Chapter 147 Fuck it, I'm still aching for him

Chapter 147 Fuck it, I'm still aching for him
Emma's POV

Saturday morning begins with a knock on my door.

I glance up from the textbook balanced on my lap and stare at it for a moment, hoping whoever's outside will magically give up and leave.

Another knock follows.

My traitorous heart immediately does that stupid little flip, even though I tell it to knock it off.

I already know who's standing on the other side.

Part of me wants to ignore him.

Let him stand there until he gets the message.

The more reasonable part of me reminds me that would be childish.

He's not here for me.

He's here for Dawn.

He's already paying for flights every weekend, staying in hotels just so he can spend a few hours with his daughter. Sending him away because my feelings are bruised wouldn't be fair.

With a quiet sigh, I close my textbook and get to my feet.

When I pull the door open, Dylan is exactly where I expect him to be, both hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. His hair is slightly messy, like he's been running his fingers through it the whole drive over.

Nothing about him is different.

Which is exactly the problem.

Because somehow, he still manages to make my chest ache.

“Hi,” he says quietly. “Good morning.”

“Morning.”

The word comes out flatter than I intend.

An awkward silence settles between us before Dylan clears his throat.

“About yesterday...”

“Save it,” I cut in, raising a hand before he can continue. “I don't want to hear it.”

His mouth closes immediately. For the briefest second, disappointment flashes across his face before he nods.

“Okay.”

I step aside to let him in and quietly shut the door behind us.

“Do you think you can handle Dawn while I study?”

His head lifts almost instantly. “Yeah.”

“She's already been fed this morning, so she's in a much better mood than yesterday.” I nod toward the hallway. “She's in her crib playing with her toys. Honestly, all you have to do is keep an eye on her.”

He listens so seriously you'd think I was giving him instructions before Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Finals.

“If she gets fussy,” I continue, “you'll figure it out.”

“I'll try.”

“I'll be in my room catching up on six weeks' worth of lectures.” I pick up my notebook and tuck it under my arm. “If you need anything, just knock.”

A small smile tugs at his lips. “I can do that.”

“Good.”

I start toward my bedroom before tossing one last sentence over my shoulder. “And once you get bored, you can leave whenever you want.”

“I won't get bored,” he says without missing a beat.

I shrug. “Okay.”

I'd barely taken another step when his voice stops me.

“Emma...”

I pause.

Before I can turn around, warm fingers gently close around my wrist.

My entire body goes still.

It's barely a touch.

Nothing more than the light brush of his hand against my skin.

So why does every nerve in my body suddenly remember exactly what it felt like to be loved by him?

I lower my eyes to his hand before slowly looking back at his face.

“Please...”

Just one word.

One stupid word.

Traitor.

My heart softens before my brain has a chance to stop it.

I swallow the feeling back down. “Let go of my hand, Dylan.”

His expression falls immediately.

“…Don't make me ask you to leave.”

He lets go so quickly it's almost like he burned himself. “I'm sorry.”

I give a small nod.

Then I walk away before my heart can convince me to turn back.



Calling this coursework a lot is the academic equivalent of calling the ocean slightly damp.

By the time I sit down, my desk has completely disappeared beneath printed lecture slides, borrowed notes from classmates, highlighted journal articles and enough textbooks to qualify as a second piece of furniture.

I'm cooked. Absolutely cooked.

Six weeks.

Six whole weeks.

What on earth was I thinking?

I let my forehead fall onto the desk for exactly three seconds before sitting back up again.

“No.”

I'm not giving up.

Not without a fight.

Arthur said he'd speak to the board. Now all I can do is pray they actually approve it.

Please.

Amen.

I open another notebook, take a deep breath and force myself back into my notes.

About half an hour later, I hear Dawn crying.

My eyes lift from the page automatically.

Normally I'd already be halfway to her room.

Today...

I stay exactly where I am.

This is parenting too.

Dylan has to learn this part just like I did.

The crying goes on for another minute before I hear his voice through the wall.

Quiet.

Gentle.

Almost amused.

“I know... I know. Shh… shhh…”

A tiny smile slips onto my face before I can stop it.

Another minute passes, then I hear him again. Only this time… He's singing.

Well...

Attempting to sing.

It's less singing and more talking with confidence. I can't even figure out what nursery rhyme he's trying to murder. But his voice...

God.

That voice.

I close my eyes for a second.

There was a time I used to fall asleep listening to that deep voice mumble complete nonsense into my hair while I lay on his chest.

Back then, hearing him was enough to make me feel safe.

My chest tightens.

I miss him.

I miss us.

“…Focus, Emma.”

I force my attention back to the notes spread across my desk.

“Media ethics...”

Right.

School.

Not heartbreak.



Almost three hours later, a soft knock interrupts my concentration.

