Page 111 of Make Me Mean It

I push away from the frame and take the stairs slower, even though the silence already tells me what I’m going to find. There’s no movement from the kitchen, no television playing in the living room, none of the usual sounds of another person somewhere in the house, but I check anyway, letting my eyes sweep through each empty room until they even land on the downstairs bathroom.

What the fuck am I doing?

Connor isn’t taking a piss. He isn’t making coffee or sprawled across the sofa waiting for me to wake up. He’s gone, and I knew that before I ever got out of bed.

I stop in the hallway, his shirt warm against my skin and every lingering ache from last night making it impossible to pretend none of it happened. He was here. He waited until I fell asleep, then left without a text, a note, even some awkward bullshit excuse that might make it feel slightly less like he ran the first chance he got.

My teeth grind together.

Fine.

He wants space, he can fucking have it.

I turn towards the stairs, fully intending to go back to bed and let Connor deal with whatever the fuck is happening inside his own head without making it my problem.

I don’t even reach them.

“Fuck.”

I’m already turning back towards the front door, irritation burning hotter with every step because I know exactly what I’m about to do and apparently being pissed at him isn’t enough to stop me.

I yank the door open and head for my bike.

The engine roars beneath me and I tear away from the house faster than I probably should, letting the wind batter against my face and the vibration of the bike rattle through my bones. Usually it’s enough to clear my head.

Connor follows me through every fucking turn.

I pull up outside his flat, killing the engine, and the silence that drops around me leaves nowhere for the doubt to hide. My hands stay locked around the handlebars as I stare at his door, painfully aware that I’ve dragged my sore ass across town wearing Connor’s fucking shirt because he didn’t stay in bed with me.

This might be the most pathetic thing I’ve ever done.

I pull off my helmet and scrub a hand through my hair, but I still don’t get off the bike.

Connor woke up, looked at me and realised whatever made him want me last night disappeared with the adrenaline. Maybe leaving without waking me was easier than having to watch my face when he told me.

My stomach turns hard enough that my thumb finds the ignition again.

I could leave.

Pretend I never came here.

Except the thought of going home and spending the rest of the day staring at my fucking phone, waiting for a message that might never come, pisses me off more than the possibility of hearing something I don’t want to.

If Connor regrets it, he can look me in the face and say it.

I’m off the bike before I can find another reason not to be, crossing to his flat and knocking hard enough that the sound carries through the door. My hands go straight into my pockets afterwards, mostly to stop myself knocking again when he doesn’t answer quickly enough.

The door opens barely wide enough for Connor to lean into the gap, his eyes finding mine and widening.

Surprise flashes across his face before his gaze slips away, tongue dragging over his bottom lip while he keeps himself planted firmly between me and the flat.

“Theo.”

Whatever stupid little bit of hope survived the ride over caves in.

A laugh slips out of me, dry enough to scrape my throat. “Right,” I huff, Connor’s eyes flicking back to mine, and I nod once, stepping away from the door. “Guess that answers it then.”

Fuck knows what I expected him to do when he opened the door, but apparently it wasn’t look at me like I’m the last person he wanted standing on the other side of it.