The exit loomed ahead. Emergency lighting casting everything red.
My hand hit the bar. Metal cold against overheated skin.
If I stayed, I'd ruin her.
The door swung open. Night air hit my face like a slap.
I didn't look back. Couldn't.
The door closed behind me with a hollow click of finality.
Chapter 19
Olivia
I stayed frozen against the wall long after the sound of his footsteps faded. Long after the emergency exit door clicked shut. Long after the silence swallowed every trace he'd existed in this hallway at all.
My wrists tingled where his hands had pinned them. The ghost of his grip burned into my skin like a brand I couldn't scrub away. My lips felt swollen, tender, every nerve ending still firing with the memory of his mouth claiming mine like he'd been starving for it. Like I mattered. Like he meant it.
Then reality crashed down with the weight of a collapsing building.
He left.
Again.
The pattern carved itself deeper. Touch me like I was everything. Walk away like I was nothing. Leave me wrecked and gasping while he fled like touching me disgusted him.
Tears burned hot behind my eyes. I tried to swallow them back, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. My throat closed around the sob building in my chest. I refused to give him that. Refused to break where he might somehow know.
My legs gave out.
I slid down the wall until I hit the floor, knees pulled to my chest, forehead pressed against my arms. The first tear escaped. Then another. Silent. Furious. Humiliating.
I hated this. Hated him for making me want something I couldn't have. Hated myself more for still wanting him after he proved—twice now—that whatever this was terrified him enough to run.
My fingers dug into my arms. Nails biting crescents into skin. The pain grounded me. Reminded me I was real even when he treated me like something temporary. Forgettable.
A mistake.
The word echoed in my skull. His voice. Cold. Detached. It was a mistake.
But his hands had trembled when he touched me. His breath had caught. His eyes had gone dark and desperate before he kissed me like drowning men needed air.
That wasn't regret. That was fear.
Another tear slipped free. I wiped it away angrily, smearing moisture across my cheek. Done. I was done pretending this didn't shred me. Done pretending I could handle his push and pull. Done waiting for him to decide I was worth the risk.
I pulled my knees tighter. Let the tears come. Quiet. Bitter. Mourning something that never had the chance to exist.
The memory looped mercilessly. His hands catching my wrists. The shocking strength as he pinned them above my head—not rough, never rough, but absolute. The wall cold against my spine. His forehead dropping to mine like he couldn't bear the distance between us for one more second.
Then his mouth.
God, his mouth.
Desperate. Consuming. Like he'd been holding back for weeks and the dam finally shattered. His grip had tightened when I arched into him, when I made that small sound against his lips that I'd die before admitting I made.
He'd kissed me like I mattered. Like he'd been drowning without me.