“Come in.”

The bedroom door opens just enough for Dylan to poke his head inside.

“Hey.”

I glance up from my laptop. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Dawn finally fell asleep.”

Relief immediately loosens the knot in my chest.

“Oh, thank God.”

“But...” He glances down at himself.

“What?”

My eyes follow his gaze and land on the front of his T-shirt.

There's milk stains everywhere.

I wince. “…That's impressive.”

A helpless smile tugs at his lips. “I think she won.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “She usually does.”

I close my laptop and stand. “Come on.”

He glances down at his shirt again. “I think I bounced her a little too much.”

“Probably.” I say. “Poor thing.”

“Dawn?” he asks.

“No.” I smile. “Your shirt.”

That earns a quiet chuckle.

“I'll throw it in the washing machine,” I tell him.

“Mind if I use your bathroom while I wait?”

“Go ahead.”

He pulls the door open a little wider to let himself pass.

“Thanks.”

I follow him down the short hallway. Once we reach the bathroom, he peels the ruined shirt over his head and hands it to me.

I take it without meaning to look at him.

Unfortunately...

I still do.

Just one glance.

Long enough to catch the familiar lines of his chest and shoulders before I force my eyes somewhere—anywhere—else.

Not today, Emma.

“Hopefully it'll wash out,” he says.

“It usually does.”

The bathroom door closes behind him.

I toss the shirt into the washing machine when I get to the kitchen and start a quick cycle, leaning against the counter while it fills. My mind wanders aimlessly until a thought suddenly hits me.

Wait.

I'm almost certain I still have some of Dylan's old clothes.

Back when we were together, I'd shamelessly stolen a few of his hoodies and T-shirts. I never gave them back.

They should still be somewhere in my wardrobe.

I hurry back to my room and start digging through drawers, pushing sweaters aside and checking every shelf.

“Come on...”

Maybe I shoved them further back.

I reach onto the highest shelf, stretching onto my toes.

Still nothing.

I'm so focused on searching that I don't hear the shower stop.

Or the bathroom door open.

“Looking for something?”

I jump so hard I nearly lose my balance. “…Yes.”

I turn around.

Big mistake.

Dylan is standing in my doorway with a towel wrapped low around his waist, his hair still dripping from the shower. Water trails down his neck, across his chest and over the familiar definition of his arms before disappearing beneath the towel.

It's ridiculous.

He looks like someone walked straight out of a cologne advert just to ruin my peace of mind.

I immediately look away.

“I, um...” I clear my throat. “I thought I still had some of your old clothes, but I can't reach the back properly.”

He doesn't hesitate. “I'll get them.”

Before I can step aside, he's already walking over.

I instinctively back into the wardrobe until there's nowhere else to go.

He's suddenly right behind me.

Close enough that I catch the clean scent of his soap.

Close enough that my heartbeat immediately forgets how to behave.

“So...” His voice is quieter now. “Which shelf?”

I turn slightly and point, trying to keep my breathing steady. “The top one. Somewhere at the back.”

Dylan reaches up easily, his body pressing fully against mine now. I feel the hard line of his crotch against my lower back through the thin towel. Heat pools low in my belly and I swallow, throat dry.

“I don't see anything.” He murmurs.

“Check properly,” I mumble. “There should be a navy-blue shirt... maybe some sweatpants too.”

He shifts slightly as he searches, his arm brushing mine.

Every tiny movement makes me painfully aware of how little space exists between us.

I can feel the heat of him, the dampness from the shower. My mind screams at me to step away, but my body refuses to listen.

“I still can't find anything,” he says after another moment.

I turn and finally look up. Our faces are much closer than I expected.

“Then...” My voice betrays me completely. “I guess we'll have to wait for your shirt to finish washing.”

The words sound far less coherent than they did in my head.

His eyes linger on mine for a moment before drifting lower.

“Or...” he says quietly, “I could keep looking.”

“No.” The answer comes out much too quickly. “Step back, Dylan. Or else…”

A slow smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “Or what?”

Instead of moving away, he braces one hand against the wardrobe above my head, trapping me far more effectively than he probably realizes.

My pulse immediately kicks into overdrive.

“Or...” I swallow. “I'm going to do something I shouldn't.”

“Oh?” His voice drops lower. “I think I'd like to know what that is.”

The space between us disappears almost without either of us noticing.

I can hear my own breathing and feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

Every sensible part of my brain is screaming at me to step away.

Every other part...

Wants the exact opposite.

After everything we've been through, after all the hurt and the distance between us, my heart still recognizes and aches for this man like it never forgot.

I close my eyes for the briefest second.

“Fuck it,” I whisper.

My hand slides up to his chest, warm and still slightly damp beneath my palm, and I pull him down until my lips meet his.