Chapter 12: The Morning Confrontation
The morning light crept through the blinds like an unwelcome intruder, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. Paris blinked awake slowly, her body deliciously sore in ways that made her smile before she even opened her eyes. She reached across the bed, expecting warm skin, expecting Justin's solid presence.
Her hand met empty sheets, cool to the touch.
She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist, and scanned the room. Her clothes were scattered across the floor like breadcrumbs marking the path of last night. His weren't.
The faint sound of movement came from the kitchen, followed by the gurgle of the coffee maker. Paris felt a warmth bloom in her chest. He was still here. He'd promised, and he'd kept that promise.
She pulled on his discarded shirt from the night before—it was huge on her, hanging off one shoulder, and smelled like him, that clean, masculine scent mixed with something uniquely Justin. She padded barefoot into the kitchen, a smile already forming on her lips.
Justin stood by the counter, fully dressed, his back to her. His shoulders were tense in a way they hadn't been last night. He was staring out the small window above her sink, watching the city stir to life, and he didn't turn when she entered.
"Morning," she said softly, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.
He stiffened at her touch. It was slight, barely perceptible, but she felt it. The way his muscles locked, the way he seemed to withdraw even while standing still. Paris's smile faltered.
"Hey," he said, and his voice was wrong. Distant. Careful.
She let her arms fall, stepping back. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." He turned, and she saw it—the walls were up. His eyes, which had looked at her with such tenderness only hours ago, were now guarded, skittering away from her gaze like they couldn't bear to land. "Coffee's ready. I should probably get going soon."
"Oh." The word came out smaller than she intended. "Okay."
He poured coffee into her cracked mug, the one she'd had since freshman year, and handed it to her. His fingers didn't brush hers. He didn't meet her eyes. The man standing in her kitchen was not the same one who had whispered I love you into her hair as he came undone inside her.
"Justin." She wrapped her hands around the mug, needing something to ground her. "What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on." He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. "Last night was great. You're great. I just—I have practice this morning."
"At seven AM?"
"Early practice." He finally looked at her, but his gaze was shuttered, professional. "Thanks for having me."
Having me. Like he was a guest at a dinner party. Like last night had been a transaction she'd hosted.
Paris felt something cold settle in her stomach, spreading through her veins like ice water. She watched him move toward the door, watched him reach for the handle, and something inside her snapped.
"Don't."
He froze.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do this." Her voice was steadier than she felt, but there was a tremor beneath it. "Don't act like last night didn't matter. Don't look at me like I'm a stranger you bumped into at a bar."
Justin's hand fell from the doorknob. He turned slowly, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of something—guilt? Shame?—before it was swallowed by that careful mask.
"Paris—"
"No." She set the mug down on the counter with more force than necessary, coffee sloshing over the rim. "You promised me, Justin. You promised you'd be here in the morning. You promised you wouldn't leave. And now you're standing in my kitchen, looking at me like you're trying to figure out how to escape without making it weird."
"It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly aware she was wearing only his shirt, feeling exposed in ways that had nothing to do with her body. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got what you wanted and now you're trying to make a clean exit."
"Is that really what you think?" A flash of something—hurt, maybe—crossed his features. "You think I was just trying to get in your pants?"
"I don't know what to think!" The words came out louder than she intended, raw and ragged. "You told me you loved me. You said it first. I didn't make you say it. And now you're acting like it never happened."
Justin ran a hand over his face, and she caught a glimpse of exhaustion beneath the carefully constructed facade. "I shouldn't have said that."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She actually staggered back a step, her hand bracing against the counter behind her.
"What?"
"I shouldn't have said it." He wouldn't look at her now, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. "It was in the moment. I got carried away. It didn't mean—"
"Don't." Her voice cracked. "Don't you dare stand there and tell me that didn't mean anything."
"Paris, I—"
"You told me you could see me." She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could hold herself together. "You told me you saw every part of me, the sharp edges and the soft spots. You made me believe that I could trust you. That you were different."
"I am different." His jaw tightened. "But I'm not—I'm not good at this. I told you that. I told you from the beginning that I wasn't looking for—"
"A relationship. Yeah, I remember." A bitter laugh escaped her. "You told me. And then you showed up at my door with roses and took me to fancy restaurants and made me feel like I was the only person in existence. You think that's what someone who's not looking for a relationship does?"
