Chapter 13 Norah
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Norah
I should know better.
I’ve lived long enough, loved hard enough, lost enough pieces of myself to him to know better. And yet waking up to an empty space where his body should be still slices straight through me like I didn’t learn a damn thing the first time.
Or the second.
Or the twentieth.
I lie there in the dent he left, sheets twisted around my waist, the faint scent of bergamot and leather sinking into my skin like a bruise that won’t fade. My eyes burn. My throat’s tight. The ceiling blurs above me.
Fuck, I’m pathetic.
My fingertips dig into the mattress. I’m on my back still, like my body forgot how to move. Like standing might break me in some way that staying still can postpone.
He’s gone.
Of course he’s gone. It’s what he does.
It’s what he always does.
But knowing the pattern doesn’t stop the sting.
Tears slip down my temples, sliding into my hairline as I stare at nothing. It’s been… three hours? Maybe more.
I’m not even sure what time he left. I barely remember falling asleep—just the warmth of his chest under my cheek, the rhythm of his breathing, the storm howling outside the window.
And now there’s nothing but cold.
My chest throbs in that way heartbreak has of announcing itself. A deep, hollow ache behind the ribs.
My muscles are sore, every inch of me humming with the echo of him, and I hate it. I hate how my body remembers him even when he doesn’t remember how to stay.
“What the hell is wrong with me?”
My voice cracks in the empty room. No answer. Just the faint drip of melting snow from the gutter outside.
I drag my arm over my face and force myself upright. The movement makes everything hurt—my legs, my hips, that tender place between them that reminds me exactly how quickly I gave in.
One touch, one whisper, and I folded like I always do.
Weak. Stupid.
No, not stupid.
Just… hopeful in all the wrong ways.
I sit up. The skin at my neck is tender where he touched. My thighs were trembling earlier from… everything.
And it infuriates me that all of that meant something to me, but not enough to him to stay.
The sheets still smell like him.
That only makes it worse.
Fine. Whatever.
If he can leave this morning like it meant nothing, then I can scrub every reminder of him out of this house.
I gather the sheets in trembling hands and yank them off the bed, balling them tight as my eyes burn. The pillowcases, the throw blanket on the floor, the clothes he half-pulled off me—it all goes in a heap.
I ignore the throbbing in my thighs as I carry everything and shove it into the washer like I’m stuffing a wound closed.
I jam the start button. The machine hums like it’s trying to soothe me. It doesn’t work.
Back upstairs, the air feels colder. My skin prickles. My heart feels like it’s collapsing inward.
Screw this.
I march into the bathroom and turn the shower on, hot enough to fog the mirror instantly. Steam curls up the walls.
I step in, letting the heat sting my skin, leaning back against the tile until water runs through my hair, down my face, over my shaking hands.
I drag my palms over my cheeks. “You’re allowed one fluke,” I whisper into the mist. “Just one. That’s all this was.”
A lie I don’t believe.
I scrub myself clean anyway. Clean of him, clean of the night, clean of the ache.
By the time I step out, the mirror’s dripping, and my hair’s plastered to my shoulders. I wrap myself in a towel and pad barefoot into my bedroom.
I’m calmer. Barely. Enough to breathe. Enough to think.
I’m halfway to my dresser when something digs into my foot.
“Ow—what the…?”
I bend and pick it up. A watch.
Not mine. A man’s watch—silver links, the face sleek and dark, the hands gliding in a silent, elegant sweep. It’s expensive. Understated.
Very… Dorian.
I didn’t even realize he had it on last night. I didn’t see him take it off.
My breath hitches. My pulse dips.
I straighten, clutching it too tight. The cold metal burns my palm.
No.
No.
I can’t do this.
I can’t keep pieces of him like some pathetic girl who hasn’t learned.
I walk to the trash can beside my dresser, flip the lid open, and drop the watch in. The clink it makes when it hits the bottom is sharp enough to slice through me.
I force air into my lungs.
Count to five.
Close the lid.
“Done,” I whisper. “I’m done.”
I wear a warm wrap dress and thick, long socks. I dry my hair and walk downstairs. I need to focus on something grounding. Food. Routine. Coffee.
I make eggs and toast.
I pour tea.
I clean the counter.
I’m pretending to forget him so hard it’s almost convincing.
Almost.
I open the fridge to put the milk away—and that’s when I see it. A slip of paper tucked under the fox magnet.
My heart lurches.
No. No no no—
I pull it free with shaking fingers and read it.
A single tear hits the paper before I can stop it. Then another.
“Dammit,” I choke, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth.
He left a note. He never leaves notes.
