6. The confrontation

As usual, we go to bed early. And like always, Wes moves closer, his body pressing against mine as he slides a hand over my hip. But this time, I push him away.

"I'm not in the mood," I say, shifting slightly.

He pauses, looking at me like I just spoke a foreign language. "Since when?"

"I'm just not in the mood, okay?" My voice comes out sharp. "I'm tired. I just want to sleep."
That’s a lie. My mind is racing too much to sleep.

He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Okay, but can you at least give me a blowjob or something?"

I turn to him, disgust twisting on my face. "What? No! I just told you I’m not in the mood."

"Come on, baby, I need you," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. He leans in, his lips grazing my neck.

A shiver runs down my spine, but not the good kind. It’s cold, uncomfortable.

"I said no." My voice is firm this time as I push him away again and turn onto my side, my back facing him.

He exhales sharply, irritated, but doesn’t say anything.


The night is restless. I toss and turn, my mind refusing to slow down. Sleep feels like a distant concept, slipping through my fingers every time I get close. Eventually, I give up, getting out of bed an hour earlier than I need to.

I leave for work early, making sure to avoid Wes. I don’t have the energy to deal with him—not after last night.

The hospital is busy, which is exactly what I need. The constant movement, the steady beeping of monitors, the flood of people coming and going—it all keeps my mind occupied, shielding me from the thoughts I don’t want to face.

But eventually, my shift ends. And just like that, reality creeps back in.

I take a quick shower at work, letting the hot water wash away the exhaustion. By the time I step outside, the sun is high, its warmth kissing my face. I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. With a slow exhale, I start the walk home.

It's just past lunch time, so I have the whole afternoon too myself. Wes won't be home for at least a few more hours, not that I might, at all.


I slam the door shut behind me, kicking off my shoes without care. One lands haphazardly in the doorway, the other skids across the floor and stops in the middle of the living room. I don’t bother fixing them. I’m too tired to care.

With a heavy sigh, I throw myself onto the couch, my body sinking into the pillows. My eyes flutter shut. Finally, a moment to breathe—

"You have a boyfriend?!"

The voice cuts through the silence like a blade, and I jolt upright, my pulse hammering. My gaze darts around the room, disoriented, until I see him—Bill.

My stomach tightens. His eyes burn with something between betrayal and fury, freezing me in place.

"God, Bill!" I snap, pressing a hand to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. "Stop using the backdoor!"

"You should lock it," he shoots back, his voice deceptively calm, though tension simmers beneath. "It's not safe."

I cross my arms, glaring. "Yeah? Clearly."

His expression hardens. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

I swallow, my throat dry. "You didn’t really ask." It’s a weak defense, and I know it.

His jaw tightens. "Why the hell would I ask, Evi? I didn’t know there was anything to ask!" He takes a step toward me, and my body stiffens.

I force myself to hold his gaze. "What? You thought I was just sitting here, waiting for you?For four years?!"

His eyes sharpen, and for a second, I think he might actually yell. But when he speaks, his voice is low, steady—and somehow that’s worse.

"Of course not. But you’re still wearing that bracelet." His eyes flick down to my wrist, then back up, accusatory. "Why? Why would you keep wearing it if you have a boyfriend?"

I glance down, my fingers automatically brushing over the bracelet.

"No reason," I murmur.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Bullshit."

He’s close now—too close—and I hate the way my skin prickles under his gaze. The way my heart betrays me, hammering against the inside of my chest.

"Why did you kiss me back?" Bill’s voice is rough, edged with frustration. "Why didn’t you stop me? I didn’t want to be part of you cheating on your boyfriend!"

He steps in, close enough that I can feel his heat, close enough that I have to remind myself to breathe. His presence is magnetic, impossible to ignore. His eyes search mine, daring me to speak.

I swallow hard, my breath hitching. My gaze drops for a second—just long enough to steady myself—but when I look up again, something shifts between us.

A slow smirk tugs at my lips. "I didn’t hear you complain, though."

My voice comes out softer than I expect, laced with something I shouldn’t be feeling.

Bill’s jaw tightens. His eyes flicker down to my lips, and for a split second, I see the war inside him—the pull, the hesitation, the anger.

He exhales shaky, running a hand through his hair. "That’s not the point, Evi."

He takes a step forward, and instinctively, I step back. My spine meets the cool surface of the wall, trapping me.

His eyes flicker, catching the way my breath quickens. He’s close—too close—and yet, I don’t move.

I meet his eyes, something unspoken simmering between us. My lips part slightly, my eyes heavy-lidded.

His expression tightens. "Don't look at me like that."

His voice is lower now, rougher, edged with something he’s trying to fight.

I don’t look away. Neither does he.

Instead, he leans in, pressing his left palm flat against the wall beside my head.

My breath stutters. My cheeks flush, warmth spreading down my neck.

"I thought you didn’t want to get involved," I say, a desperate attempt to break whatever this is.

Before I can think, my hands find his chest, and I push. He stumbles back, and for a moment, I think he might actually walk away.

But then his face twists, his eyes flashing with something between anger and need.

"I don’t," he says, raking a hand through his hair, the carefully combed strands now a mess.

His chest rises and falls unevenly, his hands clenching at his sides like he’s trying to hold himself back. But his eyes—those damn eyes—tell a different story.

I should say something. Tell him to leave. Remind him that this is wrong. That I do have a boyfriend. That this shouldn't be happening.

But I don’t.

Instead, I watch as he drags a hand down his face, letting out a heavy exhale, his frustration palpable. "You make me fucking crazy."

His gaze snaps to mine. He takes a slow step forward, testing me, daring me to stop him, but I don’t move.

"I hate that you're still in my head," he murmurs, his voice raw. "That after all these years, one moment with you—" He shakes his head. "You make me something I am not, and I hate it!"

His words send a shiver down my spine, but I ignore it. Ignore the way my pulse quickens, the way my fingers twitch at my sides, fighting the urge to touch him.

"Then leave," I say, my voice steady, though my pulse is faster than ever.

He watches me, searching my face for something—hesitation, doubt, maybe even regret. "You really want me to go?"

His fingers trail up my arm, slow and deliberate, skimming over my shoulder before finding the curve of my neck. His touch is light, teasing. His hand wraps around my throat, his thumb gently brushing over my chin.

"Say it ," he murmurs. "and I'll leave."