"Maybe I made a mistake."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and toxic.
Paris felt something inside her crack, a fissure spreading through the carefully constructed walls she'd spent years building. She'd let him in. She'd actually let him in, past every defense, past every wall, and he was standing in her kitchen telling her it had been a mistake.
"Get out." Her voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it.
"Paris—"
"I said get out." She was shaking now, whether from rage or grief she couldn't tell. "You want to leave so badly? Then leave. But don't expect me to be waiting when you decide you made another mistake."
He opened his mouth, closed it. Something flickered in his eyes—regret? Longing? She couldn't read him anymore. The man who had made love to her with such tenderness was gone, replaced by this stranger in his skin.
"Take your coffee," she said, her voice hollow. "Take your shirt. Take everything that's yours and get the fuck out of my apartment."
He didn't move for a long moment. She could see the war playing out behind his eyes, the conflict between whatever he felt and whatever he was too afraid to feel. Finally, he reached for the door.
"I never meant to hurt you."
"But you did." Her voice broke on the last word. "You did, Justin. And the worst part is, I think you knew you would. You just didn't care enough to stop."
Something in his face crumpled, a crack in that perfect facade. "That's not true."
"It doesn't matter." She shook her head, tired beyond measure. "Just go."
He opened his mouth to speak, but she turned away, gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white. She heard the door open, heard him step through it, heard the soft click of it closing behind him.
And then she was alone.
Paris stood there for a long time, staring at the wall, feeling the weight of his absence pressing down on her like a physical thing. The coffee in her mug had gone cold. His shirt hung loose on her frame, a cruel reminder of everything she'd let herself believe.
She was so stupid. So fucking stupid.
She'd known better. She'd known from the moment she met him that he was trouble, that his charm was a weapon, that his honesty was just another way to keep people at arm's length. She'd known, and she'd let herself fall anyway.
A sob escaped her, raw and ugly, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to muffle it. She wouldn't cry. She refused to cry over a boy who saw her as a conquest, a challenge, a notch in his bedpost.
But the tears came anyway, hot and relentless, and she sank to the floor of her kitchen, clutching his shirt like a lifeline.
---
She didn't know how long she sat there. Minutes. Hours. The light through the window changed, the morning sun giving way to the harsh glare of midday.
When she finally pulled herself together, she stripped off his shirt and threw it in the trash. Not because she didn't want it, but because she couldn't bear to keep it. Every time she saw it, she'd remember the way he'd looked at her when he said I love you. Every time she wore it, she'd feel the ghost of his hands on her skin.
She showered until the water ran cold, scrubbing every trace of him from her body. But she couldn't scrub him from her mind.
Her phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. She ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again.
Finally, she picked it up, expecting to see Justin's name. Instead, it was Maya.
You okay? Heard Justin left your place looking like a kicked puppy. Want me to come over with ice cream and gossip?
Paris stared at the text for a long moment. Then she typed: I don't want to talk about it.
The response came instantly: Too bad. I'm coming over. You're not dealing with this alone. I'll bring the good ice cream and the shitty wine.
Despite everything, a small smile tugged at Paris's lips. At least she had Maya. At least she had someone who wouldn't leave.
As she dressed in comfortable clothes, the ache in her chest remained, a constant reminder of her foolishness. But beneath the pain, something else stirred.
---
---
Three days passed.
Three days of silence from Justin. Three days of Paris convincing herself she didn't care, that she was better off without him, that she'd known all along he would break her heart. Three days of lying to herself so skillfully that she almost believed it.
She threw herself into her work, spending long hours in the library, losing herself in dusty volumes and critical theory. She stopped smoking, needing her mind sharp, needing to feel in control of something. Her novel sat abandoned in her notebook, the words proving elusive now that the inspiration for them had disappeared.
By the time Thursday rolled around, she was exhausted, running on fumes and caffeine, but she'd made it through without falling apart.
She was in the campus coffee shop, hunched over a stack of research papers, when she heard his voice.
"Paris."
She looked up, and there he was. He looked like shit—dark circles under his eyes, hair unkempt, his usually immaculate appearance replaced with a rumpled desperation. He was holding a paper coffee cup, and he looked at her like she was the answer to a question he hadn't known he was asking.
