Everything I had

Part 112.

She fell into step beside me as I pulled the car keys from my pocket.
"Aren't you worried someone might see us?" she murmured, eyes flicking nervously about.

We were surrounded by mansions with doormen posted at their gates, men serving people even richer than myself. None of them had any interest in my affairs. If anything, people in this part of town prized their own privacy too highly to meddle in anyone else's.

I shook my head. "No. I'd very much doubt this is the kind of thing anyone here would bother noticing—least of all in the middle of the night."

I opened the passenger door for her, and she slid in with a nod.

"I, um..." She hesitated, chewing her words as I started the engine a minute later. The silence pressed in heavy, but I chalked it up to the hour. "I'm really tired," she admitted at last.

"Wouldn't expect anything else after a six-hour shift." I was drained after two hours on set—I couldn't fathom how she managed.

"Yeah..." she murmured, eyes fixed on the passing streets. A beat later she spoke again, quieter this time. "I just mean—I don't know if I'm really in the mood tonight." She said it carefully, afraid I might take it as rejection.

I shook my head at once.
"I wasn't trying to fuck you." I spat out.

She glanced down at her lap, cheeks warm with shame.
"Sorry. I thought—"

"Don't apologize all the time." It stung that she assumed that was why I'd brought her here. But in the end, I couldn't blame her. "You just had a long shift, and your place is a fair drive from here."
All I wanted was for her to relax. For me to not be alone. Pathetic, maybe—but that's what I'd sunk to.

She nodded. "Thanks," she murmured, and didn't speak again until we reached the apartment.

I took her bag and hung it by the door, slipped her jacket from her shoulders when she struggled with the sleeves. She scratched at her arm and looked around like it was her first time in this space.

"You can change into something. Pick any T-shirt you like and—" I cut myself short. She already had a toothbrush here. Other things too. What more was there to say?

She nodded. "Can I shower?" she asked, as though she needed permission.
I only shrugged. Not my question to answer.

While she was gone, I thumbed through messages. Paddy had sent me a screenshot.

Thought it was you for a second—then remembered you're not even 6ft tall.

He'd added laughing emojis. The picture was of Y/N and Clark, their silhouettes on a beach, her hair lit by the fading sun. It stabbed clean through me.

I poured myself a glass of whiskey. Brought it to my lips.

"I thought you said you were quitting."
Marry-Anne's voice pulled me back. She stood in the doorway, dripping wet hair soaking into the shoulders of one of my black T-shirts, the fabric hanging loose on her small frame.

"You told me I had helped you with that," she reminded me.

I clenched my jaw. Her words didn't pierce the way Y/N's once had. I swallowed a heavy mouthful anyway. Set the glass down.

"Well, I make exceptions for special occasions." My murmur was half plea, half excuse.

She padded over barefoot, the marble floor cold beneath her bare, gleaming legs. "And what's tonight's occasion?" she asked, slipping her arms around my side. Like a- cuddle? Dampening the shirt further. Didn't matter—it would need washing anyway.

I turned toward her fully, her arms sliding lower, wrapping my waist.
"Trying to drink myself into a coma," I said with a hollow smile. It wasn't really a joke. Just truth disguised as sarcasm. The only way I could think of to sleep without seeing Y/N and Clark in my dreams. Or my father...

But when I reached for the glass again, she stopped me—her hand soft against my wrist, fingers spread, fragile and deliberate.
"Don't." Her eyes locked on mine. "Please."

Something in them almost undid me. Wide, round, achingly familiar. For a second, I understood why her father had quit the first time he saw her.

My grip loosened. Instead, I lifted her. Her legs hooked around my hips instinctively.

I couldn't stop staring into those eyes—so much like Y/N's. The same spark Y/N once carried, before it burned out.

"Have you eaten?" I asked softly. She relaxed into my touch, maybe expecting something else.

"I did. Shared some pasta with Jesse earlier," she said—her coworker.

"Alright. I'll take your word for it. But only because..." I brushed at her cheek. "You've still got sauce here." Toothpaste might've wiped her mouth clean, but a smear of tomato lingered.

Carrying her to the sink, I dampened a cloth and wiped it away. She grinned faintly, letting me fuss.

"You're... pretty gentle," she noted.

"Am I not usually?"

She stroked my cheek. "Not always." A pause. Then softer: "But that's okay." As if she wanted me to know I was allowed to be like this.

And in that moment, I almost believed her.
Believed it was okay to carry my brother's ex into my bedroom without a second thought. To lay her down on the bed beneath me and hoover long enough to breathe in the scent of green apple and coconut. Of shampoo and conditioner I had hundreds of bottles of just in case my wife ever decided to sleep over.

Was I even allowed to sniff it or was I supposed to pretend I didn't think of her when I leaned down and kissed Marry-Anne? Knew she didn't want action but she didn't seem to be against a make out session when I pinned her arms above her head and let her kiss me back.

The taste of fresh mint mixed with the bitter taste of alcohol now combined in saliva. My fingers threading through the wet hair at her skull. Trying to suffocate in the smell I could never get enough of.

Every action of mine felt wrong, each touch rushing violently through my head. 'But that's okay'. Her words echoed again and again, lodging themselves where reason should have been. She thought it was all right for me to be as I was. Believed I needn't change—perhaps. And perhaps I was all right as I was. Perhaps it was always meant to come to this.