Downtown Chicago sulked under a heavy sky, clouds swelling like they had a score to settle. She had told herself she wouldn't wait and wouldn't give him the satisfaction of showing up late again. But there she was—waiting.
Then Chris appeared.
He didn't rush this time. No cocky grin, no flippant wave from across the street. Only him: tall, calm, hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark coat, like a man who had been overthinking.
"I was wrong," he said before she could speak, voice steady but thick around the edges.
Bella's brows lifted. "That's new."
"I didn't know I was hurting you that much," he went on, taking a careful step closer. The city lights haloed the side of his face, making the hollows under his cheekbones seem deeper. "I got lost in work, trying to build something bigger than me. But I forgot I was building it on you."
She stood by the fountain outside the library, arms folded, lips pressed tight. Her heart trembled in that dangerous space between rage and longing.
"Words are easy, Chris. It's one thing to say you're sorry, another to mean it. You made me feel like a trophy: won, polished, then left to gather dust."
"I know." His voice softened, dropping low like an intimate confession. "I'm not here to sweet-talk you. I'm here because I want to do better. Balance this—us. No more neglect. No more leaving you in the cold."
Her heart skipped—damn it, it did—but her face didn't show it.
He let out a slow breath, eyes heavy with regret. "When that deal fell apart… I lost money, got played—and something in me broke. I was trying to stand again, and I hurt you along the way. You must hate me now." His lips twitched into a crooked smile. "But can you give me another chance to show you I'm still that badass you fell for? I want to love you without losing you in the process. Let me earn you back, Bella Phelps."
The apology shouldn't have mattered. But it did. His words were warm, heavy, and familiar. She missed his scent, wild laugh, and how he made a plain Tuesday feel unreal.
So when he said, "No long-distance this time, come with me to Spain. I'll stay with you. Let's make this summer something worth remembering." Bella said yes. Bold, reckless, hopeful.
At first, Spain felt calm and warm.The air was warm, the streets were alive with music, and couples kissed as if the world were theirs.Chris rented a modest but tasteful flat with a terrace that caught the evening sun.
He cooked in that small kitchen, kissed her shoulder as she poured coffee, and did the chores to prove he'd changed. They walked hand in hand past mosaic walls that told stories in shards of color. At night, they made love until the sheets smelled of sweat, until her legs shook and her mind went quiet beneath him.
He was trying. She could see that.
For the first time in months, Bella laughed without flinching.
But then came the question.
"Who's this?" Chris asked one lazy evening, turning her phone in his hand like he'd found something he wasn't about to ignore. A name blinked on the screen with a harmless voice that had been calling more than once.
Bella raised an eyebrow. "He's a friend from school. We talked a bit while you were away. Nothing more."
Chris's tongue clicked in a curious way. "A guy who calls like this isn't only a friend. And I'm only finding out now?"
Her chuckle was short—too short. "Chris, no! It's not like that."
He leaned back in his chair, that red-lined mouth curving into something unreadable. "So tell me, where did you meet him? How long have you known each other?"
"A month ago. We met at the campus spot," she said, a little sharper than she meant to.
"For real?" His voice had a new edge now, playful but cutting. "So while I was out here trying to get us back on our feet, you were busy entertaining a stand-in? Bella, this is chess. And you've been moving like a pawn."
"Chris… don't say that!"
"No, hear me out." He leaned forward, eyes pinning her down like a well-placed bishop. "You're too open. Too soft. Guys like him wait for cracks—they slip in, play kind, and act harmless. But all they want is your weakness. Don't let anyone play you when you could own the board. Cut him off. You're better than that."
He spoke with a calm that felt safe. But the ache was still there, even here, in this city, in this golden-lit flat with its new sheets.
That night, Bella lay awake with his arm draped over her waist like a claim, his breath warm against her neck. He had cancelled his travel plans for her. He was trying, wasn't he?
She told herself cutting the boy off wasn't a sacrifice. After all, Chris was the man she loved.
But hold on. Why did it hurt this much to even think about it?
Was she about to make Chris the center of her existence again? And why did life after this holiday scare her so much?
Each time she tried to untangle her feelings, her mind fogged with the memory of his touch. God, he fucked her so good. His deep strokes struck chords that reverberated in her skull. He was the first man who had ever sucked her breast and made her moan like that—like a song only he knew how to play.
No one else even came close to turning the lights on in her body like he did.
She thought, "How do you question a man when your body only answers to him?"
But even in the heat of their nights, the emptiness stayed. Passion wasn't peace, and good sex wasn't the same as feeling noticed.
She arched against him, craving more. But even as his hands moved over her, her mind raced ahead, burning with one thought: what's his next move?