I try to distract myself.
I clean my kitchen twice.
I rearrange my closet for no reason.
I scrub the bathroom sink until it gleams like a showroom piece.
I even take a shower so hot it feels like it's trying to burn thoughts out of my skull.
None of it works.
None of it dulls the ache.
Because everything every corner of this apartment, every quiet second, every breath brings me back to him.
To his mouth.
His hands.
His voice.
His smile.
His stupid, perfect, infuriating face.
I slam my bedroom door shut and press my back against it.
"God, help me," I whisper into the empty room. "I miss him."
It's the first time I've said it aloud.
The confession tastes dangerous on my tongue. Like something meant to stay hidden forever.
I close my eyes and inhale shakily.
The truth hits me so hard I want to sit on the floor and cry:
I'm not just attracted to Edward.
I'm not just obsessed with the sex.
I'm not just addicted to how he touches me like I'm the only woman he's ever wanted.
I am
Falling.
Falling so fast I can't stop myself anymore.
I walk to the bed, drop onto it, and bury my face into the pillow that still faintly smells like him.
It's pathetic.
I shouldn't miss him. Not after the mess, the chaos, the truth about who he is.
He's my ex-husband's son.
Son.
The word still stings.
It should be enough to kill everything I feel.
But it doesn't.
I clutch the pillow tighter, breathing shakily as memories flood me memories I've been trying so hard to suffocate.
His voice rasping my name.
His fingers tangled in my hair.
His body pinning mine to the mattress.
His lips trailing fire down my skin.
The way he kissed me like he was starving and I was the only thing that could keep him alive.
The way he held me afterward, like I was something precious.
The way he looked at me like he saw every part of me and didn't flinch away.
I choke out a laugh small, bitter, aching.
"When did I get this weak?" I whisper.
But I know when.
It wasn't the sex.
It wasn't the first night.
It wasn't even the morning after.
It was the little things.
The way he remembered how I take my coffee.
The way he listened when I talked about my job.
The way he reached for my hand without thinking.
The way he looked concerned when I pushed myself too hard.
The way he said my name like it meant something.
Somewhere along the way, he became more than a distraction.
More than revenge.
More than pleasure.
More than a contracted lover.
He became mine.
And that terrifies me.
I sit up suddenly, unable to stay still. My heart is pounding so fast it's almost painful. I feel hot, restless, overwhelmed.
I need… something.
Air.
Space.
Answers.
I pace the room, clutching my arms around myself as if I'm trying to hold myself together by force.
"Stop thinking about him," I mutter.
But of course, that makes me think of him more.
His laugh.
His smirk.
His stupid habit of raising one eyebrow when he's teasing me.
The way he touches my waist like it's his favorite place to rest his hand.
The way he whispers into my neck like he knows exactly what it does to me.
I stop pacing and press my forehead against the cool wall.
"I miss you," I whisper, voice cracking. "I miss you so much."
Admitting it doesn't help.
It only makes everything sharper.
The pain.
The longing.
The fear.
Love if that's what this is starting to become wasn't in the contract.
It wasn't part of the plan.
It wasn't supposed to happen.
But here I am, swallowing back tears like a teenager, hugging myself because I can't hug him.
My phone is still off.
I turned it off so he wouldn't reach me.
So I wouldn't weaken.
But now I'm the one who feels unreachable.
The room feels colder without his presence.
My skin feels too sensitive without his touch.
My bed feels too big without his warmth beside me.
I sit down again, letting myself fall back onto the pillows.
"What am I doing?" I whisper.
I don't know.
All I know is
I miss the way he says my name.
I miss the way he kisses me like he's drowning.
I miss the way he looks at me like he wants to ruin me and worship me at the same time.
I miss him.
God help me, I miss him.
A tear slides down my cheek.
I wipe it away angrily like that will erase the truth.
But it doesn't.
Because something inside me has already shifted, already changed, already chosen him even if the world says I shouldn't.
And admitting it doesn't make it easier.
It makes it hurt more.
I curl into myself, my voice barely a whisper.
"I'm falling for you, Edward… and I don't know how to stop."