"What do you want, Justin?"
"To talk." He slid into the chair across from her without asking permission. "Please. Just give me five minutes."
"I gave you more than that." She kept her voice flat, emotionless. "You threw it away."
"I know." He set the coffee cup down, and she noticed his hands were shaking. "I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. And I know I don't deserve another chance."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I can't stop thinking about you." His voice was raw, stripped of all pretense. "Because I've spent the last three days trying to convince myself that walking away was the right thing to do, and I can't. I can't stop thinking about you, Paris. I can't stop thinking about the way you looked at me that first night, like I was something you wanted to dissect. I can't stop thinking about the way you laughed, the way you argued with me about books you knew I'd never read. I can't stop thinking about the way you felt in my arms, the sounds you made when—"
"Stop." She held up a hand, her heart racing. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to walk out on me and then come back three days later with pretty words and expect me to fall into your arms."
"I don't expect that." He leaned forward, his eyes pleading. "I just—I need you to understand. I panicked. When I woke up that morning and realized how much I cared about you, I panicked. I've never felt this way about anyone. I didn't know how to handle it."
"So you handled it by destroying us?"
"I handled it like a coward." He looked down at his hands. "I handled it by pushing you away before you could push me away."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"It makes sense to me." He looked up, meeting her eyes. "Because you were right. You said I was scared. And you were absolutely right. I'm terrified, Paris. I'm terrified of how much I care about you. I'm terrified because I know that if I let myself fall, I'll never be able to get back up. But I'm even more terrified of losing you because I was too much of a coward to try."
Paris stared at him, her mind reeling. Part of her wanted to believe him. Wanted to let herself fall into his arms and pretend the last three days hadn't happened.
But the scar was still too fresh. The wound still too raw.
"I don't know if I can trust you again."
"Then let me earn it." He reached across the table, his hand hovering near hers. "I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm not asking you to forget what I did. I'm asking you to let me try. Let me prove to you that I'm not the guy who walked out that door. Let me prove to you that I can be the guy you thought I was."
"Why should I?"
"Because I love you." The words were broken, desperate. "I love you, Paris. I've been fighting it since the moment I met you, but I can't fight it anymore. I don't want to fight it anymore."
She looked at his outstretched hand, at the vulnerability etched into every line of his face. She thought about the past three days, the pain, the emptiness. She thought about the way it felt to be held by him, to be seen by him, to be loved by him.
She thought about how much it had hurt when he left.
"Hurt me again," she said quietly, "and I will never forgive you. I will walk out of your life and never look back."
"I understand."
"This isn't me being weak." Her voice gained strength. "This is me choosing to give you a chance. One chance. If you fuck it up, we're done."
"I won't fuck it up." His hand closed over hers, warm and firm. "I promise you, Paris. I won't fuck this up."
She looked at him for a long moment, searching for the lie, the manipulation, the angle. But all she saw was desperation and love and hope.
"Okay," she said softly. "Okay."
The relief that flooded his features was almost painful to witness. He squeezed her hand, and for the first time in three days, she felt something other than pain.
"But we're taking this slow." She pulled her hand back, needing space. "I'm not jumping back into bed with you. We need to rebuild trust first."
"I'm okay with that." He nodded eagerly. "Whatever you need. However long it takes."
"And you need to talk to me." She held his gaze. "When you're scared, when you're freaking out, when you feel like running—you need to tell me. You can't just shut down and disappear."
"I'll try."
"No. Not try." She shook her head. "Do. I can't handle another three days of silence while you wrestle with your feelings."
"I'll do better." His voice was earnest, sincere. "I'll tell you everything. I'll—"
"Not here." She glanced around the coffee shop, suddenly aware of the eyes on them. "Not like this. This conversation isn't done, but it needs to happen somewhere private."
"My apartment?" He offered tentatively. "I can make dinner. We can talk."
She hesitated. Going to his apartment felt like crossing a line, like agreeing to more than she was ready for.
"We can talk," she said carefully. "That's it."
"Whatever you're comfortable with." He stood, gathering her papers for her. "I promise. I'll be a gentleman."
"Justin." She caught his arm, stopping him. "I mean it. We're not—this isn't—"
"I know." He looked down at her, something soft and vulnerable in his eyes. "We're rebuilding. I understand that. I won't push you."
