Chapter Twenty-One | Her Back, Again (His Perspective)
She giggled.
It caught me off guard—light and awkward, like she wasn’t sure what came next. Like maybe neither of us were. I watched her closely. The way her mouth curved slightly, how she turned her head just enough to glance back at me before rolling her eyes.
There it was again. That playfulness. The thing she used when she didn’t want to admit she was unsure. Or worse—hopeful.
She gave me her back, curling up on the right side of the bed like it had always belonged to her. Maybe it did now. Maybe that’s what this was turning into.
I waited for her to say something. She didn’t. Just got up and went to the bathroom, quiet but not distant. I heard the soft sound of the door clicking shut, and then, faintly, the lock.
It made my chest tighten.
She was always too in her head. I noticed it the first time, though she’d never admit it. Always calculating next steps. Always trying not to want more. I wasn’t sure if that was about me, or if she was just like that—with everyone. Or maybe because I left her in silence before, without an explanation.
When she came back out, she didn’t say anything. Just walked over to me, and let her fingers trail down my chest. Slow. Familiar. I didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched her with a low smirk pulling at my mouth.
And then—like it meant nothing—she turned and crawled into the opposite bed.
I watched her slip under the sheets, curl up like she always did when she was cold, and act like we hadn’t just crossed some invisible line. I almost laughed. Of course she’d do this. Pretend it was fine. Pretend she wasn’t holding her breath the whole time.
“What are you doing all the way over there?” I asked, amused.
“Nothing,” she replied, her voice thick with that teasing innocence that always made me suspicious.
She was testing me. Again. Seeing what I’d do. Poking at the edges of the connection without admitting it existed.
I raised a brow. “Freezing your ass off, I see.”
“I’m fine. I’ve got enough sheets to go around.”
I shook my head, pulled the covers off myself, and got up.
“I’m not doing this,” I said—half-laughing—as I crossed the room. I didn’t give her a chance to react. Just scooped her up and carried her back to my bed. She shrieked, caught between surprise and amusement.
I dropped her on the mattress, tossed the bedding over her, and said, “Here.”
She curled back toward the edge of the bed, facing away from me again.
She always did that. Every time.
And it messed with me more than I wanted to admit.
I always thought people were trying to figure me out. Like I was some kind of science project. A puzzle someone else thought they could solve. And I hated that. Hated being studied like a problem.
But with her, it felt even worse—because I knew she was doing it. Quietly. Constantly. Reading me. Trying to crack me open. And the truth was, maybe I didn’t even have the answers she was searching for. Maybe I was just this.
Sometimes I wondered if the way I pulled back from her—so suddenly, so easily—was connected to something buried deeper. Something old. Survival stuff. Stuff I didn’t touch.
I’d always told people I was easy to understand. Simple. Transparent.
What you see is what you get.
But if that were really true, then she wouldn’t still be questioning me. She wouldn’t still be haunted by the fact that I left the first time without a single word. No goodbye. Just silence.
She never got closure.
And deep down, I knew—no matter how casual I played it—I'd left a scar on her. One she hadn’t earned. One I didn’t even know how to apologize for.
So maybe I wasn’t simple. Maybe what she saw wasn’t the full picture.
I stared at the curve of her shoulder. The bare line of her back disappearing beneath the covers. And then the question came out before I could stop it.
“So... what would it be like?”
She didn’t move. “What would what be like?”
“You. With you.”
Silence. A beat too long.
“I’m not going there,” she said.
I felt it immediately—the shift. Like a door slowly closing. Like a hand pulling away before it could be held.
“What do you mean you’re not going there with me?”
I tried to keep my voice level, but it was already fraying. It was always like this with her. Hot and then cold. In and then retreating. And every time I reached out, even a little, she shut the door.
“I can’t go there,” she said. “Because I’ll only get hurt. And right now, I need that wall between us.”
That stung. More than I expected.
“A wall?” I repeated. “Seriously?”
She turned toward me slightly, just enough for me to see her eyes, wet but defiant.
“You told me not to feel anything,” she said. “That this was nothing. So why would I give you more when you’ve already made it clear you don’t want it?”
I looked away. Suddenly unsure. Suddenly angry. Yet I understood. I told her to push it away. I couldn't admit it though. So I do what I do best-blame her overthinking.
“You’re overthinking again,” I snapped. “Always with the overthinking. You really need to control it.”
As soon as I said it, I saw her flinch. Not a big movement. Just a tightening in her shoulders. A retreat.
I hated myself in that moment.
Not because I yelled—but because I reminded her of something. The other guys she told me about. Some other wound I didn’t know how to ask about. I didn't care.
She sat up, quiet. Broken in that still, subtle way she got when she felt like she had to protect herself.
“It’s not overthinking,” she said finally. “It’s knowing better.”
And then she was gone—walking across the room, back into the bathroom.
I heard the lock click again.
I sat there in silence. Naked under the weight of my own words.
And for the first time in a long time, I wondered if I’d just ruined the only thing that ever felt almost real.
