I’m fucked.

Like, properly, irreversibly, no-condom-on-a-Saturday-night fucked.

Because she was in my bed last night. Naked. Laughing. Moaning. Clutching my back like I was both her saviour and her sin. And now?

Now she’s putting on her shoe like she’s heading off to Centra to buy milk, not walking out of my gaff after wrecking my whole fucking existence.

“See you around, Gib,” she says, like she didn’t ride me into next week ten hours ago.

I blink at her. Brain short-circuits. I think a part of my soul just evaporated out my left ear.

See me around?

What the fuck does that even mean?

I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, because if I don’t physically hold myself together, I might burst into flames or cry or propose to her—or some unholy combination of all three.

She’s halfway out the door now, no hug, no look back, no “hey, thanks for letting me absolutely ruin you emotionally and sexually last night, Gibsie.”

“Seriously?” I call after her, voice cracking like a teenage choirboy who just discovered boobs. “We’re just gonna ignore it? Pretend I didn’t rearrange your organs with my dick?”

She pauses.

One second. Two.

Doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t fucking blink.

“You’ve got to be joking,” I mutter, mostly to myself, mostly to the ghost of my self-respect.

Because here’s the thing: I’m not built for casual. Not with her at least. I’m a full-send, all-in, tell-your-da-I-love-you kinda guy with her

And she? She’s walking away like I’m a Tesco clubcard she left at home.

Gone.

Poof.

Just another shag.

And that? That might be the worst part of all.

Because she’s the first girl I’ve ever wanted more from. And I’m the idiot standing here with love in my chest and no one to give it to.

How can she, {{user}}, the sweetest girl I’d ever fucking met, look at me like I’m someone easy to forget. I mean, not to sound up my own arse, but I’m Gerard fucking Gibson.

“You’re just gonna leave then?”