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The words hit like a punch to the ribs, dead center, no armor. I scrub a hand over my face, jaw locked tight. I should go after her. Say something. Fix it.

I don’t.

Instead, I just stand there in the middle of a room that still smells like her, fists clenched like that’s gonna keep me from unraveling completely.

I shower under scalding water, but it doesn’t clear my head. Every drop that hits my skin is a reminder of what I didn’t do.

The muscles in my neck and shoulders ache with the weight of everything I’ve been trying to avoid. My instincts scream to go after her, to make it right, to apologize for being weak.

I stay under the water until it cools, letting the cold sting my skin.

I get dressed in silence. Pack my bag. Fold each item neatly, line everything up just so. Control what I can.

I grab my keys, my wallet, and check the room one last time for anything I might have missed. Then I step into the hallway, bracing myself to face her.

I’m met with silence. Her bedroom door stands open, the space beyond it empty. No scattered clothes. No half-packed suitcase. No scent of her shampoo lingering in the air. Just bare surfaces and undisturbed silence.

She’s gone.

I stand in the doorway of her empty room like a fucking fool. A part of me expected, maybe even hoped, she’d still be here.

But Whitley Collins doesn’t wait around for men who can’t get their shit together. I don’t blame her.

The drive back home is a blur of endless stretches of highway and miles that don’t make a damn bit of difference in the grand scheme of things. I cringe when I pass a giant, ten-foot-tall, neon-lit chicken sitting off one of the interstate exits.

Whitley would have thought it was the greatest thing in the world.

I almost pull over to take a picture before I remember I fucked up the chance to be the one that gets to text her.

And then a week passes.

Seven days since I blew everything up. You’d think that would be enough time for the ache in my chest to settle into something I can ignore. Instead, it feels like I’ve been carrying it around for a lifetime.

I’m back in my shop, hands buried in grease and motor oil, trying to work the thoughts out of my system. The radio plays faintly in the background, but it’s just noise. Every laugh that isn’t hers sounds wrong. Every quiet moment feels worse.

A car pulls into the lot, snapping me out of my wallowing. Another repair, another day of pretending like everything’s fine. I go through the motions, talking to customers, fixing shit, but my mind keeps drifting back to her.

I shouldn’t miss her this much. I shouldn’t even care. Yet here I am, wishing I hadn’t been so damn stubborn.

The thing is, I’ve known Whitley for a while now. Just in passing, mostly. I used to think she was…a bit much. Always talking, prying into things that weren’t her business. She seemed like the kind of person who’d always be in your face, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Her constant chatter and boundless energy were exhausting, even if it was funny in an annoying sort of way.

Then, I spent a week with her. I saw past the jokes, the easy sarcasm, the way she pushes into conversations. She isn’t prying. She’s just trying to make people feel seen. Heard. And when she looked at me like I wasn’t just some guy to pass the time with, when she really looked at me, I realized how much I’d missed by writing her off.

There was a night with Violet and Rowan a few months back that I almost left because I was exhausted after a long week, but I remember watching Whitley. How she moved, how she made everyone laugh, how she wasn’t afraid to be herself. She was the exact opposite of what I thought I needed. I needed someone quiet, someone who wouldn’t get under my skin, someone who didn’t ask too many questions. At least, that’s what I convinced myself.

Now I know better. She is everything I need. The problem is, I didn’t know how to handle it.

“Beau,” one of my mechanics and an old friend, Jake, calls out from the back. “The Johnson truck’s ready for pickup.”

I grunt in acknowledgment.

“You look like shit,” Jake says, wiping his hands on a rag as he approaches.

I don’t answer. Just reach for another wrench and slide back under the Chevy as if Jake’s voice isn’t grating on every last nerve I’ve got.

He doesn’t take the hint.

“Something happen?” he asks, casual as hell even though we both know he’s fishing.