I woke up alone.
The first thing I registered was the scent of hotel linen—clean, sterile, and utterly devoid of him. The second was the dull, throbbing ache of frustration that had settled deep in my bones. My room was exactly as I had left it, the curtains drawn, the suitcases neatly unpacked. It was pristine, empty and a rejection.
The kiss hadn't ended in his bed. It had ended with him pulling back, his breathing ragged, his eyes blazing with a war I had seen but couldn't win. He had simply walked away, back into his own suite, closing the door softly behind him. A quiet, final act of restraint that had been more infuriating than any shouted command. He had taken the fire I offered, warmed his hands by it, and then left me to burn in the cold.
