Chapter 20
BEA
Icould still feel him.
Pressed into my skin like something that hadn’t decided to leave yet.
My hand was on the door handle longer than it should’ve been—fingers curled too tight, pulse still uneven, breath not quite matching the quiet around us. I was aware of everything at once and nothing in the way that mattered.
The hallway was gone.
The noise was gone.
But it hadn’t left me.
It was still there—under my ribs, low in my stomach, threaded through my muscles in a way that made standing still feel like a decision I wasn’t fully in control of.
I let go of the handle.
That was the first mistake.
Because the second I did, the awareness snapped wider—everything in me catching up all at once.
Him.
Behind me.
Close enough that I didn’t need to turn to know exactly where he was. Close enough that my body adjusted to it automatically, a subtle shift I didn’t give permission for and couldn’t undo once it happened.
For a second—one, suspended, dangerous moment—I just stood there, letting it exist. Letting the space between us sit exactly as it was.
Too close. Too aware. Too easy. Because that was the truth of it.
It would take nothing. Not effort. Not persuasion. Not another word.
Nothing but turning around. Nothing but letting my body do what it already knew how to do with his.
My fingers flexed at my sides, a reflex I didn’t trust, my breath catching just enough to give me away if he was paying attention.
My gaze dragged up, meeting his.
And that was it. That was the point where my resolved started to slip.
Where the room tipped. Where logic was lost. Where control slipped just enough to become irrelevant.
I stepped back—quick, sharp, decisive in a way that felt more like damage control than choice, air pulling hard into my lungs like I’d been underwater longer than I realized. “I need to change.”
I didn’t give him the chance to answer, to step closer, to say anything that would undo what little distance I’d just forced between us.
I turned. Every step deliberate, in a way that felt almost performative until I hit the bathroom and shut the door behind me with a sharp thud.
Then the dress shifted. The top slipped, the damaged fabric giving under its own weight, dragging my attention down with it in a sharp, unavoidable pull.
My hands came up automatically, fingers clumsy as I tried to catch it, to fix it, to make it sit right again like I hadn’t just—my breath stuttered.
I shimmed out of the dress, crumpled it into a wad and cracked the door. The fabric flowed from my hand onto the floor of my bedroom.
Closing myself back into the small space, the lock slid into place with an easy click.
For a second, I just stood there.
The faint sting along my collarbone where his grip had been. The warmth still lingering low in my stomach, heavy and insistent, refusing to be ignored. The way my entire body felt like it had been tuned differently—like something had shifted under the surface and hadn’t settled back.
I turned away from the sink instead.
My shoulder hit the wall, and I let it carry me down, sliding until the cold tile met the backs of my thighs, then my hips, then my spine as I sank to the floor in one controlled, steady motion that unraveled the second I stopped moving.
My knees came up instinctively, one arm wrapping around them as my other hand braced uselessly against the tile.
My hands were shaking. Just enough that I could feel it. Under my skin. In my fingers. In the way I had to press my palm flat against the floor to keep grounded.
I closed my eyes.
That was a mistake.
It came back immediately.
Flashes.
His hand at my waist.
The pull of fabric giving way under pressure.
The sound of my own breath catching—sharp, unsteady.
The way he’d looked at me. Like I was something he’d already decided on. Like stopping had never been part of the plan.
My fingers curled against my knees, pressing hard enough to remind me where I was, what this was, what it needed to be.
Controlled.
Manageable.
Temporary.
Except—I didn’t want to stop him.
My eyes snapped open.
The words didn’t go away. They didn’t blur or soften or lose their edge. They sat there. Clear. Exact.
True.
I dragged in a breath, then another, forcing my lungs to work, forcing my brain to catch up, to do something with that, to file it, label it, contain it before it spread into something I couldn’t afford.
My hand moved before I could overthink it, reaching for my phone where I’d dropped it into my clutch earlier, fingers still unsteady as I unlocked the screen.
I pulled up the thread with Lucy and Lo, typing quickly.
Had to leave. Work issue. I’ll handle it.
Lucy: Of course you did. What did he do now?
A breath of something almost like relief slipped through me.
Right.
That’s what this looked like.
That’s what it was supposed to look like.
I could work with that.
