Chapter Twenty | After
I found myself giggling—half from awkwardness, half because I didn’t know what to do next. After everything that had just happened, what was the move now? Did I just get up and go to the bathroom? Close the door and lock it like none of it meant more than skin and silence?
I didn’t turn to face him. Instead, I gave him my back—my side of the bed now. The right side. I turned my chin just enough to catch his eye and rolled mine playfully. He smirked, maybe relieved I wasn’t turning the moment into something saccharine and heavy. That wasn’t my style. Not with him. Not when things still felt uncertain.
I got up and made my way to the bathroom.
It was late—late for me, anyway. He’d probably make some geriatric joke when I came back, mocking me for tapping out early. Inside the bathroom, I stared at myself in the mirror, cheeks flushed, thoughts racing. My body had just experienced something my heart had been begging for in silence. Now came the quiet. The uncertainty. The guessing.
And the question: Which bed do I crawl into now?
When I came out, I didn’t say a word. Just walked over to his bed and gently trailed my fingertips down his chest, to his hips. A soft, knowing touch. I giggled again, smirked at him.
Our eyes locked—and then, with a mischievous twist of my lips, I turned and crossed to the other bed. Climbed in playfully. Curled up beneath the covers, cold like always, pretending it was nothing. Pretending I wasn’t reliving what just happened in my mind over and over.
“What are you doing all the way over there?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied, smirking into the pillow.
I knew what I was doing. Testing. Waiting. Seeing how far he’d go to meet me halfway. Sometimes he showed that vulnerable sliver of himself I craved. Most of the time, he left me holding pieces he never intended to carry.
“Freezing your ass off, I see,” he said, amused.
“I’m fine. I’ve got enough sheets to go around.”
“I’m not doing this.” His voice shifted—teasing, but decisive. He threw off his covers, crossed the room, and scooped me up in one quick, fluid motion. I squealed in surprise.
“Hey!” I protested, laughing.
He carried me back to his bed like it was nothing—cradled me in those arms I always pretended not to think about. Dropped me into the sheets and tossed the covers over me with a grunt. “Here.”
I settled, then turned away again, giving him my back. I didn’t know why I always did that. Maybe it was my way of hiding how much I wanted him to stay. Maybe it made things feel less dangerous. Less real.
Then came his voice, soft but direct.
“So… what would it be like?”
I blinked. “What would what be like?”
“You. With you. Us.”
I went still. That wasn’t something he said. Not like that. It sounded too open, too uncertain. It sounded like hope—and that scared me more than any of his silence ever had.
“I’m not going there,” I said, keeping my voice even.
He shifted beside me, frustration already brewing. “What do you mean you’re not going there with me?”
There it was. The edge in his tone. The shift that made me brace. I hated that I knew how quickly his voice could cut. That his temper, even when restrained, still curled like smoke in the air between us.
“I can’t go there,” I said quietly. “Because I’ll only get hurt. And right now, I need that wall between us.”
He sat up. “A wall?” The word landed sharp.
I turned to face him slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. “You told me not to feel anything. Over and over again. You said this meant nothing. So why would I open myself up to something you’ve already rejected?”
My voice cracked—just a little—but I fought back the tears.
He didn’t answer at first. The silence swelled like something about to break.
“You’re overthinking again,” he said, louder now, bitter in defense. “Always with the overthinking. You really need to learn to control it.”
I flinched.
Not because he was physically threatening—he never was. But because his voice reminded me of other voices. Old wounds. The men who yelled, the ones who made me feel like I was too much or not enough all at once.
I folded into myself.
It was never just about this. It was every time he ghosted without explanation. Every text I overanalyzed. Every moment I masked how much I wanted to mean more.
“So which is it?” he pressed. “The overthinking again?”
I sat up then. My voice barely above a whisper.
“No. It’s me knowing better.”
He didn’t respond.
I climbed out of the bed and walked back to the bathroom. Quiet. Intentional.
I closed the door.
And this time, I locked it.