She studied his face, looking for any sign of deception. She found only sincerity.
"Okay," she said finally. "Let's get out of here."
---
His apartment was surprisingly clean for a frat house. Actually, it wasn't a frat house at all—it was a small one-bedroom off campus, decorated with the bare minimum of furniture but spotless. A few framed photos sat on the bookshelf: his family, his teammates, a picture of him holding up a championship trophy.
He made good on his word, cooking her dinner—simple pasta with a homemade sauce, some garlic bread, a decent bottle of red wine he'd clearly asked someone about or remembered from their earlier conversations. He didn't push. He kept the conversation light, discussing books she'd recommended, asking about her classes, sharing stories about his own coursework that made her laugh.
By the time they'd finished eating, the tension had begun to ease. She found herself relaxing, letting herself breathe, letting herself believe that maybe this could work.
"I'm sorry." He said it as he cleared their plates, his back to her. "I know I've said it a hundred times already, but I need you to know how sorry I am."
"I know." She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I know you are."
"I never should have walked out." He set the plates down, turning to face her. "I should have stayed. I should have talked to you. I should have been the man you deserved."
"I'm not going to pretend it didn't hurt." She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "It hurt more than almost anything I've ever felt. But I'm here. We're here. And that's what matters."
He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. "I love you."
The words sent a shiver through her.
"I love you too." She said it carefully, testing the weight of it. "Even though you're an idiot."
"I am," he agreed. "But I'm your idiot. If you'll still have me."
She answered by pressing her lips to his, soft and questioning. He responded in kind, gentle and patient, letting her set the pace.
The kiss deepened, and she felt the familiar heat building between them. But when his hands drifted down to her waist, she caught them.
"Not yet." She pulled back, breathing hard. "I'm not ready yet."
"Okay." He dropped his hands immediately. "We can wait as long as you need."
His patience startled her. The other night, she'd been more than ready—they both had. Now she needed time to adjust, to remember how to trust him with her body as well as her heart.
"Come on," she said, taking his hand. "Let's sit on the couch. Talk to me. Tell me about that championship photo."
They settled onto the couch, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her. They talked until the words ran dry and the world outside had long gone dark.
"I should go," she finally said, though she made no move to leave.
"Stay." His voice was soft, careful. "Just to sleep. I'll take the couch."
She considered it. There was something safe about the thought of waking up next to him, even if he was on the other side of the room.
"Okay," she agreed. "But you're not taking the couch. That thing is ancient. You'll wreck your back."
"I can handle it."
"Justin." She looked up at him. "I said we're taking things slow. I didn't say we couldn't share a bed."
Something flickered in his eyes, heat mixed with restraint. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure I'm not ready for... that." She gestured vaguely. "But I could use the company. If you can behave yourself."
"I'll be a perfect gentleman." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I promise."
They got ready for bed in shifts, his bathroom bigger than hers but with worse water pressure. When she emerged in one of his old t-shirts, she found him already in bed, his back against the headboard, looking at her with soft wonder.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." She climbed in beside him, settling against his side. "I'm okay."
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and she let herself drift off. It wasn't the blazing passion they'd shared before. It was something different. something she needed even more.
It was trust.
---
She woke in the middle of the night to find him gone from the bed.
For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he'd left again. But then she heard him—a soft sound from the bathroom, the low murmur of his voice. He was on the phone.
Curiosity pulled her out of bed. She crept to the door, careful to stay out of sight.
"...I know, Coach. I understand." Justin's voice was strained, frustrated. "But I told you, it won't happen again. I've been at practice every day. My head's in the game."
A pause.
"I know I've been off lately. I've had some personal stuff going on. But it's handled now."
Another pause.
"Yes, sir. I understand. It won't happen again. Thank you for the warning."
The call ended, and Paris heard Justin exhale heavily.
She stepped back into bed, closing her eyes, pretending she hadn't heard anything.
He emerged a few minutes later, slipping back under the covers and wrapping his arms around her like he couldn't stand to be away from her.
"I love you," he whispered into her hair.
She didn't respond. She was too busy wondering what Coach had meant, and why Justin hadn't told her he was in trouble.
And beneath the sweet weight of his arms, she felt the tiny tremor of fear begin to stir.