CHAPTER THIRTEEN

JORGE

ABOUT A WEEK LATER

I wake up to another empty bed. The cold sheets brush against my skin as I slowly sit up, and the familiar ache in my chest tightens. The first few nights we were together—the blindfolds and half-undressed sex—were fun and exciting. But it’s become a pattern. No matter how close I think we’re getting to one another, I can’t ignore the facts. After two weeks of sleeping here every night, I still don’t know what Rory actually looks like naked. I also have no idea what it’s like to fall asleep with my head on his bare chest or wake up in his arms. I don’t even know what it’s like to wake up with him in the bed with me.

I take a deep breath and try to tamp down my emotions as I climb out from underneath the comforter and quickly dress before looking for Rory. Stepping into the hall, I hear the faint sound of running water from the kitchen and the distinct clink of a mug against the granite counter.

Following the sound, I make my way into the kitchen and find him standing by the counter, his back to me as he stares into his cup of coffee, deep in thought. As though I have no control over my tongue, I frustratingly blurt, “Why aren’t you ever in bed when I wake up?”

With his back to me, he lifts his cup and takes a slow sip before turning around. His jaw is clenched, and it’s clear I’ve hit a nerve.

“Is it the same reason you’re always half-dressed or I’m blindfolded every time we have sex?” I ask, my tone harsher than intended. Apparently, I’ve been harboring these feelings a little longer than I should have. Rory doesn’t answer, and it only causes my annoyance to grow. “If I’m just a fun place for you to stick your cock, just tell me. And I’ll just stop spending the night and letting myself think this is more than it actually is.”

His race reddens, and his jaw twitches from clenching it so tightly. “Don’t talk like that,” he barks.

“Then show me I’m wrong.” My voice cracks. “I want to see you, Rory. To feel you. I can’t keep pretending this is going somewhere when you won’t even let me in.”

I wait, expecting him to say something— anything . He sets his mug on the counter with a sharp clink. When he looks up at me, his face is a series of hard lines and pained, cold blue eyes. “Well, I don’t,” he exhales, his tone somehow harsher than his words. “I don’t want you to see me. I don’t want you to feel me.”

His words hit like a punch to the gut, and I stagger backward, almost losing my balance. I know he’s guarded—he has been since I met him. But this… This feels like he’s building a wall between us, brick by brick, to shut me out.

I try to fight it, but I can’t stop the tears from welling in my eyes or the lump growing in my throat. This—whatever we are—isn’t what I thought it was. What I wanted it to be. He doesn’t want me .

“What I’ve given you is all I can offer,” he confesses. His posture tense, he stands on the other side of the room, waiting for me to respond. But I can’t… “If that’s not enough…” His words trail off, leaving the ultimatum hanging between us. I can be okay with being a fuck toy that stays overnight. Or I can go.

I tentatively walk forward and, with shaking fingers, lift my phone from the counter. “Okay,” I mutter, barely a whisper, realizing I can’t accept being less than I deserve. Closing my eyes, I turn on my heel and walk from the kitchen. My chest constricts with every step I take. By the time I leave the apartment, I’m nearly suffocating.

I hope he’ll— no, I need him to— chase after me. I need him to chase after me. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t call after me. He doesn’t follow. There are no hurried footsteps to keep me from walking out of his life.

Tears blur my vision as I enter the elevator. Leaning against the cool metal, I watch the doors close—to the elevator and our relationship. My heart shatters, and tears stream down my face over losing someone who was never actually mine.

I don’t even know how I make it to the street. Or how I wind up on the sidewalk with my back pressed to his building. The blur of the city before me, I sob uncontrollably as I dial Layla’s number. She picks up on the second ring, and I try to get myself together enough to speak, but I just cry into the phone.

“Jorge? Sweetie?” Instantly recognizing my pain, her tone is thick with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Rory…” I choke, barely coherent. “It… It’s over.”

Layla sucks in a sharp breath and exhales, “Oh, sweetie, no… Where are you? I’m on my way.”