Chapter 8: Next day guilt
The rich, earthy scent of roasted coffee beans couldn’t quite mask the phantom scent of vanilla, sex, and her own release that seemed permanently lodged in Cherry’s nostrils. It clung to her skin, a shameful perfume beneath the clean cotton of her oversized t-shirt. She sat rigidly in a corner booth at "Bean There, Done That," fingers shredding a paper napkin into tiny, damp confetti. Across the scarred wooden table, Devon watched her, his large hands wrapped around a steaming mug. His silence was worse than words.
The cheerful clatter of cups, the low hum of conversation, the barista’s bright call of an order – it all felt jarringly loud, an assault on her raw nerves. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Not after last night. Not after the way she’d shattered, gushed, sobbed… been seen. The memory sent a fresh wave of heat flooding her cheeks, followed immediately by a cold dread that settled like lead in her stomach.
"Cherry," Devon finally said, his voice low and calm, cutting through the coffee shop din. It was the same gentle tone he’d used afterward, holding her trembling thigh. It scraped against her exposed nerves.
She flinched. "Don't." The word came out sharper than intended, brittle. She forced herself to look up, meeting his gaze. His dark eyes held that same unnerving perception, seeing past the hastily reconstructed walls. His beard, usually neatly trimmed, looked slightly rougher today. She remembered the wet gleam on it, the scrape against her inner thighs. Her stomach lurched.
"Don't what?" he asked quietly, leaning forward slightly. The warmth radiating from him felt suffocating.
"Don't look at me like that," she whispered, her voice cracking. She glanced around frantically, paranoid someone might overhear, might know. "Don't... pretend like last night was... anything."
Devon’s brow furrowed slightly. "Pretend? Cherry, what happened was—"
"Was a mistake!" she hissed, leaning in, her knuckles white where they gripped the shredded napkin. "A huge, colossal, fucking mistake." The words tasted like ash. A lie. Her body still hummed with the echo of that obliterating release, a traitorous thrum beneath the panic. "It can't happen again. Ever."
He didn't react with anger, didn't flinch. He just studied her, his gaze steady, patient. Infuriatingly patient. "Why?"
The simple question hit her like a physical blow. Why? Because she’d lost control. Because he’d seen her utterly broken, vulnerable, needy. Because the walls she’d spent three years reinforcing lay in rubble, and the exposed core felt terrifyingly fragile. Because letting him in meant risking that shattering pain again, the kind that left scars deeper than any divorce decree.
"Because!" she snapped, frustration warring with the shame churning in her gut. She couldn't articulate the nameless dread. "Because it just can't. We can't... that... and be friends. We can't be anything else." She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. "So. Friends. That's it. Only friends."
She forced herself to hold his gaze, projecting a fierceness she didn't feel. "And Devon?" Her voice dropped to a desperate whisper. "Forget it. Forget it ever happened. Please. Just... wipe it clean."
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. The cheerful coffee shop sounds faded into a distant buzz. Devon didn't look away. He took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression unreadable. The quiet stretched, each second amplifying the frantic pounding of Cherry’s heart against her ribs. She felt exposed, judged, foolish.
Finally, he set his mug down with a soft clink. "Forget it?" His voice was still quiet, but there was a new edge to it, a hardness beneath the calm. "Wipe it clean?"
Cherry nodded jerkily, clinging to the shreds of her resolve. "Yes."
A slow, humorless smile touched his lips, not reaching his eyes. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated through the tabletop, meant only for her. "Cherry Evans," he murmured, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that pinned her in place. "You soaked my beard. You screamed my name loud enough to wake the neighbors. You rode my face like you were trying to break it." He paused, letting the visceral, undeniable truth of his words sink in, each one a scalpel peeling back her denial. "You think I can just forget that? You think you can?"
Her breath hitched. The graphic reminder, spoken aloud in this public place, was a violation. It stripped her bare all over again. The shreds of napkin fell from her numb fingers. She wanted to disappear, to vaporize into the steam rising from the espresso machine.
He didn't relent. "You told me to taste you. And I did. Every drop." His eyes held hers, unflinching. "That happened. It was real. And pretending it wasn't?" He shook his head slowly, the ghost of that smile gone. "That's the only mistake here, Cherry."
Panic, sharp and cold, seized her. She couldn't breathe. The walls weren't just down; he was standing amidst the ruins, refusing to let her rebuild. "I have to go," she blurted, scrambling out of the booth, her chair scraping loudly on the worn floorboards. She needed air, space, the illusion of safety.
Devon didn't try to stop her. He just watched her, his expression a complex mix of concern, frustration, and that unwavering perception. As she turned to flee, his voice followed her, low but carrying perfectly through her panic.
"You don't get to rewrite last night. And running won't erase it."
Cherry pushed through the door, the cheerful bell jingling a mocking farewell. The cool morning air hit her flushed face, but it offered no relief. His words echoed in her skull, louder than the city traffic, a relentless counterpoint to the frantic drumbeat of her own fear. Running won't erase it. The truth of it settled over her like a shroud as she hurried down the sidewalk, leaving the scent of coffee and the unbearable weight of his gaze behind. The phantom taste of vanilla and release lingered, a haunting reminder of the vulnerability she desperately needed to bury, and the man who refused to let her.