, fragile hope.
We lie back slowly.
His forehead against mine.
Our hands still tangled.
The room dark and quiet around us.
· · ·
I don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
Because if we talk — it becomes real.
It has edges and weight and consequences.
So instead we just — stay.
Close.
Too close.
His breath warm against my face.
His hand in mine.
And I let myself have it.
Just for tonight.
Just this.
Because tomorrow —
I already know.
This is goodbye.
And I’m not ready.
Not yet.