I opened my mouth to answer, but my throat was tight.The truth was complicated.I was more than okay.I was ruined.I was satisfied.I was terrified.Instead of answering, I just nodded, hoping it was enough.
Noah kissed my temple, then curled against me, his arm draped across my chest like I belonged to him.Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
* * *
The room was dark and silent when I woke, but the weight in my chest was louder than any sound.My skin still burned with Noah’s touch, but now it felt like fire licking at a wound.I lay there for a long moment, staring into the shadows, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing beside me.
He looked peaceful in sleep, beautiful in a way that made my throat ache.And maybe that was what broke me.Because I didn’t deserve this.Him.Any of it.
Quietly, I slid out from under his arm, careful not to wake him.The floor was cold under my bare feet as I found my scattered clothes.Shirt.Pants.Shoes.Each piece tugged me further away from the heat of his body, the safety of his bed.
When I glanced back once more, he was still asleep, the sheets tangled around his waist, lips parted in some unguarded dream.My chest constricted.
I let myself out without a sound.
The night air hit me sharp and cold, like a punishment.My stomach churned with guilt, with shame, with longing.I’d crossed a line I could never uncross.
But as I stumbled down the dark street, one question hammered through the noise of my thoughts, relentless, merciless:
How could I ever be at peace with God again?
ChapterEight
Noah
Song of Songs 5:6 — I opened to my beloved, but my beloved had turned and was gone; my soul failed me when he spoke.
* * *
I woke up cold.
The other side of the bed—the side where Henry should’ve been—was empty, the sheets a tangle of cotton.For a second I thought maybe he’d rolled away in the night, or that he was in the bathroom.I reached out blindly, searching for the warmth of him, but found only wrinkles in the sheets.
I sat up slowly, blinking against the soft gray light leaking through the blinds.My apartment was hushed, the kind of morning silence that presses against your skin, waiting to be broken.The stack of books still towered on my shelves, the mess of last night’s clothes trailed toward the bed, but Henry wasn’t among them.
“Henry?”My voice sounded too loud, ragged.
I padded barefoot to the bathroom.The light was off, the door wide open, the sink dry and spotless.Kitchen next—just a few steps down the hall, past the desk still cluttered with my notes on Song of Songs.I half-expected to find him there, bleary-eyed, fumbling with my ancient coffeemaker.But the counter was bare, the cabinets closed.The place smelled only of old paper and faint cedar, not of him.
Gone.
The word sank in heavy, a stone dropped into my chest.
I leaned on the doorframe, arms braced, fighting the truth of it.No note on the table, no scrawled apology.Not even a scrap of his presence left behind, except—
I went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the mattress.The sheets were still rumpled, evidence of his body.His pillow was dented, his scent faint but undeniable.I picked it up, pressing my face into the fabric, breathing him in.It was subtle—soap, a trace of sweat, something clean and human that made my heart lurch against my ribs.
For one dangerous second, I let myself imagine he’d still be here when I lifted my head.That he hadn’t slipped out into the night, carrying all that guilt with him.
My chest ached.I hated it—hated that I cared.I wasn’t supposed to.Relationships had never been my thing.I’d built my life on one-night stands, quick hookups in shadowed corners, the thrill of the chase with none of the mess that followed.I’d never let anyone get close enough to do damage.
But Henry… he wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
He wasn’t supposed to make my heart feel too big for my body.
With a sharp exhale, I hurled the pillow across the room.It hit the bookshelf with a dull thud and slid to the floor, carrying his scent with it.I scrubbed both hands over my face, forcing myself to move, to shake off the wreckage of what had happened.
Enough.
