(Ethan's POV)
The dawn painted the sky in soft hues of pink and gold, a stark contrast to the tempestuous night we'd shared. Claire lay beside me, her soft breaths a gentle rhythm against the silence. But instead of the contentment I expected, a cold dread coiled in my gut.
The night had been...perfect. A culmination of years of longing, a rediscovery of a love I thought I'd lost. But as the reality of the morning settled in, a wave of fear washed over me.
What had I done? I'd crossed a line, shattered the carefully constructed walls I'd built around my heart. I'd opened myself up to the possibility of love, of vulnerability, of...loss.
The fear of losing her again, the fear of repeating the past, it was a suffocating weight, a reminder of the pain I'd tried so hard to bury.
I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her, and walked to the window. The city below was waking up, oblivious to the emotional turmoil that raged within me.
I needed to pull back. I needed to regain control, to reassert the boundaries I'd so recklessly abandoned. I needed to protect myself.
I dressed quickly, my movements stiff and mechanical. I scribbled a note on a piece of paper, a vague apology, a promise to call later. It was a cowardly move, I knew, but I couldn't face her. Not yet.
I left the penthouse, the silence of the empty apartment echoing the emptiness within me. I drove to the office, burying myself in work, trying to drown out the guilt and fear that gnawed at me.
But it was no use. Her image lingered in my mind, her soft touch, her whispered confessions, her eyes filled with a raw, honest love.
I was a fool. A coward. I'd found my way back to her, only to push her away again.
When she called later, her voice hesitant, her tone laced with confusion, I couldn't bring myself to answer. I let the call go to voicemail, my heart aching with a guilt I couldn't ignore.
"Ethan," her voice echoed in the voicemail, soft and confused. "Are you alright? What happened?"
I couldn't answer. I didn't know. I was lost, adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions, afraid of the very thing I craved.
(Claire's POV)
I woke to an empty bed, the lingering warmth a ghost of the intimacy we'd shared. The dawn light streamed through the window, casting a soft glow over the room, but the silence was heavy, charged with an unspoken tension.
I found his note on the nightstand, a brief, impersonal apology, a promise to call later. My heart sank.
He'd pulled away. Just like that. After everything we'd shared, after the confessions, the promises, the raw, honest love—he'd retreated.
Confusion and hurt warred within me. Had the night meant nothing? Was he regretting it? Was he afraid?
I dressed quickly, a sense of urgency driving me. I needed to see him, to understand what had happened.
I drove to the office, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind racing with unanswered questions. When I arrived, his assistant told me he was in a meeting, but I could tell she was lying.
I waited outside his office, my frustration mounting. When he finally emerged, his eyes were cold, distant, his expression unreadable.
"Ethan," I said, my voice tight, "we need to talk."
"I'm busy, Claire," he said, his voice clipped, his gaze fixed on his phone.
"Busy?" I repeated, my voice incredulous. "Too busy to explain why you disappeared this morning?"
He hesitated, his eyes flickered to mine, a flicker of guilt, of something I couldn't quite place, before he looked away again.
"I needed some space," he said, his voice flat.
"Space?" I scoffed, my voice laced with hurt. "After everything we shared? After last night?"
"Last night was a mistake," he said, his voice rough. "A moment of weakness."
His words were like a slap in the face. A mistake? A moment of weakness?
"A mistake?" I repeated, my voice trembling. "Is that what you call it?"
"I'm sorry, Claire," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "But I can't do this. I can't..."
He trailed off, unable to articulate the reasons for his sudden withdrawal. But I didn't need him to. I understood.
He was afraid. Afraid of love, afraid of vulnerability, afraid of getting hurt again. And in his fear, he was hurting me. Again.
"Fine," I said, my voice tight, my eyes burning with unshed tears. "If that's how you want it."
I turned and walked away, my heart aching with a familiar pain. I'd opened myself up to him, trusted him, believed in him. And he'd shattered my trust, just like before.