From Best Friend To Fiancé 의 모든 챕터: 챕터 131 - 챕터 140

“Do I drop you off at your place or… at your fiancé’s place?” Dean asked, his tone carrying an uneasy politeness.Outside, the rain had softened from its earlier violence. “Drop me off at my place first,” I said, watching the streaks of water racing each other down the glass. “I’ll be sleeping at Roman’s house tonight, so I need to pick up a few things from my place.”He still hadn't texted me back and I had started to worry that something was wrong. Dean nodded. “Okay. I'll—”But before he could say anything else, his phone went off, loud and shrill, making me wince from the unexpected loud intrusion. He flinched. “Sorry about that.” His eyes flicked to the caller ID, and I saw the color drain from his face. “Great,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Just great.”He pulled over abruptly by the curb and killed the engine.I didn’t ask who it was. I wasn’t in the mood to care about Dean’s drama, not after the day we’d had. I just sat back, letting the sound of rain fill the silence wh

Steam still clung to my skin when I opened the bathroom door. The scent of Roman’s perfume and the sound of his fingers on the keyboard filled the air. He sat on the edge of the bed with his laptop balanced on one knee, shoulders tense in that familiar way like he carried the weight of the world.For a moment I just watched him, towel knotted around me, hair dripping against my collarbone. The blue light from his screen brushed against his face, sharpening his jawline and softening his eyes all at once.I padded closer on silent feet, biting back a grin. If I could sneak up on him—just once—I’d have bragging rights for the rest of our lives.But the second I reached for his shoulder, he said quietly, without turning, “Nice try, Sav. But I already know you’re there.”My smile broke into a pout. “Killjoy.”He chuckled and finally turned. “You did good, but you smell like my body wash. Kind of hard to miss.”I rolled my eyes and before I could reply, his hand caught mine, tugging me forw

Clutching the two wine glasses and the take-out bag in my hand, I storm back to the bedroom. My pulse is pounding so hard it feels like the floor trembles with each step. The edges of the bag crinkle against my palm. The faint scent of wine and garlic from the take-out still lingers. Anger burns through me, alive, blistering, almost dizzying. My fingers shake around the glass stems. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, heavy and unrelenting.If he thinks he can be sneaky behind my back and still get a good night’s sleep, then he’s absolutely mistaken.The hallway was dim, but I could see the faint spill of light under the bedroom door. My pulse beat in my throat as I walked faster. I kick it open with the side of my foot, and it slams against the wall with a bang that echoes through the silent house. Roman jolts upright in bed, his messy hair catching the dim glow of the bedside lamp. He blinks like a man waking from a dream.“Sav..?” he says slowly, squinting, his voice still hus

Savannah Four days later. I feel hollow.It feels like something inside me drained out and forgot to come back. The silence in this house has a shape now—it sits between the walls, breathes through the floors, then curls around me when I’m alone. Which I am, all of the time actually. Roman hasn’t spoken to me since that argument. And I haven’t spoken to him either.We move around each other like polite strangers who share a kitchen and a bed they no longer touch.He leaves before sunrise, comes home long after midnight. Some nights I hear the garage door open and close again within minutes—he doesn’t even come inside. Once, he didn’t come home at all. He slept at his office. I didn’t ask why. I knew why.He’s avoiding me. It's clear as day. And maybe I deserve that. Maybe this time I pushed him too far. He’s always been the one to fix things first. The one to swallow his pride, to say ‘let’s not fight anymore’, to find me and press his lips to my forehead even when I’m still angry

Roman I don’t know what’s going to kill me faster—poison, or not speaking to Savannah. Honestly, it feels like the latter will finish me off quicker.I’m leaning against the door, waiting to hear her footsteps move past toward the hall. But they don’t. Which means she’s still in the living room, probably curled up on the couch with her phone, pretending I don’t exist.I should go to her. Yell at her for being so fucking infuriating, then kiss her until we both pass out from lack of oxygen. But every time I picture it—storming in there, angry and desperate—I see the other version too. The one where she looks up, eyes glistening, voice trembling as she tells me to leave her alone. Or she tells me that she thought I was different. So I stay here, leaning on this cold wood, feeling like a fool because that version cripples me. The truth is, I miss her so much it physically hurts.I miss her voice. The rhythm of her laughter. The way she always smells like something soft and safe. I mi