A Mistake?

River’s POV

The sun was already up when I opened my eyes.

But I didn’t feel rested.

I didn’t even remember falling asleep.

The sheets were warm around me, but my chest felt cold. Empty.

Daniel wasn’t in bed anymore. I could hear movement from somewhere else in the house — the quiet clink of a cup, the soft sound of water from the kitchen sink.

I stared at the ceiling, trying to feel something.

Anything.

But I felt confused.

Everything from last night rushed back like a wave crashing into me. His touch. His mouth. His hands on my skin. The way we didn’t speak when it was over. The way he looked at me like I was something he shouldn’t want.

I sat up slowly, wrapping the sheet around my waist.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to say now.

“Thanks for the sex?”

“Sorry we crossed every line?”

“Should we act like strangers again?”

I hated how quiet it was.

Like we were both afraid to face it.

Like silence would make it disappear.

I got up and pulled on my clothes from the night before. My hoodie smelled like someone else’s cologne now. It felt like wearing someone else’s skin.

When I walked into the kitchen, Daniel was standing by the counter, pouring coffee into a mug.

He looked up when he saw me, his expression unreadable.

“You want some?” he asked.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

I nodded.

He handed me a mug without a word.

I took a sip, even though it burned my tongue.

I needed something to hold.

We stood there in the kitchen, the silence stretching between us again.

Finally, he spoke.

“About last night—”

“Don’t,” I cut in quickly. “Please don’t.”

He went quiet again, and I saw his jaw clench.

“I just want to be clear,” he said. “We crossed a line. It shouldn’t have happened.”

There it was.

The guilt.

The regret.

I nodded slowly, even though the words cut deep.

“I know.”

“I care about you, River. I do. But I’m not supposed to.”

I looked at him then, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

“I didn’t ask you to,” I said. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

He looked away first.

“Just… send me the conference summary when you’re done,” he said.

I didn’t answer, I just walked out without looking back.

I didn’t cry on the way home. I thought I would. But I didn’t.

I didn’t cry when my heart cracked, either. It just made this quiet sound inside my chest, like glass under a boot. Something small. Barely there. But sharp enough to never be whole again.

When I got home, I pushed open the door and saw him.

Ethan.

Standing in the middle of the living room with a half-packed duffel bag at his feet. One side of the bookshelf was empty. His jacket was gone from the coat rack. The mug he always used—blue with the chipped handle—was missing from the kitchen counter.

My stomach dropped.

“You’re leaving?”

He didn’t look at me right away. Just kept folding a hoodie and shoving it in the bag.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I think we need some time.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Because what could I say?

“I thought we were trying,” I said after a moment.

Ethan laughed softly. Bitter. Tired.

“You were trying to forget someone else, River. Not love me.”

I looked down. He wasn’t wrong.

“I just... I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” I whispered.

“I know.”

His voice was softer now. Sad.

He zipped the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“I’m not angry. I just need to breathe. And I think you do too.”

I nodded slowly.

He gave me one last look, like he was trying to memorize my face. Then he stepped forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. Gentle. Final.

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood in the middle of the apartment like a ghost.

The silence was heavy. Too heavy. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should scream or throw something or curl up and cry until my bones stopped shaking.

But I didn’t do any of that.

I just walked into the bathroom like nothing happened. Like I wasn’t falling apart.

The mirror didn’t lie. I looked wrecked. Eyes puffy. Mouth swollen from the night before. Bite marks on my neck. My body was a canvas painted with sex by someone who didn’t even want to keep the art.

I turned on the shower and stepped under the water. Hot. Comforting. But I needed to burn the rest of him off me.

I leaned against the tile, eyes closed.

And that’s when the memories of last night hit me.

Him above me. Inside me. Groaning into my mouth. Holding my wrists down as he rocked into me slow and deep and rough. Whispering how good I felt. Saying my name like he owned it.

My breath caught.

I reached between my legs without thinking.

My hand wrapped around my cock, letting out a soft sound as I stroked it slowly. My other hand pressed against the wall for support.

I started stroking, slow at first. My body lit up like I’d been starving.

Needy.

Pathetic.

I closed my eyes and let the memories take over. His mouth on my neck. His teeth on my skin. His voice telling me I was his. That he missed me. That no one else made him feel the way I did.

I moaned, My strokes got faster.

I could feel the heat building.

Faster.

Harder.

I bit my lip, trying to hold back the noise.

Almost there—

My phone rang.

I cursed, my hand freezing mid-stroke.

It kept ringing.

I cursed again, stumbling out of the shower, dripping wet, barely managing to grab a towel as I rushed to the phone.

I didn’t look at the screen.

“Hello?” I panted, voice shaky.

“River.”

His voice.

Daniel.

I froze.

“I’m outside,” he said.

Silence.

“What?”

“I’m at your door.”

I walked to the window slowly, still wet, My heart beating rapidly in my chest.

And there he was.

Standing by his car, looking straight up at me like he knew what I’d been doing. Like he felt it too. His eyes locked on mine and didn’t move.

My whole body went cold and hot all at once.

He didn’t look sorry.

He didn’t look afraid.

He just looked like a man who’d made up his mind.

I swallowed hard.

“Don’t open the door,” part of me whispered.

But another part?

The one that still ached from last night, the one still pulsing under the towel I clutched around my hips?

It wanted to run downstairs.

And throw the door open.

And ask him—

Why now? Why again? Why me?

But all I heard was his voice again over the phone.

“I’m at your door.”