Caleb’s POV
It had been weeks since I had last seen Emma.
And then, one afternoon, completely unplanned, I saw her.
It was in town—near the library, of all places. I had been heading toward one of the back alleys, looking for a guy who owed me something, when I stopped short.
She was standing near the coffee shop, talking to someone—a professor, maybe. She looked different. Lighter. Stronger. Like she had taken all the pain and turned it into something real, something with purpose.
And it wrecked me.
She’s fine.
She’s okay.
But I’m not.
I stood there, half-hidden behind the alley wall, watching her talk, watching the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, the way her eyes still had that spark of determination, even after everything she had been through.
And I hated myself.
Because I should have been the one standing beside her.
I should have been the one picking up the pieces with her.
But I had lost that chance.
I turned away before she could see me, my hands clenched into fists, my pulse hammering in my ears.
That night, I drank until everything went black.
I woke up with the worst headache of my life.
The room was unfamiliar—dark curtains, sheets that weren’t mine, perfume that I didn’t recognize clinging to my skin.
The moment I turned my head, I thought it was Emma.
The soft glow from the streetlight outside slipped through the blinds, casting golden lines over her bare skin. Her dark hair spilled across the pillow, messy and wild, just like Emma’s after a long night tangled in my sheets.
My body moved before my brain could catch up.
I reached out, trailing my fingers down the curve of her spine, half-asleep, half-drunk, convincing myself, just for a second, that when she turned toward me, I’d see Emma’s sleepy smile, her lips swollen from my kisses, her skin flushed and warm from the way I had touched her.
But when she shifted, murmuring something incoherent, reality crashed into me like a sucker punch.
It wasn’t her.
The illusion shattered.
Emma wasn’t here.
The girl stretched beneath the sheets, a teasing smirk playing on her lips as she glanced at me through heavy-lidded eyes. “Mmm… what’s the rush?”
Fuck.
I closed my eyes, inhaling sharply, trying to pull myself together.
What the hell was I doing?
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be waking up next to some girl whose name I barely remembered, whose perfume was too strong, whose laughter last night had been too loud, too fake—nothing like Emma’s.
But last night, I hadn’t cared.
I had needed a distraction.
And she had been there, pressing into me at the bar, whispering something about getting out of there, her hands already on me, guiding me toward the exit before I could even think to stop it.
And I had let it happen.
Because I needed to feel something. Anything.
I turned my head, forcing myself to meet her gaze. She was watching me expectantly, like she could read the regret written all over my face but didn’t care.
“Round two?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep.
I didn’t answer.
But I didn’t stop her either when she slid closer, her fingers trailing down my chest, her lips ghosting over my jaw.
It was automatic—the way my hands found her waist, the way my fingers dug into her hips as she climbed onto my lap, straddling me with effortless ease.
It was supposed to feel good.
It didn’t.
Her mouth moved against mine, demanding, hot, and desperate, but all I could think about was how wrong it felt.
She tasted like cheap liquor and something sweet, but it wasn’t Emma’s taste.
Her moan was breathy and needy, but it wasn’t Emma’s moan.
Her body rocked against mine, teasing, tempting, but it wasn’t Emma’s body.
But my hands still moved, gripping her thighs, guiding her movements. Because maybe if I let it happen, if I closed my eyes, if I pretended hard enough, I could convince myself—
That it was her.
That Emma was the one arching against me.
That it was Emma whispering my name, pulling my hair, gasping against my lips.
I let out a low groan, tightening my grip on her hips as she moved faster, chasing a release I didn’t even want.
It was all muscle memory now. Touch. Kiss. Take. Give. Repeat.
A broken cycle. A routine without meaning.
Nothing.
Fucking nothing.
And then, at the peak of it—at the moment I was supposed to feel something, anything at all—her voice cut through the haze, breaking the illusion.
“Caleb,” she moaned against my ear, her nails digging into my back.
And just like that, it was over.
Emma’s name wasn’t on her lips.
Because Emma wasn’t here.
A wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to clench my teeth, my hands shaking as I pulled away, as I shoved her off me, breathing heavily.
“Caleb?” she asked, frowning, trying to reach for me again. “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t do this.
I needed to get the hell out of here.
I staggered out of bed, yanking on my jeans, my pulse slamming in my ears as I grabbed my shirt off the floor.
“Hey, what the hell—”
“I gotta go,” I mumbled, voice hoarse.
She scoffed, crossing her arms over her bare chest. “Seriously? We just—”
I don’t even know what the hell we just did.
I didn’t respond.
I just bolted out the door, the smell of her perfume still clinging to my skin, the weight of regret already settling deep in my bones.