Chapter Forty-Nine
Ruby
I push the blanket back and stand, the floor cool under my feet. The house feels… off. Not wrong. Just different. I move through it slower than usual, like something might shift if I go too fast.
My body aches in places I haven’t thought about in years. Good ache. Used ache. I pull my shirt on without underwear, too aware of the tenderness between my legs, the way my thighs feel like I ran miles. I don’t look at the bed. I don’t look at where he was.
The kitchen light is harsh after the dark. I squint against it, reaching for the coffee maker on autopilot, and then I see it.
The plate waits on the counter.
Eggs. Toast. Arranged like he tried to make it look like he didn’t try.
I stand there, hand on the coffee maker, staring at food I didn’t make in my kitchen that he touched after touching me. The intimacy of it feels heavier than what we did in the dark. Anyone can fuck. Not everyone stays to cook.
I don’t eat. Not yet. I walk to the window and look out at the shed, the pen, morning mist hanging low over the grass. The pigs are already fed. I see the fresh hay, the water bucket refilled. He did that too before he left.
The bed was cold when I woke. I didn’t notice at first. Just rolled over, reaching for my phone, and felt the lack of heat where he’d been.
My hand stilled. My breath caught. I lay there too long, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sound of him in my bathroom or my kitchen or anywhere in my house.
Silence.
I sit at the table because my legs feel unsteady.
The eggs are cold now, but I eat them anyway, mechanical, chewing without tasting.
The toast has softened. He tried. He doesn’t know how I like my eggs, how I hate even a hint of runny yolk, and I didn’t tell him because this wasn’t supposed to be that.
Then I see it. The note on the counter, weighted down with my own sugar bowl.
Breakfast. Check cameras tonight.
No goodbye.
I sit there longer than I should, staring at the handwriting. My fingers trace the edge of the paper, pressing into the indentation like it might give something back. Four words.
Check cameras tonight? A reminder for me to do? Or a promise that he’ll check them when he gets here after work? There’s no explanation. That’s all I get.
He made breakfast. He fed the pigs. He left before I woke.
Of course he did. This is what casual looks like. This is what I agreed to. The chill in the bed, the food on the counter, the note that says he’s concerned about my safety even after he fucked me and left. It’s all part of the same thing. Concern without commitment—presence without staying.
Halfway through, I stop. Set the fork down. Pick it back up again. Finish anyway. The note stays where it is. I don’t throw it away. I don’t fold it either. I… leave it.
Like he left me, as I told him he could.
By the time I reach the office, the lot is already filling up. Trucks angled into spaces, gravel crunching under boots, voices carrying through the morning air.
His truck isn’t there. I don’t slow down.
Inside, I drop my purse behind the desk and power on the computer, the hum filling the space. The phone rings. I answer. Give directions. Confirm an order. Write things down I don’t need to double-check.
“Cole Construction.” Nothing. I wait.
“Hello?” Silence. My fingers tighten around the receiver.
It’s happened before. At the gym.
“Can I help you?”
For one second, I think I hear breathing. Then the line goes dead. I stare at the phone. Wrong number. Again.
Except this time, I’m not at the gym.
A chill works its way beneath my sweater before the phone rings again. I nearly jump. “Cole Construction.”
This time, a man asks for directions to the Oak site. Normal. I give directions. Confirm an order. Write things down I don’t need to double-check.
Every time the door opens, I glance up. Then back down. Then up again the next time it happens.
It’s ridiculous and naive, but I still do it.
Mr. Cole watches from his desk, coffee mug in hand. He doesn’t say anything. Just studies me longer than necessary before sliding a folder across the counter. “Oak site.”
“Got it.” I grab the keys before I can think about it too much. Movement is better.
The Oak site smells like sawdust and damp earth. The frame of the house stretches up against the pale sky, beams exposed, the shape of something unfinished.
I spot him before I’m fully out of the truck. Of course I do. He’s near the garage frame, tape measure hooked at his hip, one hand braced against a post while he marks something along the wood.
Focused. Still. Like everything else fades when he’s working. Like last night didn’t happen. Of course it didn’t impact him. He’s used to casual sex—physical connection without consequences.
I close the truck door harder than I mean to. He looks up. Our eyes meet, steady, neutral. Then his gaze drops back to the board in front of him. No pause. No second look.
I’m so fucking stupid. I drag in a breath and start walking. Each step feels measured. Too aware. The folder shifts in my hand. I tighten my grip on it, then loosen it again.
"Your dad needed these signed." I hold it out without any pleasantries.
He takes it. Our fingers brush, quick, unavoidable, and the contact lingers long enough to register before he pulls back.
"Thanks." That’s it. No hesitation. No acknowledgment that last night shifted the earth’s axis. Because it didn’t for him.
He flips the folder open, already scanning the pages. I nod like that’s enough. Like that’s all I expected from him. Tears sting my eyes before I can blink them away.
Don’t. Do not break down. Not now.
"Here." He hands them back to me. Our fingers brush again, but the reaction stays the same. None.
"Right." My steps are a little too fast at first. I slow them down before anyone notices.
Behind me, the sound of his voice blends back into the rest of the site. Instructions. Measurements. Normal. Like nothing changed. Because nothing did.