My chest tightens so sharply it hurts to breathe. I fold the note in half, then in half again, clutching it until the edges bite into my palm.
I head upstairs before I can think about it, legs shaking.
The second I walk into my bedroom, my gaze snags on the trash can. I cross the room and lift the lid.
The watch glints up at me. Cold. Small. Abandoned. Just like the pieces of me he always leaves behind.
I reach for it. My hand trembles. The metal is icy when I pick it up, like it knows it doesn’t belong in the dark.
I close my fingers around it and walk straight to my closet. Top shelf. A box tucked behind folded scarves and an old sweater.
I pull it down. The cardboard edges are worn.
My throat tightens.
The lid gives with a soft, familiar sound. Inside:
The silver bracelet he gave me when I was nineteen.
The pair of movie ticket stubs from that terrible thriller he insisted would be “romantic.”
The Fernbridge Cabins receipt from our first weekend away, edges curled from years of hiding.
A broken pen he left behind once.
A single dried daisy he tucked behind my ear before a date.
A condom wrapper—stupid, bittersweet, kept for reasons I don’t even want to think about.
Everything he ever gave me. Everything he left behind. Everything I never learned how to throw away.
I set the watch inside gently. Fold the note and slide it beside the bracelet. My hands won’t stop shaking.
I close the box. Push it back into place. Wipe my face with the heel of my palm.
“I can’t be here,” I whisper. My voice cracks, but I keep talking. “I can’t do this alone today.”
I grab my coat, keys, boots. Shove them on with clumsy fingers.
There’s only one person I want right now. One person who never judges me. Never makes me feel like I’m losing my mind.
Wren.
I head out into the cold, locking the door behind me as snow flurries swirl through the morning air.
The walk to Beau’s place feels longer than it ever has. Snow clings to my hair, my coat, my lashes. Each step feels brittle, like something inside me might crack if I move too fast.
The cold keeps my tears from falling, freezing them before they can become anything more than a sting at the corners of my eyes.
I knock at the door with a shaking hand, barely strong enough to make a sound. I expect Beau. Maybe even Wren. But the door swings open and it’s Levi standing there, shirtless, hair damp, steam wafting behind him.
“Hey—” he starts, but then he sees my face. Everything about him shifts in a heartbeat. Shoulders dropping, expression softening, voice gentling. “Come here.”
He pulls me in before I can pretend I’m fine. The warmth of the house hits me so hard my lungs seize.
“What happened?” he asks, guiding me toward the kitchen.
“Wren?” My voice barely works.
“She’s in the shower,” he says, already reaching for a mug. “But you can sit. Please. Sit.”
I sink into the chair at their kitchen table, the wood warm under my palms. I don’t realize I’m shaking until he wraps both hands around the mug and sets it in front of me. The steam smells like chamomile and honey.
I try to smile. I try so damn hard. “I made tea at home. Forgot to drink it.”
Levi’s eyes soften. “Take your time. I’ll go get her.”
The moment he leaves, Pancake trots in like he owns the entire house—as he should. The little tabby hops onto a chair, then onto the table, then walks straight into my lap, curling against me without hesitation.
“Hi, sweet boy,” I whisper, stroking his fur.
He purrs instantly. Loudly. Like he knows exactly how much I need the sound.
The kitchen smells like cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee. There’s a blanket tossed over the back of a chair, one of Wren’s sketchbooks left open on the counter, Beau’s boots by the door, Levi’s hoodie thrown over a barstool.
This house always feels like life—full, warm, overflowing.
Safe.
I bury my face in Pancake’s fur and breathe. Just breathe.
I don’t even get five minutes before the soft pad of footsteps pulls my gaze up. Pancake jumps down at the sound.
Wren walks into the kitchen wearing her robe, towel twisted around her hair, skin still rosy from the shower.
Her eyes widen. “Babe? Oh my god.”
I’m on my feet before I register moving. She reaches me fast, arms wrapping around me, pulling me in. I fold into her like I’m collapsing inward.
Her smell—coffee, sugar, the hint of her mates’ scent—wraps around me, and my chest crumples.
“I’m sorry,” I choke. “Is this a bad time?”
“Hey—no,” she murmurs, cupping the back of my head. “It’s never a bad time. You walk into my house whenever you want. You know that.”
She guides me toward the sofa like I’m breakable. I might be.
We curl into the corner together, and she pulls the soft gray throw over both our laps. Pancake hops up and wedges himself between us like the emotional support animal he absolutely is.
Five seconds later, Beau and Simon walk out of the hallway, both with wet hair, Simon still tugging on his shirt.
Beau lifts a hand. “Hey, Norah.” Simon adds, “Morning, Norah.”