Chapter 39 #2
But if I do that—if I give myself even one more taste of him—I'll never leave. I'll crawl back into that bed and stay there until the world ends or Daniel finds us, whichever comes first.
So I turn away forcefully, gripping my bag so tightly my knuckles ache, and sneak out of his room like the coward I am.
Down the stairs, each step carefully placed to avoid the creaks I've learned over this week.
Through the living room and past the kitchen where he'd made me coffee every morning, learning without being told that I take it with too much cream.
Out of his house.
My car waits in the driveway like a getaway vehicle—which, I suppose, is exactly what it is.
I toss my bag into the passenger seat and start the engine, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet Saturday morning.
Birds are starting to sing. Everything looks so normal, so peaceful, completely at odds with the way my heart is being systematically destroyed.
Every instinct I possess screams at me to turn off the car, go back inside, crawl back into that warm bed that still smells like both of us, and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist. Pretend Daniel isn't waiting.
Pretend there are no consequences to falling in love with someone completely forbidden.
Instead, I put the car in drive and pull out of the driveway, leaving the only place I've felt safe in three years.
I drive toward the nightmare that's been waiting patiently, inevitably, for my return.
The streets are mostly empty this early.
I stop for coffee at the Starbucks near the freeway because it's barely seven in the morning and I didn't sleep last night—too busy memorizing every touch, every kiss, every whispered word.
Too busy trying to convince myself that leaving was possible when every cell in my body was screaming to stay.
The barista is cheerful in that aggressive morning-person way that makes me want to burst into tears right there at the counter.
I accept my latte with a trembling smile that probably looks more like a grimace and get back in the car before I can fall apart completely.
I sip the coffee mechanically as I drive, tasting nothing, feeling nothing except the hollow ache that's settled into my chest like a permanent resident.
The drive home takes forever and no time at all simultaneously—both too long and not nearly long enough to prepare myself for what I'm returning to.
When I pull into my driveway, my stomach sinks like a stone dropped into deep, dark water.
I've only been coming here for fifteen-minute intervals this week—just long enough to plug my phone into the charger before escaping back to Kade's house, back to safety and warmth and the illusion of being a person instead of property.
Just long enough to maintain the pretense that everything was normal, that I was going to school and coming home like always.
Now I'm here to stay, and the house looms before me like something from a Gothic novel—beautiful and expensive and pristine and absolutely suffocating.
The perfect prison.
Inside, everything is exactly as I left it when I'd rushed out with Kade, so desperate to escape for even a few hours. Spotless. Perfect. Every surface gleaming. Every item in its assigned place. The air smells faintly of the vanilla candles Daniel likes.
Empty. So fucking empty.
I go straight to my phone charging on the nightstand in the bedroom and check for messages or missed calls from Daniel with hands that won't stop shaking.
Nothing. Just a few automated alerts and a text from a number I don't recognize that turns out to be spam.
Relief floods through me so powerfully I have to grip the edge of the bed for support, my legs suddenly weak.
He hasn't checked in on me much this week—usually just once a day around noon, timing his calls and texts for when I should be between classes.
I set the phone back down on the nightstand with excessive care, like it might suddenly come alive and betray me—ring with Daniel's name flashing across the screen, demanding to know where I've really been, who I've been with, what I've been doing.
The laundry room becomes my next destination, the mundane routine somehow grounding.
I pull my clothes from the overnight bag and start a load, the sound of water filling the machine familiar and oddly comforting.
This is what my life is—laundry and cooking and cleaning and pretending.
I lean against the washing machine while it fills, letting the vibrations travel through my body, and try not to think about how different these clothes smell.
How they carry traces of Kade's house and him.
I return the empty bag to its proper place in the closet—evidence erased, week of freedom hidden away like it never happened. Like those days were a dream I can't prove existed.
I make eggs and toast for breakfast and I eat mechanically at the kitchen island, forcing each bite down a throat that wants to close, tasting absolutely nothing. My eyes fixate on the pristine kitchen that's never felt less like home—all white marble and stainless steel.
After eating, I switch the laundry to the dryer, then I grab clean clothes from my dresser—just a simple tank top and soft sweatpants, nothing Daniel would have opinions about—and carry them to the bathroom.
I turn on the tub, adding bubble bath until foam rises in ridiculous, childish peaks.
The scent is lavender—calming, supposedly.
It smells nothing like Kade's soap, nothing like his skin, and I'm grateful for that at least. I need to wash him away, need to erase the physical evidence before Daniel comes home tomorrow and somehow knows, somehow senses that I've been touched by someone else.
I sink into the hot water and close my eyes, letting it envelop me completely.
Immediately, inevitably, I'm back in Kade's shower—his hands on my body, confident and sure, touching me like I'm something beautiful instead of something broken.
His mouth swallowing my moans as the water cascaded over both of us.
His voice rough and deep in my ear telling me I'm beautiful, that he wants me, that I'm his.
The way he held me afterward, wrapped in his arms with my legs around his waist, both of us breathing hard.
The bathwater can't wash away the phantom sensation of his touch. And despite everything—despite knowing I can never go back, despite knowing this week was all I'll ever have—I don't really want it to.
Some part of me needs to hold onto this. Needs to remember that for five days, I was Fallon instead of Mrs. Reid. That someone saw me—really saw me—and didn't look away.
Even if I have to hide that memory like everything else.