5. The aftermath

I push him off me, my hands trembling. My chest feels tight, my pulse pounding in my ears. I scramble for my panties, yanking them on with shaky hands.

"Are you okay?" His voice is soft, careful.
A warm hand brushes my shoulder, gentle, grounding—too much.

I snatch his boxers from the floor and shove them toward him. "Get dressed." My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I can’t take it back now.

His brows pull together, confusion flickering across his face, but he takes the boxers from my hands.

I find the first dress within reach and tug it over my head, my breath shallow, my mind screaming. "You need to go."

He blinks, the confusing growing on his face. "I need to go? Evi, what’s wrong?"

"Nothing." I force a tight smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. "Everything’s perfect." The words feel like glass on my tongue. "Now, get dressed."

Before he can say anything else, I turn, scooping up scattered clothes as I make my way toward the stairs. I need to move. To do something. If I stand still, the weight of what just happened will crush me.

"Evi?" His voice follows me, uncertain, edged with something I don’t want to name. A second later, his hand wraps gently around my arm, stopping me in my tracks.

We’re halfway down the stairs when he moves, stepping down two steps until we’re face to face. His face is open, searching, his brows drawn together in concern. "I’m sorry," he murmurs. "I thought you wanted this."

His eyes search mine—pleading.

"I did," I whisper, shoving his clothes into his hands, my fingers brushing his briefly. "But now, you have to go."

His fingers tighten around the pile of clothes, but he doesn’t move. His expression flickers—hurt, confused. I turn away, my steps hurried as I make my way down the stairs, my bare feet hitting the cold tile floor of the hallway like a slap back to reality.

Behind me, I hear him stumbling down the stairs, tugging his clothes on in rushed, uneven movements. By the time he reaches the bottom, I already have the door open, my knuckles white against the handle.

"Evi, please," his voice cracks slightly. "Can we just talk?"

I shake my head, forcing myself to look anywhere but at him. If I meet his eyes, I might break. "No," I whisper, my throat tight. "Just go. Please."

For a moment, silence, heavy and suffocating. Then, I hear his breath hitch, just slightly, before he steps past me, out the door.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And just like that, he’s gone.

The breath I’ve been holding for what feels like forever finally escapes, rushing from my lungs in a shaky exhale. My chest feels tight, my pulse still racing.

Then, voices outside—low, familiar. My brows knit together. No… no, that’s not possible.

My stomach twists. Panic tightens around my ribs as I inch toward the door, every step slow, as if moving any faster will somehow make this worse. My fingers tremble as I grip the handle, pushing it open just enough to see.

I freeze.

Bill. Wes.

Standing there. Talking.

My breath stops cold in my throat, my vision narrowing in on the two of them. Bill’s hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders tense, his expression unreadable. Wes, on the other hand, is relaxed, casual—completely unaware.

Then, both of them turn toward me.

"Oh, you're home," Wes says, his voice light, easy—so different from the chaos in my head. He walks up to me, pressing a kiss to my lips.

I don’t kiss him back. I can’t. My eyes remain open, my entire body rigid. A lump lodges itself in my throat.

"I just met your neighbor," Wes continues, gesturing toward Bill with a friendly smile, completely oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.

I force myself to look at Bill. His face is carefully neutral, but his eyes—God, his eyes—they say everything. A flicker of something dark and unreadable crosses his expression before he looks away, his jaw tightening.

"I have to go," he mutters finally, his voice clipped, distant.

Before I can process what’s happening, he turns and walks away.

Wes calls something after him, but I don’t hear it. My ears are ringing, my body locked in place as I watch Bill disappear inside.

"What’s for dinner?" Wes’s voice cuts through the storm in my head, yanking me back to the present.

I blink, forcing myself to focus as he steps past me into the house, completely unaware of what happened just minutes before. I follow him in, my movements stiff, unnatural.

"Uh… I don’t know," I stammer, my voice weaker than I want it to be.

Wes glances at me as he kicks off his shoes, his brow furrowing slightly. "Things aren’t weird between you and Bill, right?" His tone is casual, but there’s an edge of curiosity there. "I know he’s your ex, but it’s been years."

My pulse stutters. For a split second, I swear I can still feel Bill’s eyes on me.

I shake my head quickly, forcing a small smile. "No. Not weird at all," I say, pushing as much confidence into my voice as I can manage.

Wes watches me for a moment longer, then nods, seemingly satisfied.

I exhale silently, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.

"Let's just order take-out," Wes suggests, his voice casual, like nothing happened. Because as far as he knows, nothing did. "Chinese okay?"

I nod, turning my head toward him. "Yeah. I love Chinese food." My voice is steady, and I force a smile.

"You order, I'm gonna take a quick shower."

I don’t wait for his reply. I just go. Up the stairs, down the hall, into the bathroom.

The bathroom door shuts behind me, and I lock it.

Before I undress myself, I turn the water on, warmer then I usually would. I need to feel something else—pain, maybe?

Hot steam clouds the mirror and blurs my reflection, I don’t want to see it anyway.

I step under the spray, the scalding water burning away the places he touched.

I scrub harder. His sweat. His scent. His touch. But no matter how hot the water gets—he’s still there.