Page 144 of The Rules

“I wanted it to be easier,” she said, trembling. “To matter less. But it didn’t. Because I let him kiss me and every second of it,

I was swallowing the truth—choking on it—because all I could think was that this isn't what I want. ”

A tear slipped free. Then another. But she didn’t look away.

Ben’s throat bobbed. His mouth tightened—but he didn’t speak. Not yet.

Not because he didn’t have words.

But because he didn’t trust himself to say the right ones.

Kath grabbed the file from the table—hands trembling—and shoved past him, brushing his shoulder hard as she went.

The door slammed behind her, the echo shattering the silence she left behind.

And Ben?

He still hadn’t moved.

???

He glanced at the clock. Ten-oh-six. The office was empty—hallway lights dimmed, the distant hum of the cleaning crew barely audible. He should’ve left an hour ago. She should have too.

But she hadn’t.

Through the sliver of glass in her office door, he saw her—slumped over her desk, arms folded beneath her cheek like a makeshift pillow, hair spilled over the paperwork.

Ben stood frozen in the hallway, her words from earlier echoing in his head.

“It wasn’t what I wanted.”

The tremor in her voice. The way she couldn’t look at him when she said it. The fury. The ache. The truth.

It hadn’t left him. Not even now. Especially not now.

He stepped inside quietly. Her breathing was slow, steady. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep—he could tell by the pen still cradled between her fingers, the notes half-finished beneath her cheek. But exhaustion had claimed her. No surprise.

What stopped him wasn’t the sight of her asleep.

It was the tissues.

Scattered across the desk, crumpled, damp. Her eyes—puffy. Her lashes still wet. She hadn’t cried while fighting with him. She’d waited until after.

She’d gone quiet. Stared him down. Told him the truth like it cost her skin. And then she left.

He hadn’t followed. Hadn’t said a word.

Now here she was, curled into herself at a desk that looked more like a battlefield than a workspace. Broken in a way she hadn’t let him see while standing. Only now, small and slumped and still, did the fallout show.

He shouldn’t be here.

Not like this. Not watching her like this.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just shrugged off his jacket and laid it across her shoulders—slow, precise. Her body stirred under the weight, not fully waking, just shifting instinctively. Then—

She turned her face into the lapel. Breathed in. And stayed there.