Page 36 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

Celeste

The car ride home is quiet.

It’s not awkward or tense. It’s just that soft, bone-deep quiet where neither of us feels the need to fill the space.

My head is still caught in the library with every beam, every speck of dust, the weight of the air, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room.

No one’s ever taken me anywhere like that. Not to impress me or because it was convenient, but because they truly saw me.

Julian didn’t ask if I’d like it.

He knew.

And God, I did.

We stayed longer than we should, exploring every dusty corner.

We read the spines of forgotten books out loud to each other and tried not to laugh when the desk nearly buckled under us.

We kissed like we were seventeen and tipsy on hormones.

He didn’t rush. He let me linger, breathe, and soak in every creaking floorboard, every exposed nail, and every smell.

It was one of the best nights I’ve had in years.

Which is why what happens next feels so unfair.

He’s somewhere between whispering filthy words in my ear and pinning my hands to the bed when a sharp, white-hot pain explodes low in my abdomen. It’s so sudden and savage, it robs me of breath.

No. Not now.

I cling to the pleasure like I can hold onto it and ride it out, but the pain quickly grows, like a clawed hand wrapping around my uterus and squeezing.

My body locks before I can stop it.

Julian’s still moving, still deep, still watching me with that look that unravels me, but it’s gone.

All of it.

The cramp slices deeper, burning through my hips, my lower back, and down my thighs.

“Celeste?” His brow pulls tight, dominance gone and replaced with panic.

“We need to stop,” I manage, my voice tight.

He pulls out and cups my face in his hands. “Did I hurt you?”

I shake my head.

He didn’t.

This isn’t him.

This is my traitorous body reminding me who’s really in charge.

And I hate it.

I hate the worry in his eyes. I hate that I can’t control this.

I hate that I feel the old rage rising.

Rage at the clock, at my own anatomy, at the way pain always feels like it’s stripping away pieces of me I just got back.

I want to be angry.

I want to scream because this was supposed to last longer.

The surgery was supposed to help.

Another cramp knives through me, stealing everything else. Sweat beads along my hairline as my body curls in on itself.

I need to move.

Julian’s expression darkens as I force myself up.

I swear this pain feels like it’s going to split me in two.

“Celeste, talk to me.”

I can’t.

I can’t because if I do, if I let one word slip out, all the pain and all the fear will follow, and I’ll drown in it right here in front of him.

I reach for my robe and wrap it around myself with shaky hands.

The smile I throw him is paper-thin. “Just… give me a sec.”

I make it to the bathroom, shut the door, and grip the sink until my knuckles ache. Shaking two painkillers into my palm, I swallow them dry despite the lump in my throat.

I look in the mirror and wince.

God, look at me .

Hair wild from Julian’s hands, face pale and tight with pain.

Another wave hits, buckling my knees. I bite down hard to keep the sob in.

“Celeste?” Julian’s voice comes muffled through the door.

Inhaling, I force my body upright even as my muscles scream in protest.

There’s no blood yet, but I feel it lurking. I know the signs too well.

With an effort that costs me every ounce of strength I have left, I straighten my robe, school my features, and swing the bathroom door open.

Julian is already dressed, but his brows are furrowed with the kind of worry that makes my chest ache.

I brush past those feelings and press a kiss to his cheek. “Women’s issues.”

“Women’s issues?” Julian repeats slowly.

“Period,” I say, ignoring the tremor in my voice.

He stares at me for too long. If I let him keep looking, he’ll see everything—the pain, the panic, the way I’m hanging on by my fingernails.

I can’t have him here right now. I can’t let him see me crumble.

“I just need a shower and a hot water bottle.” I give him a weak smile. “I’m exhausted. See you tomorrow?”

“Fuck that.” He steps closer. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

“Julian, please. I just… I need space tonight. Honestly, I’ll be fine. I’m tired.”

I lean in, kiss his cheek again, and hope he doesn’t feel how badly I’m shaking.

He doesn’t move.

“Please,” I whisper. “You need to leave. ”

“Like hell—”

“Julian, please!” The snap in my voice cracks something open between us.

I see the hesitation in his eyes.

I see the way his hands clench into fists at his sides.

He’s frustrated, and I know he wants to fight me on this, but I pray he doesn’t.

This isn’t his pain to carry.

He cups my face in his hands. “I can stay, Celeste.”

And I know he would if I asked.

Just tell him what you need.

I open my mouth, but the words that come out aren’t a request for help. “Honestly, I’m just tired. I had such an amazing night. Thank you.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to. I just need a night.”

“Call me if—”

“I will,” I lie.

He presses a devastating kiss to my lips, then another one to my forehead, before he squeezes my hand, grabs his jacket, and leaves.

The second the door shuts, I drop to the bed and curl in as the next wave hits.

It’s not just cramps. It’s an ambush.

It’s heat and cold, pressure, stabbing and burning, all layered until it feels like my body’s folding in on itself.

Breathing hurts. Moving hurts more.

I force myself up, every step to the bathroom a fight, before my knees give out. I hit the floor, knees to my chest, and press my palms into my stomach like I can hold myself together.

Sweat drips down my temples. Nausea rises hot in my throat. The cold tile kisses my cheek, grounding me in the smallest way.

But it’s not enough. It never is.

For the first time in so long, I feel completely alone.