Still, he said nothing. He didn't come back to her. His steps slowed near the door, his hand pausing on the handle. Lydia sat upright, the sheet clutched to her chest, heart pounding.
"Ivan," she said, her voice soft, pleading.
He didn't turn around.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Hollow. "This was a mistake."
Her breath hitched.
Before she could say anything else, he opened the door and left. Quietly. As if none of it had happened. As if she hadn't moaned his name, hadn't held him like she never wanted to let go.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And the ache that filled her chest was worse than any touch he'd denied her.
Lydia sank back into the bed slowly. The sheet twisted in her hands. Her skin still tingled where he had kissed her. Her heart was still racing—but now, for a different reason.
He left her.
Again.
Just like always.
She turned to his side of the bed. The pillow was still warm. She buried her face into it, breathing in the faint trace of him.