My thumbs hovered over the screen, ready to respond, to shape it, to steer it back into something manageable—
Another message popped up.
Lo: You okay, bebê?
I’m fine. Just handling it.
The three dots appeared immediately.
Disappeared.
Came back.
Lo: What aren’t you telling us?
My throat went dry. I swallowed hard, my fingers moving before I could stop them.
I think I—
I froze.
Stared at it.
The words looked wrong on the screen. Too open. Too real.
Too close to something I didn’t have a name for yet.
Delete.
My thumbs moved again.
Something happened—
No.
Delete.
Another attempt.
I don’t know what this is—
Delete.
I dropped my head back against the wall, closing my eyes for half a second before forcing them open again.
No. Not like this. Not now. Not when I didn’t even understand it myself.
My fingers steadied just enough to type something clean.
He was being difficult. I’ve got it under control. I’ll call you later.
Lucy: Figured. Don’t let him bulldoze you.
I locked my phone before I could change my mind, before I could reopen the thread and say something I couldn’t take back.
Before I could tell the truth.
I pushed myself up slowly, my legs protesting slightly as I stood, grabbing the edge of the sink for balance as I finally—finally—looked up.
The mirror didn’t lie.
My hair was a mess, strands pulled loose, falling in uneven waves around my face. My makeup was smeared just enough to give me away if anyone looked too closely. My lips looked… different. Swollen.
My gaze dropped, catching on the faint marks along my collarbone—easy to miss, but I knew exactly where they’d come from.
Heat climbed my neck.
I dragged in a breath and reached for a clean shirt and leggings, soft and oversized that swallowed the evidence, layering control back over everything that had slipped out of it.
By the time I unlocked the door, I had it together.
Mostly.
The handle turned easily in my hand. The door opened.
And there he was.
Not where I expected.
Not standing. Not watching.
Seated at the edge of the couch, one forearm braced against his thigh, head slightly bent, his focus narrowed down to something small in his hands.
For a second, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
Then it clicked.
My dress.
Folded over his knee.
A needle between his fingers.
Thread pulled tight in a clean, precise line as he worked the torn fabric back together with slow, deliberate movements that didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter.
He didn’t look up right away.
Didn’t acknowledge me stepping back into the room.
He just kept going. Like this was something he’d done a thousand times before. Like fixing it was the only thing that made sense.
My throat went dry.
He adjusted the material slightly, his fingers brushing over the edge of the tear before guiding the needle through again, reinforcing the seam with quiet, practiced precision.
The room was quiet. Focused. Everything in it narrowed down to him. To the slow, deliberate movement of his hands. To the way the thread pulled clean through the fabric, tightening with each pass like he was undoing something he’d already decided shouldn’t stay broken.
He didn’t rush it. Didn’t cut corners.
“You don’t have to do that.” The words came out thin.
He didn’t stop. “No,” he muttered, the needle slipping through the fabric again without hesitation. “I do.”
I swallowed, my fingers curling as I stepped further into the room.
“You ripped it,” I muttered, and I wasn’t entirely sure why I said it. It wasn’t accusation. It wasn’t even observation.
He glanced up then. His eyes moved over me—quick, precise, taking in the change, the absence of the dress, the way I’d covered myself without really hiding anything—and then settled back on my face.
“I know.” The thread pulled tight again.
I took another step closer before I could stop myself, drawn in by something smoldering between us again. The edge of the coffee table pressed lightly into my leg, anchoring me there as I watched him work.
His hands were steady. Like none of this—none of what had just happened—had touched him the same way it had me.
“Is this how you deal with everything?” I asked before I could stop myself, edged with something I wasn’t ready to unpack. “You just… fix it?”
He didn’t answer right away.
The needle moved again. In. Out. Pull.
“If I break it.”
My breath caught.
I looked down at the dress in his hands, at the careful line he was stitching back together, and something in my chest twisted tight enough to hurt.
“This isn’t something you can just fix,” I sighed.
His hand stilled for half a second before he set the needle down on the cushion beside him, the thread still attached, the work not quite finished.
Then he looked at me fully. “You’re right.”
“Then why are you—”
“Because it’s the part I can.” His head nodded toward the dress as his eyes shifted.
My pulse kicked harder, the air between us tightening again. Less chaotic. More… intentional.