Without A Title

Chapter 9

(Freen)

I didn't tell Becky I was leaving.

Not because I didn't want to — but because I didn't trust myself to hear her voice and still go through with it.

Noey was the only one I informed. I simply dropped the details into our morning meeting like it was just another item on the agenda. "I'll be heading to the Lakeside project site for two weeks. I want to oversee the structural stages myself."
She raised an eyebrow. Didn't say anything at first, just stared at me like she could read every line I wasn't saying out loud. But Noey knows when to push and when to let silence answer the questions.

This time, she let it go.

And so, I packed my things. Booked a small place near the site. Told myself this was about being thorough. About work. About being the kind of boss who still gets her hands dirty. The kind of woman who doesn't run away just because something — or someone — is starting to feel like too much.

But the truth is... I needed space.

I needed distance from Becky.

It's ridiculous, I know. Self-indulgent and borderline pathetic. But being near her is like constantly standing too close to a fire. It's warm and addictive and dangerous in a way I can't quite articulate.

She's not doing anything wrong. She's just... being herself.
Funny. Soft. A little sarcastic. Exhaustingly stubborn.

Beautiful, even in her oversized hoodies and with her tired eyes from too many meetings and not enough rest. She's beautiful in a way that's real — and I hate how much I notice it now. How I look for it.

How I crave it.

And I shouldn't.
She's going through something massive. She's carrying a life inside her. She's grieving a relationship. She's trying to hold herself together with tape and willpower and fake smiles, and I know that because I see right through her.

And yet...

There's a part of me that feels like she's already let me in. Like I've already crossed some invisible line just by being there. Driving her to appointments. Cooking dinner at her place. Watching her fall asleep on my shoulder without flinching.

It's not romantic.
At least, I keep telling myself it's not.

But my body betrays me — in the way I lean a little closer when she talks, or how my hand twitches with the urge to brush her hair out of her face. How her laugh settles somewhere deep in my chest like it belongs there.

That's why I left.

I needed clarity.
I needed to remember who I am — outside of her orbit. Away from her gravity.

Here, in this quiet little town with its early mornings and long hours on dusty construction sites, I can almost believe I'm still in control. I wake up early, I answer emails, I walk the property line, and I don't check my phone every five minutes wondering if she's messaged.

I wait ten minutes instead.

I don't dream about her voice or the curve of her cheek when she smiles.
I tell myself they're just dreams.

I don't miss her, not really.

Only... I do.

I miss the way she says my name like it's something soft. I miss the way she makes me laugh when I've had a brutal day. I miss her stubbornness, her wit, her fire. I even miss the quiet moments — sitting side by side, not needing to talk.

And it's terrifying.

Because I'm not supposed to be someone who needs anyone. I've spent most of my life making sure of that. I built myself from the ground up — calculated, contained, clean lines and steel resolve.