This damned, infuriating woman. Doesn't she understand what she's doing to him?
It's been over a month. Not by choice. Because of her. He's tried. More than once. Like last night. A naked, beautiful woman in his bed—soft, willing, pressing into him, hands on his chest, lips against his neck—everything that used to be enough. He looks at her. Nothing. Not even the beginning of a response.
His jaw tightens. He's never had to think about it before. Never had to force anything. It was automatic. Immediate. Reliable. Now—dead. His hand drags through his hair, irritation sharp and rising. This is a problem. He closes his eyes.
And that's the mistake. Because the moment he does—it's her. Ace. The curve of her mouth. The way she looks at him—steady, unafraid, like she sees through everything he is and doesn't care. The sound of her voice, low, quiet, saying things she shouldn't say. His body reacts instantly. Hard. Immediate. Uncontrolled.
A sharp inhale cuts through his chest. His fingers flex against the sheets. There it is. Heat. Pressure. Tension coiling low and tight—fast enough to feel almost violent.
His jaw tightens harder. He opens his eyes. Gone. Just like that. The woman beneath him shifts, trying to pull him back, pressing closer, whispering something he doesn't even register. Nothing. His body doesn't respond. It won't. Because it's not her.
His hand curls into a fist. Unacceptable. Sex used to be simple. Functional. A release. A reset.
Now it's—frustration. Constant. Building. Nowhere to go. Because every time it starts—it leads back to her.
And stops.
His gaze shifts—to her. The source of it. The cause of it. The one thing he can't eliminate. And now—
she's here. Beneath him. Looking at him like that. Too inviting. Too calm. Too close. His pulse spikes again, sharp and immediate, heat coiling low in his body with nowhere to go—nowhere he's allowed to take it.
The doctors' words cut through it. She's not ready. His jaw locks. He exhales slowly, forcing it down. Forcing it back. Forcing himself still. Control. Always control. Even now. Especially now.
His body rebels. He's never had to control it like this before. Never had to deny himself. He always took what he wanted. Always released.
His jaw tightens. Damned woman. A kiss. Just a kiss—No. He wouldn't stop. Couldn't.
###
"I—"
His gaze travels dangerously down my neck and further downward. I tense up, unable to admit to myself that I crave his touch, his gaze, and that I miss it more than I can bear.
The phone rings and vibrates on my back. He snatches it, but I lunge for it as well. Grasping it tightly, he tries to pry it from my hands. I cling to it desperately, but he manages to wrench it free. The ringing stops.
"Ace! That was—" He turns furiously toward me, upset that he missed the call. It's the first time he's called me by my name.
The rage in his eyes makes me want to cry.
"Was it Alisa's? You've been waiting for her call, haven't you?"
He blinks, and his anger dissipates instantly. Before he could say that was his mother, she speaks again. "I'm fine now," she says. "You don't need to come here anymore." The words land—clean. Precise.
Too clean. She continues before he can respond. "You've done enough. Whatever happened between us… we're even now. You don't need to feel obligated to me. Or responsible for the crash. You already fixed it."
A pause. Then—quieter. "Go to her. It's what you want, isn't it?"
Silence. Mohamad doesn't move. His gaze stays on her—unreadable. Even. Controlled. Guilt? Is that what she thinks this is? That he stayed because he had to? Because he owed her?
His jaw tightens. No. That's not—His thoughts cut off. Her eyes. Watery. Unsteady. On the verge of breaking. Something tightens sharply in his chest. Wrong. He can't—Not that. Not from her.
I look away, forcing my breathing to steady, forcing everything back down. Don't cry. Don't—I press my lips together, swallowing it. If I say anything else, I won't be able to take it back.
He moves. Fast. Too fast. Not hesitation. Not consideration. Decision. His bag is already in his hand. Jacket. Phone. Everything—collected in seconds. Efficient. Like this means nothing. His eyes don't return to me.
Not once. The door opens. Closes.
Silence.