Chapter 4

Finnegan's POV

“Finnegan, no—”

I kissed her before she could finish.

For a moment she went still, her hands against my chest. I knew the shape of her mouth. That was what struck me first, how familiar it felt after so long, how quickly I remembered the way she used to tilt her head when I drew her closer.

But she wasn't doing that now.

She turned her face away.

“Stop.”

I heard her. There was no mistaking the word, even through the alcohol thickening her voice.

I should have moved back.

Instead, I held on.

All evening, before I'd fallen asleep, this had been an ordinary room. A jacket on a chair. A phone charging beside the bed. Somewhere to spend the night without having to think about where I was going in the morning.

Now her dress lay on the floor, and I couldn't seem to look at anything without finding proof that she was here.

I wanted her to look at me. To say something that would explain the last six years. I wanted to hear that she'd missed me, though I would have hated her for saying it so easily.

What I did was kiss her again.

“Ophelia.”

Her name came out roughly. She caught my shoulders as I pressed her back against the pillows, and for a second I remembered another bed, another apartment, the way she'd used to reach for me without hesitation.

I let myself hold on to that memory instead of paying attention to the woman in front of me.

Her face was flushed. Her eyes struggled to stay focused on mine. She had told me she'd been drinking, told me she'd mistaken the room number, told me she needed to leave.

I knew all of that.

It was easier to accuse her of lying than to let her go.

“You want this,” I said.

I had no right to say it for her.

“No, I—”

I didn't let her finish.

Later, I would remember the things I had chosen not to listen to. In the moment, I kept reaching for whatever let me believe she had come back to me: her hand closing on my shoulder, my name on her lips, a familiar movement I recognized from years before.

None of it answered the things she'd actually said.

“Finnegan, wait—”

I didn't.

The night went on. Outside the bedroom, the suite stayed dark, her belongings scattered along the path she'd taken from the door to my bed.

By the time I finally lay still beside her, I could hear the air-conditioning again.

Her breathing was uneven. Mine was too. I watched her face while she looked past me toward the window.

“Ophelia.”

She didn't answer.

I brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. Her hand rested against my chest, and I waited for her fingers to move, for some small gesture I could recognize.

She stayed quiet.

I had imagined this before. Not this room, not the way she'd arrived, but what it would be like to have her beside me again. In those thoughts, there had always been something to say afterward. An explanation. An argument. Something that would finally make sense of her leaving.

Now I couldn't think of a single question that belonged in this silence.

“I should go,” she whispered.

I lifted my head.

She wasn't looking at me. Her gaze had settled somewhere beyond my shoulder, in the direction of the chair where I'd left my clothes.

Her dress was still on the floor.

“No,” I said. “You shouldn't.”

Even then, I was answering a question she hadn't asked. She wasn't asking whether I wanted her to stay.

I kissed her again, more gently this time. I wanted the gentleness to mean something. I wanted the whole night to become something I could wake up beside without having to examine it.

But I had already heard her say no.

As the hours passed, there were stretches when she spoke and stretches when exhaustion took over. Sometimes her hand caught in my hair. Sometimes she turned away. I kept noticing the first and finding reasons not to think about the second.

I could still recognize small things about her. The way she drew a breath before she tried to speak. The crease between her brows when she was tired. But recognizing those things didn't mean I understood what she was feeling.

I'd once thought I knew her better than anyone.

Tonight, I had used that certainty to avoid listening.

At some point, the windows began to lighten.

The bedside clock showed an hour I usually associated with getting up. My phone lay within reach, the screen dark. I hadn't checked it since she'd arrived.

There were people I could have called. Someone at the front desk could have confirmed her room number. A member of staff could have taken her upstairs. I could have given her a robe, pointed her toward the bathroom, and waited in the living room while she dressed.

None of those things would have been difficult.

I looked at the door.

She had only needed me to let her leave.

Beside me, she shifted in her sleep. I drew the sheet higher over her shoulder, careful not to wake her. The gesture was familiar enough to hurt. Years ago, she would have complained about the cold and tucked her feet against my legs until I gave in and pulled her closer.

Now I adjusted the sheet and waited for her to settle.

I wanted to ask where she lived. Where she worked. Whether Lisa knew she was here, whether someone was waiting for the message she hadn't sent.

I would have to wait until she woke.

The light reached the foot of the bed, then the dress lying beside it. I could see the small fastening she'd struggled with, one shoe tipped onto its side a little farther away.

Nothing about the room suggested a planned visit. She hadn't even brought her things into the bedroom properly.

I had seen enough drunk people to recognize what she'd told me from the start.

An honest mistake.

I lay back against the pillows. Her head rested near my chest, close enough that I could hear each breath. I remembered wanting this closeness so badly that I'd stayed awake after she left, unable to bear how much room there was in my own bed.

Six years later, she was here again.

I still didn't know what her life had become. I didn't know why she'd stopped loving me, or whether there had been someone else, or what she would say when she opened her eyes.

I knew only what had happened tonight.

I held her while the room grew brighter, listening to her breathe, unable to sleep.