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She flinches like I've slapped her. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us electric with hurt and anger.

Then she walks to the door and yanks it open. "We're done for today."

"Running away, huh?" The words come out mean, ugly. "Well, that’s certainly not professional ."

She doesn't look at me. "I need you to leave my office."

"It's not time yet." I glance at the clock. "We've got fifteen minutes."

"Leave now."

When I don't move, she does something that shocks me—she walks out, leaving me alone in her office.

I stand there, stunned, the weight of what just happened crashing down on me. I pushed too hard, let my fear and insecurity turn into weapons I aimed directly at her.

"Fuck." I drop back into the chair, head in my hands. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

The burn of self-loathing rises in my throat. This is what I do—push people away before they can hurt me. Elena saw it, called it out, and I proved her right in the most spectacular way possible.

I hear footsteps in the hallway, conversations between players and staff. I need to get out of this office. Immediately.

I stand, moving to the door. I should find her, apologize, try to explain that I didn't mean it. That telling her about Teddy left me raw in a way I haven't felt since I was six years old.

But what would be the point? She deserves better than my bullshit.

I walk out, closing her office door behind me. Another bridge burned. Another person pushed away.

Later that evening, I lay on the couch staring at the ceiling of my apartment, a bottle of Don Julio untouched on the coffee table.

I thought about getting drunk, drowning out the memory of Elena's face when I said those things to her.

But I know alcohol won't fix this. Won't erase the look in her eyes.

My phone sits dark and silent beside the bottle. I've typed and deleted a dozen messages to her, none of them good enough.

Eight o'clock turns to nine. I can't stop replaying our conversation, can't stop hearing my own voice hurling accusations.

"Fuck this." I stand abruptly, grabbing my keys and jacket.

The night air hits my face, as I walk to the Palmer House Hotel, rehearsing what I’ll say when I get there. None of it sounds right though.

The hotel lobby is quiet, just one employee at the desk who barely glances up as I walk to the elevators. I press 7, watching the numbers climb, my pulse rising with them.

The seventh floor hallway stretches out, all identical doors and muted lighting. 708, 710, 712... 714. I stand outside her door, hand raised, suddenly frozen.

What if she's asleep? Or, much worse than that, what if she's not alone?

The thought of another man in her room hits me like a freight train, but I shake it off.

I knock, three quick raps against the door. Nothing.

I try again, slightly louder. "Elena? It's me. Nate."

Silence.

"I know it's late. I just..." My voice catches. "I need to talk to you. Please."

I press my ear to the door, listening. There—a soft sound, movement inside. She's in there.

"I'm sorry about today." The words come easier than I expected. "What I said—I didn't mean any of it."

More silence, but I'm certain I hear footsteps. She's may be right on the other side of this goddamn door.

"Elena, please. Just open the door. Tell me to fuck off to my face if you want, but please... talk to me."

Still nothing.

"I don't really think you're using me. I know that's not who you are. You're... good. Better than I deserve."

I wait, but there's still no response. Just the faint hum of the air conditioning and the television in someone else’s room.

"Okay." I step back from the door. "I get it. You don't want to talk to me right now. That's fair."

"I'll leave you alone. But I needed you to know I'm sorry. For what I said. For how I acted. For all of it."

I wait one more moment, hoping against hope that the door will open, that she'll be standing there. But it doesn't. She doesn't.

With a sigh, I slide down the wall next to her door, sitting on the floor, knees pulled up. I'll wait a bit. Maybe she needs time to process. Maybe she'll change her mind.

The minutes tick by. One guest passes, giving me an odd look that I ignore. A housekeeper pushes her cart down the hall, asks if I need anything. I shake my head.

An hour later my ass aches from the hard floor and my eyelids are growing heavy despite the emotional storm inside me.

I think about how Elena listened without judgment. How she saw past my defenses to the hurt beneath. How she made me feel, for the first time in forever, like maybe I wasn't irredeemable after all.

And now I've ruined it. Just like I ruin everything.

The elevator dings at the end of the hall. A drunk couple stumbles out, laughing too loudly for the hour. I check my watch: 10:17 PM. This is pathetic. She's obviously not coming out.

I push myself to my feet, muscles protesting after sitting so long on the floor.

"Goodnight, Elena," I say softly, though I know she can't hear me.

Outside, the night has turned colder. I zip my jacket, hands shoved deep in my pockets as I walk back to my place.

I walk into my apartment and the tequila still sits untouched on the table, mocking me. I could drink it now, numb the ache. But I don't.

Instead, I lie on my bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above me.

I hear a woman’s low moan and realize my roommate must have company. Fuck… first this shit day, and now I have to listen to this. Enough already…